Cast:Iron

Nothing RP related this time. That was written out for my last college project, and for some reason I'm still fond of it - probably because it was inspired by the narration of Pushing Daisies (I guess that means it's best read in your head in the narrator's voice. That's certainly what I did when I was writing it out.) - and I just don't have anywhere else to post it. Hooray for resurrecting the dead blog!

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Griffith Grey had been making a pot of tea in his grandparent’s old kitchen when he became an orphan. Whilst on their way to retrieve their son from his weekend away with his elders, Garret Grey and his wife Eva’s path along the A1 suddenly overlapped with that which belonged to a loose and rightfully frightened Jack Russell Terrier that had escaped its leash. Instinct quickly took hold, and with a violent swerve the two narrowly dodged the fearful creature, but the following collision with a passing eight-wheel fire engine not only snapped both their necks, splintered their tibiae, and mangled their family car beyond all recognition, but it also shortened their sighs of relief considerably.

When the tragedy reached young Griffith and his elderly grandparents through the afternoon news broadcast, the shock was overwhelming, and rendered the grief-stricken boy unable to shed a single tear at the expense of his unfortunate loss. But fate was not yet finished with the Grey family, for moments after the terrible news filled the head of Grandfather Grey, a sudden shooting pain rose through his left arm to ambush and consequently arrest his unsuspecting heart until it could beat no more. He died in his favourite armchair, whilst Griffith’s grandmother attempted to comfort the deathly quiet boy in the kitchen - and although fate seemed to enjoy the deadly domino effect it had produced, it was only her stubborn attitude that helped Grandmother Grey to survive her own vicious heart attack at the sight of her late husband’s body.

After the mass funeral, the young and inconsolable Griffith was nowhere to be found, for he had slipped away so that he could gather his morose thoughts together and attempt to make sense of them in an environment of peace and quiet. The morning was peaceful - even in the heart of the colourful city, with so few people wandering the streets, but the boy could only sit by the monument outside the Church of the Martyr and watch as handfuls of men and women came and went, their faces filled with joy whilst he could only wish for such a thing to grace his heart. Happiness seemed to be something that he could not attain; for not a day went by where he was unable to think of the unfortunate string of deaths. Those he knew who encountered him in the street could only tell him how very sorry they were that such a tragedy had befallen him, and the words did nothing to help him forget. There was nobody who did not know - nobody who did not pity him, the boy who inwardly craved company.

And that was when he heard it - a voice asking him what was the matter. Thinking, the boy could not recall ever hearing a voice quite like it before. He thought a little harder, but still no name came to mind, until he finally relented, and turned to find the source of the voice. But there was no one sharing the seat beside him. Confused and slightly bewildered, the boy looked around in search of the voice’s owner – all to no avail. The boy was preparing to question his sanity for the first time, when the man’s voice returned for a second time. It told him to turn his head upwards, and with little reason to decline, Griffith obeyed.

As he looked up to see nothing but the worn figure of Saint George standing upon his solitary pedestal, the young boy could have sworn that he had not been looking upon him when he first sat down.

These eyes don't even reflect the rain

"Without covering your eyes

Look at the warped world

Beaten down by rubble

Rotting day by day

Reaches your soul and is recorded

lalalalalalalala...

Chained, buried, it's your stained soul

YOUR STAINED SOUL"

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That Saturday morning had been one that he was forced to face far earlier than he had anticipated, when his much-needed rest was cut short, and his eyes opened themselves up to the face of his analog clock, the hands both large and small saluting him, touching the seven o' clock position upon its face. The second time in a week.

Of course, Florian stubbornly attempted to return to his slumber shortly after, but every downward slip of his eyelids soon turned into nothing more than a slow motion blink, much to his chagrin. Defeated, he allowed himself to roll upon his back, so he could stare at the blank ceiling, cold fingers forming a knot in front of his stomach as it rose and fell with every empty breath. He could not stand that hollow feeling, of slothfully sitting for sitting's sake, simply existing after every passing minute, until they mounted into hours. So he pulled himself slowly from his bed, and instead, he existed standing up as he loitered about his extremely empty, extremely lifeless apartment. But he could not stand that for long.

