03-14-2020, 03:48 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: georgia;"]The amount of care that Beck held for him was staggering. It was odd to be loved so completely and wholly by anyone (the sawbones was still getting used to Moth), and it was unbelievably comforting. So when the little ghost had suggested that he use his task to relax, he’d been thrown momentarily for a loop. Surely there was something more important he could do. There was always work to be done. The more he thought about it, though, the more he warmed up to it.
The problem came, however, from thinking about what to do. He could not remember the last time he was completely at ease, let alone what he was doing. He decided to try and read a little bit, something he had not done in quite a while. He selected a novel from the library, something he had not read before, and got to work.
He found that he could not focus on the page after a short while. His focus kept shifting to the world around him, searching for a glimpse of one his children, or perhaps a cry for help. Frustration grew exponentially every time he had to restart the page he was on, and after a few cycles of this, he snapped the book shut and slammed it roughly back onto its shelf.
So reading would not work. This much was clear as day. He traveled back to his father’s home, where a few of his old belongings still resided. A thin layer of dust coated everything inside, a testament to his abandonment of the space. When nothing immediately caught his eye, he began to leave. But there, under the bed, was a glimpse of shiny metal. He crouched and pulled it forth, sneezing when a thick cloud of dust burst up, stirred by the motion.
His old beading kit. It’d been almost a year since he had last done anything with it. He opened it up, finding that the beads and wires and clasps looked the same as they did eleven months ago, preserved by their casing. He gingerly picked up a wire, bending it a little. He could do this instead. But not here. The desire to keep out of his father’s way overpowered any desire to stay. Selby packed everything back up and made his way back to Moth’s, knowing he felt most at home there.
And it began again. Though it had been such a long time, muscle memory served him well. It was easy to lose himself in the task, and he felt the irritation and stress from before slowly melt away, like ice cream on a hot summer’s day. Before too long, he had a bracelet to show for his efforts. Nothing too complicated, but he was proud of it nonetheless. Studying its varying shades of blue, he decided it would make a good gift for his daughter. The sawbones sat back on his haunches, carefully considering what he might make next.
The problem came, however, from thinking about what to do. He could not remember the last time he was completely at ease, let alone what he was doing. He decided to try and read a little bit, something he had not done in quite a while. He selected a novel from the library, something he had not read before, and got to work.
He found that he could not focus on the page after a short while. His focus kept shifting to the world around him, searching for a glimpse of one his children, or perhaps a cry for help. Frustration grew exponentially every time he had to restart the page he was on, and after a few cycles of this, he snapped the book shut and slammed it roughly back onto its shelf.
So reading would not work. This much was clear as day. He traveled back to his father’s home, where a few of his old belongings still resided. A thin layer of dust coated everything inside, a testament to his abandonment of the space. When nothing immediately caught his eye, he began to leave. But there, under the bed, was a glimpse of shiny metal. He crouched and pulled it forth, sneezing when a thick cloud of dust burst up, stirred by the motion.
His old beading kit. It’d been almost a year since he had last done anything with it. He opened it up, finding that the beads and wires and clasps looked the same as they did eleven months ago, preserved by their casing. He gingerly picked up a wire, bending it a little. He could do this instead. But not here. The desire to keep out of his father’s way overpowered any desire to stay. Selby packed everything back up and made his way back to Moth’s, knowing he felt most at home there.
And it began again. Though it had been such a long time, muscle memory served him well. It was easy to lose himself in the task, and he felt the irritation and stress from before slowly melt away, like ice cream on a hot summer’s day. Before too long, he had a bracelet to show for his efforts. Nothing too complicated, but he was proud of it nonetheless. Studying its varying shades of blue, he decided it would make a good gift for his daughter. The sawbones sat back on his haunches, carefully considering what he might make next.
