Post by ★ lysander on Mar 31, 2015 1:01:36 GMT
When Keith came to, it was raining again. The constant drum of it like a low hum in his ears. It drowned out all other noises, let him drift deep into thought. Back to times where things were–– not simple, no. But better.
He thought about his family.
He thought about his sister, Julie. His parents. The way they used to gather at the dinner table every evening for prayer. He remembered his house dingy thing it was, but inside it was warm and inviting and full of things sweet and indescribable. Things that made it home. It was a far cry from the shack he lived in now–– a tiny, makeshift thing kept dry with some tarp he found lying around. He had a cot and a dirty stool for a table. Not much else. But by now, he was used to living with little. Grateful enough that he had a roof over his head for once.
There were others outside; cabins made of wood and clustered into groups. A small village of refugees like himself, with small gardens for self-sustenance and livestock. Everyone scraping whatever existence they could in the wildernes–– and always on the lookout. Here, there was no such thing as too careful.
Which probably explained why Keith was having a hard time adjusting. It wasn't that he didn't socialize, but the idea of it made him feel uneasy. As if he had no right to pretend things were okay when they weren't–– and might never be. Maybe it was just the rain putting him in such a damp mood (ha!) but regardless of the reason, Keith only took a deep breath, turning in his cot to face the wall. He didn't feel like doing anything. Not gathering food or resources. Not even trying to get on the village's good side. Just nothing. Nothing at all.
He turned again, this time laying on his back. He brought his hand up in the air, staring at it, turning it over and looking at the fine lines crossing his palms. Once a palm reader told him he'd be very lucky–– that he was destined for great things.
Yeah, right.
He grimaced, letting his hand fall back against the cot.
He thought about his family.
He thought about his sister, Julie. His parents. The way they used to gather at the dinner table every evening for prayer. He remembered his house dingy thing it was, but inside it was warm and inviting and full of things sweet and indescribable. Things that made it home. It was a far cry from the shack he lived in now–– a tiny, makeshift thing kept dry with some tarp he found lying around. He had a cot and a dirty stool for a table. Not much else. But by now, he was used to living with little. Grateful enough that he had a roof over his head for once.
There were others outside; cabins made of wood and clustered into groups. A small village of refugees like himself, with small gardens for self-sustenance and livestock. Everyone scraping whatever existence they could in the wildernes–– and always on the lookout. Here, there was no such thing as too careful.
Which probably explained why Keith was having a hard time adjusting. It wasn't that he didn't socialize, but the idea of it made him feel uneasy. As if he had no right to pretend things were okay when they weren't–– and might never be. Maybe it was just the rain putting him in such a damp mood (ha!) but regardless of the reason, Keith only took a deep breath, turning in his cot to face the wall. He didn't feel like doing anything. Not gathering food or resources. Not even trying to get on the village's good side. Just nothing. Nothing at all.
He turned again, this time laying on his back. He brought his hand up in the air, staring at it, turning it over and looking at the fine lines crossing his palms. Once a palm reader told him he'd be very lucky–– that he was destined for great things.
Yeah, right.
He grimaced, letting his hand fall back against the cot.