[There's a little of that lost quality in his voice again.
He's not sure what he's feeling, at the end of the day; there's grief, bloody and raw and sharp, but he doesn't know where it's coming from or where it's going -- it's been a year, shy a few months, since he was last able to see anyone in that vision. He'd finally been able to stop thinking about it, too busy with all he needed to do and to be. They visited him only in dreams anymore.
(Maybe, just maybe, it's his refusal to stop and smell the mourning roses the last two weeks catching up to him in a perfect storm of events. But he hasn't processed any of it that far yet, and probably won't.)]
I thought I'd forgotten what most of them looked like. The people from home.
[There's something about the way he says the word home, like he's afraid to use the phrase itself for fear that something will crumble. The concept of it. The nonexistent traces of it.]
no subject
[There's a little of that lost quality in his voice again.
He's not sure what he's feeling, at the end of the day; there's grief, bloody and raw and sharp, but he doesn't know where it's coming from or where it's going -- it's been a year, shy a few months, since he was last able to see anyone in that vision. He'd finally been able to stop thinking about it, too busy with all he needed to do and to be. They visited him only in dreams anymore.
(Maybe, just maybe, it's his refusal to stop and smell the mourning roses the last two weeks catching up to him in a perfect storm of events. But he hasn't processed any of it that far yet, and probably won't.)]
I thought I'd forgotten what most of them looked like. The people from home.
[There's something about the way he says the word home, like he's afraid to use the phrase itself for fear that something will crumble. The concept of it. The nonexistent traces of it.]