Just One Look
Sep. 10th, 2012 01:52 pmSitting on his front steps, the Straw Man rests his head in his hands. He hoped today would be a better day, but now he's not so sure. After the storm last night, he felt cleansed; now he's just exhausted. Already the fear is creeping back in. The darkness lies in waiting, never truly gone. More than anything he craves sleep, but he's afraid to close his eyes.
So tired. His eyelids droop. Maybe just for a minute.
A gentle pressure on his shoulder jerks him awake; he jumps. He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him. A face shimmers at the edge of his memory - brown eyes, black-framed glasses, wavy brown hair. It ripples and floats away as quickly as it came. In the periphery of his vision, the blackness inches ever closer.
Skin prickling with the feel of eyes upon him, he snaps to attention. Another face; this one doesn't disappear when he blinks. All sad green eyes and framed by pale hair, it persists in hovering near his own. She must a hallucination; no one comes here. Real or no, she looks at him in a way no one has in years, as if he still exists.
"You're... like me?" The words are out of his mouth before he's even sure what they mean.
"Not exactly." The blonde girl looks unfazed by the question. "But I'm sure as hell not normal."
He doesn't intend to touch her mind, but the surge of thoughts comes anyway. This time it's different. A screech like feedback through a bullhorn fills his head; he winces in pain. Through the noise, her name is all he hears.
Sam.
"It doesn't work on you," he says. He expects a look of confusion, but Sam just smiles.
"It doesn't have to," she says. "I'm just here to talk. You look like you need a friend."
Friend. He barely remembers what the word means. Before the broken man, he had no need of one.
"I just..."
The Straw Man trails off, unsure where to begin. It feels like a lifetime since he's just talked. The only time he speaks to anyone is when they need his help. These days, even those conversations are few and far between.
"I don't feel right anymore, ever since I met the broken man," he finally says. It's a start.
Scooting over, he makes room on the bricks, and Sam sits down beside him.
"I haven't felt right in ages," she says. "You get used to it after a while."
* * * * *
Sunlight slants in through the Straw Man's window. Basking in its yellow warmth, he curls up in his chair and smiles. Night will come soon, but for now he feels safe. Today he is him - mind clear and unburdened. The darkness from his dreams still lurks somewhere, but for the moment it isn't here.
There's a chair for her here now, right next to his. On the hard nights, it's a place to hide. Though it doesn't always stop the nightmares when they come to claim him, at least it's a place to go. Sitting in her chair, wrapped in the afghan she likes to use, it's easier to remember. Day will come. He's not alone.
A knock comes at the door. It's Sam; she's the only one who ever comes here unannounced.
"It's open," he calls out.
The door is always open for her.
Squealing on its hinges, it swings ajar. The Straw Man turns toward it, hand raised in greeting. Then his eyes widen in shock; it isn't Sam. In the entrance stands a haunted man, hair awry and eyes wild.
Hair rises on the back of the Straw Man's neck just before he's pummeled by a wave of thoughts.
Then a hand is clutching his shoulder while another presses a cloth to his face. There's a sick-sweet smell like sugared gasoline. The Straw Man tries to fight, but the haunted man's grasp is firm. Air rushes in his ears and his vision is all wrong. Everything is both hazy and strikingly detailed. As his knees give way and the world goes dark, one last thought fills his mind.
I have to warn Sam.
So tired. His eyelids droop. Maybe just for a minute.
A gentle pressure on his shoulder jerks him awake; he jumps. He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him. A face shimmers at the edge of his memory - brown eyes, black-framed glasses, wavy brown hair. It ripples and floats away as quickly as it came. In the periphery of his vision, the blackness inches ever closer.
Skin prickling with the feel of eyes upon him, he snaps to attention. Another face; this one doesn't disappear when he blinks. All sad green eyes and framed by pale hair, it persists in hovering near his own. She must a hallucination; no one comes here. Real or no, she looks at him in a way no one has in years, as if he still exists.
"You're... like me?" The words are out of his mouth before he's even sure what they mean.
"Not exactly." The blonde girl looks unfazed by the question. "But I'm sure as hell not normal."
He doesn't intend to touch her mind, but the surge of thoughts comes anyway. This time it's different. A screech like feedback through a bullhorn fills his head; he winces in pain. Through the noise, her name is all he hears.
Sam.
"It doesn't work on you," he says. He expects a look of confusion, but Sam just smiles.
"It doesn't have to," she says. "I'm just here to talk. You look like you need a friend."
Friend. He barely remembers what the word means. Before the broken man, he had no need of one.
"I just..."
The Straw Man trails off, unsure where to begin. It feels like a lifetime since he's just talked. The only time he speaks to anyone is when they need his help. These days, even those conversations are few and far between.
"I don't feel right anymore, ever since I met the broken man," he finally says. It's a start.
Scooting over, he makes room on the bricks, and Sam sits down beside him.
"I haven't felt right in ages," she says. "You get used to it after a while."
Sunlight slants in through the Straw Man's window. Basking in its yellow warmth, he curls up in his chair and smiles. Night will come soon, but for now he feels safe. Today he is him - mind clear and unburdened. The darkness from his dreams still lurks somewhere, but for the moment it isn't here.
There's a chair for her here now, right next to his. On the hard nights, it's a place to hide. Though it doesn't always stop the nightmares when they come to claim him, at least it's a place to go. Sitting in her chair, wrapped in the afghan she likes to use, it's easier to remember. Day will come. He's not alone.
A knock comes at the door. It's Sam; she's the only one who ever comes here unannounced.
"It's open," he calls out.
The door is always open for her.
Squealing on its hinges, it swings ajar. The Straw Man turns toward it, hand raised in greeting. Then his eyes widen in shock; it isn't Sam. In the entrance stands a haunted man, hair awry and eyes wild.
Hair rises on the back of the Straw Man's neck just before he's pummeled by a wave of thoughts.
I've tried everything to get Rachel back. The writer is my last hope. If I take her friend, she has to help me.
Then a hand is clutching his shoulder while another presses a cloth to his face. There's a sick-sweet smell like sugared gasoline. The Straw Man tries to fight, but the haunted man's grasp is firm. Air rushes in his ears and his vision is all wrong. Everything is both hazy and strikingly detailed. As his knees give way and the world goes dark, one last thought fills his mind.
I have to warn Sam.