Wyatt Earp (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_marshal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-06-08 08:14 pm
the_marshal) wrote in thecapitol2013-06-08 08:14 pm
Entry tags:
My spirit aches...
WHO| Wyatt and all the insomniacs.
WHAT| Avoiding sleep.
WHERE| The Lounge
WHEN| One night, so late one might call it early, before the crowning.
WARNINGS| Some talk of nightmares, but nothing too terrible.
Night time was the worst. While the sun was up, while he had people and things to distract him, he could push the bulk of his troubles to the back of his mind. But at night, once things had gone quiet and he was alone with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts, they would all come rushing back.
Alcohol helped - took off the edge - but there wasn't a drink strong enough to stop the nightmares. The images that haunted him once his eyes finally closed.
Faces taunting. Sometimes Dora, sometimes Neeshka. Howard. Max. Sometimes a combination. At once beautiful and terrible. Dead and alive. Screaming. Whispering. Blaming and crying. 'Why didn't you do more?' 'Why didn't you save us?'
Sometimes, trying to put sleep off, he would pace for hours, to and fro across the floor of his room. Others he would flee into the training room, throwing knives until his arm burned and his back was sore. Tonight...
Tonight, he sat in the Lounge, a cup of black coffee, steaming gently on the table beside him. His chair turned out so he could lean over a trash can. In one hand he held a lump of dark wood, vaguely familiar in size and shape. In the other, was a small dinner knife.
Painstakingly, he worked the latter against the former. The point digging and turning, putting the finishing touches on a pair of tiny eyes.
WHAT| Avoiding sleep.
WHERE| The Lounge
WHEN| One night, so late one might call it early, before the crowning.
WARNINGS| Some talk of nightmares, but nothing too terrible.
Night time was the worst. While the sun was up, while he had people and things to distract him, he could push the bulk of his troubles to the back of his mind. But at night, once things had gone quiet and he was alone with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts, they would all come rushing back.
Alcohol helped - took off the edge - but there wasn't a drink strong enough to stop the nightmares. The images that haunted him once his eyes finally closed.
Faces taunting. Sometimes Dora, sometimes Neeshka. Howard. Max. Sometimes a combination. At once beautiful and terrible. Dead and alive. Screaming. Whispering. Blaming and crying. 'Why didn't you do more?' 'Why didn't you save us?'
Sometimes, trying to put sleep off, he would pace for hours, to and fro across the floor of his room. Others he would flee into the training room, throwing knives until his arm burned and his back was sore. Tonight...
Tonight, he sat in the Lounge, a cup of black coffee, steaming gently on the table beside him. His chair turned out so he could lean over a trash can. In one hand he held a lump of dark wood, vaguely familiar in size and shape. In the other, was a small dinner knife.
Painstakingly, he worked the latter against the former. The point digging and turning, putting the finishing touches on a pair of tiny eyes.
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"Let's put it this way, son," he glanced across at Blaine, his expression gently amused. "I ain't up at this ungodly hour for my health."
And he saw no shame in admitting it, if it brought the young man some measure of comfort to know he wasn't alone.
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"What are you drinking?" he asked, not curious more than anything.
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"Just some'a what the Capitol dares to call coffee." Even black it didn't pack near the punch what he coulda made at home. "The lightweights."
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He might have been rambling a bit because he was so tired and out of it. More than that though, talking about home made him feel a little better about things. It was a reminder that he wasn't always stuck in a place like this.
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"No offense, son, but if it was anything like this-" he jerked a thumb toward his cup with a smile, "-then what you had wasn't coffee. Real coffee is the stuff ya make yourself over the campfire. That stuff'll cure anythin' that ails ya."
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"Son, they ever send ya coffee beans in the arena, promise me you'll come find me. I'll show ya how it's really done."
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"I look forward to it, son."
Then he turned back to his carving, knife sliding along wood, the hushed scrap filling the easy silence between them.
[OOC: That felt like a great place to wrap to me, but if you'd rather go on, please feel free. :)]
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