Two stacks of work took their place on his living room's coffee table, flagged with their rightful class codes by painfully fluorescent post-it notes - their content nothing more than timed essays from his last two classes on Friday afternoon. On any other day he would have immediately sat down on his sofa with a cup of tea, and worked through every last wafer-thin lined leaf until not a single one had been proof read and marked. But he couldn't do it, unable to muster the drive to do more than pick them up and shuffle them into perfect forms on his table, occasionally letting his eyes flick through the work in the hopes that spotting a grammatical malfunction or a typographical error would kindle enough motivation in him to let his hand grasp that half-empty red ballpoint pen and draw just one circle around a misplaced apostrophe, or correct a single word - but it was not meant to be. He could barely sit down for more than a few minutes before he pulled himself out of his seat and absently paced his floor, an elegant animal who double-locked himself inside his own decorated cage. He couldn't focus, nothing could linger in his mind for long, not until it was bulldozed aside by all that...all that chaos that he could have done without.

He retreated to the kitchen to concoct his third cup of tea, the time now drifting closer to eight in the morn. He nursed the completed brew in there, leaning against the sturdy wall to peer out through the window, for there was little reason to return to the living room - he knew the work wouldn't get touched no matter what he did. He couldn't do it. The window that supplied the room with natural overcast light also provided him with a welcome change of scenery, arctic blue eyes, a spark of lively green coiled around slack pupils, examined the view of the city from the safety of their spot behind the window, everything awash in that lifeless shade of grey, the smog from hundreds of exhausts that cursed the city streets, some of which were attached to the handful of cars he could see sliding down the roads he stood above. Activity was already pulsing in the capital, people trundling through streets, others boasting a spring in their step as they continued a morning jog. He wasn't part of that energy, he was observing it from behind a half-empty mug of tea that stung his red raw palms. But what he would have given to have a hand in it.

He couldn't stand watching all that motion, that glimmer of green in his eyes empathic as it mirrored his inner sense of envy, and they blinked it all away, rejected the network of streets for the simplicity of the air, the alice blue sky painted with ash grey for as far as he could see, the omnipotent slab of clouds played a roof of snow that loomed overhead, waiting for one sharp noise to send it avalanching down into the streets until they were lively no more. Another sip of his tea came and went, slid down his throat and into an empty stomach, the beverage lacking the bitter edge as he was used to thanks to the introduction of sugar - three to be exact. It was probably the only variety he'd have in his whole day.

The heat that had been projected through the ceramic white mug became unbearable to sensitive palms, fingertips riddled with a burning bite just a few degrees short of feeling white hot, it seemed. He could not clutch it for longer, and chancing a quick glance about the layout of the room, thinking that he would not be able to keep a hold of it long enough to reach the table, or even the counter, he settled for crouching upon the floor and gently discarding the cup by his knees. The relief from the heat was instantaneous, the pain leaking from his skin and into the air as he squeezed his fingers into his palms, open and shut with both scalded hands.

When a single vein of water dribbled down the window and into the corner of his eye.

Florian blinked the floor out of his vision, a twist of his head bringing his attention to the once unblemished pane. A phantom reflection lingered in the glass, but it was paid no mind - it was not the mirror image he had grown to know, far from the cause of his intrigue.

Another drop tumbled down to meet him, followed by another two, then another five, and before he could truly gauge the drizzle it had flourished into a full-fledged downpour. Before long, the light tap of the occasional drop had become a constant babble as sheets of rain enveloped the pane whole, ran down in thick waves, much like the time he had been sitting in his classroom before Orion came knocking. He should not have been surprised – not truly, not after the number of rainy spells that had swept across the city in the past month, but after restlessly hoping to piece together something that resembled enthusiasm for the past hour or two, it was hardly a negative sign.

Excess heat still lingered between the layers of skin that covered his palms, and so in an act driven by curiosity, sensitive fingertips gently pressed upon the sturdy yet fragile surface as it seemed to distort and warp – an illusion conjured up by the playful rain. The freezing sensation that radiated from the window seemed to force the heat from out of his flesh, chilled his blood in such a drastic contrast to the previous feeling he sensed that it made the refreshing chill all the more potent. It was such a relief, to feel something so extreme, that even the clear pane seemed to shudder beneath the relentless hammering of every heavy wave. His fingertips were joined by the palm they were attached to, and that too was joined by his second hand, until he grew so tired of keeping those bright icy eyes open to marvel at the world that lurked beyond the screen of water that he relented, slid them shut, and sidling up upon his knees until he was almost flush against the pane, relished in the chorus of the rain until his forehead gently tipped forward, laid against the glass.

A soft audible shudder issued from his lips smothered the glass with its translucent haze for a few fleeting seconds. Hands roamed over the smooth, level body.

Relished it.

A smirk tugged up his lips, only this time at both corners, one after the other - and in just a few minutes, the agitation that had stirred him had just slipped away. He wanted to be out in that rain, wanted to feel it for himself, let it cleanse the strife from his skin as he walked alone - like he had wanted to simply sit down and function instead of just sitting down to exist.

And sitting there, he found that he could. His first spark.