08-31-2019, 02:53 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: georgia;"]//it’s actually his 101st post please don’t come for me
Selby stumbled home in a stupor, unable to focus on anything except for Pastel’s suitcase. His only sibling, his only family except for Crow, was dead and gone. The thought was so bizarre that he almost laughed aloud. How could she be dead? It seemed so unlikely. Pastel had always been strong, always seemed capable. The medic hadn’t worried about her safety all that much during her travels. Accidents happen, but she was more than able to take care of herself. As he shut his door to his room and locked it shut behind him, he did laugh. The situation was so absurd. Arrow dead, Pastel dead, Leroy dying. Was death so inescapable? He laughed more hysterically, then suddenly got a grip on himself and stood silently for a long moment. He set her precious bag down carefully by the door, the quiet thunk horribly audible in the otherwise silent home. His eyes felt heavy, and his limbs seemed to drag as he carried himself to bed. Selby fell asleep the moment he was no longer upright.
He slept for two days.
When he awoke, his first thought was of his thirst. He pulled himself out of bed and was about to open the door when he saw it. The bag. If his mouth had been able to go drier, it would have. The feline swallowed hard, unable to look away from her trunk. She really was gone, huh? The gravity of it all seemed to weigh upon him all at once, and he sank to the floor. Selby sobbed quietly to himself, not wanting to disturb his father. He rocked himself slowly, his skinny body heaving with his near silent cries.
It was a long time before Selby was able to stop crying, even longer to stop rocking himself, and even longer after that to pick himself up from the ground. It was impossible to tell how long it had been, especially since he hadn’t been paying much attention to the sun streaming in through the window. If he had been forced to guess, the medic might have guessed noon, but it was at best an estimate. He glanced back at the valise that had started it all. Every time Pastel had returned, she had come with gifts. He doubted this time that it was different. He briefly considered breaking it open, but he knew that it was something he should wait to do with Crow. It would be a long time before his father would be ready to do something like that.
Selby unlocked the door and slipped quietly down the stairs, painfully aware of the little pit-pats that erupted from his paws as they made contact with each step. He drank some water, and though his stomach felt empty, the medic was aggressively unhungry. Casting a gaze around the main room, he found it devoid of any life except for the plants that Crow had hung up. Not knowing what to do with himself, he headed for the front door. Pausing at the threshold, he called out "I’m heading out. I’ll be back in a little while." He had know idea whether or not the words had registered with his father, and he didn’t stay to find out.
Selby wandered around aimlessly for a bit. He contemplated heading for the tree that she had been buried under, but his feet refused to carry him in that direction. He wasn’t ready to see her. Not yet. Instead, his paws took him to his old home, the grassy knoll under which he lived clearly visible from even a great distance away. The spore plant stood thriving in the remains of his ruined garden, and Selby scowled at it, not in the mood for its nasty memories.
Deciding to make the most of the trip, Selby moved to enter his home. He might as well pack up some of things now that he was here, right? Just as he reached the door, he felt something light flutter down to land on his head. Reaching up a paw to grab at it, he stabbed it with a claw and pulled it off his head to examine it. A pink, curly flower petal had landed on him. A rose petal.
The feline looked up at the overgrown bush that had taken over the garden box in Selby’s absence and felt irrationally angry. How dare that plant, which he had planted for his sister, thrive when she was dead? How could that be? He hissed at it, then reached up to grab at the nearest branch with his teeth, yanking it down in a quick jerking motion. The plant was thin there, and the section of bush came off easily under his ministrations. The thorns hurt a little, sure, but that was life.
The medic foolishly reached up again, selecting a thicker branch and yanking it more roughly than he had the previous. The thorns scratched at the corner of his mouth, but the pain was easy to ignore in the satisfaction of ripping down that wretched plant. In fact, he kept going, the metallic taste of his own blood driving him into a sort of frenzy. His methods grew less and less effective and the branches thicker and thicker, and soon Selby was also using his paws to attempt to destroy the bush. His failures made him angrier, which made him more frantic, which made him less effective, which caused him to fail, which caused him to become angrier. He lost himself in his fury, finding it easy to ignore the blood in his mouth, the deep scratches at the corners of his mouth, the smaller wounds on the top of his nose, and the deep gouges in his forelegs. He kept going, only pausing to spit out mouthfuls of blood.
Selby stumbled home in a stupor, unable to focus on anything except for Pastel’s suitcase. His only sibling, his only family except for Crow, was dead and gone. The thought was so bizarre that he almost laughed aloud. How could she be dead? It seemed so unlikely. Pastel had always been strong, always seemed capable. The medic hadn’t worried about her safety all that much during her travels. Accidents happen, but she was more than able to take care of herself. As he shut his door to his room and locked it shut behind him, he did laugh. The situation was so absurd. Arrow dead, Pastel dead, Leroy dying. Was death so inescapable? He laughed more hysterically, then suddenly got a grip on himself and stood silently for a long moment. He set her precious bag down carefully by the door, the quiet thunk horribly audible in the otherwise silent home. His eyes felt heavy, and his limbs seemed to drag as he carried himself to bed. Selby fell asleep the moment he was no longer upright.
He slept for two days.
When he awoke, his first thought was of his thirst. He pulled himself out of bed and was about to open the door when he saw it. The bag. If his mouth had been able to go drier, it would have. The feline swallowed hard, unable to look away from her trunk. She really was gone, huh? The gravity of it all seemed to weigh upon him all at once, and he sank to the floor. Selby sobbed quietly to himself, not wanting to disturb his father. He rocked himself slowly, his skinny body heaving with his near silent cries.
It was a long time before Selby was able to stop crying, even longer to stop rocking himself, and even longer after that to pick himself up from the ground. It was impossible to tell how long it had been, especially since he hadn’t been paying much attention to the sun streaming in through the window. If he had been forced to guess, the medic might have guessed noon, but it was at best an estimate. He glanced back at the valise that had started it all. Every time Pastel had returned, she had come with gifts. He doubted this time that it was different. He briefly considered breaking it open, but he knew that it was something he should wait to do with Crow. It would be a long time before his father would be ready to do something like that.
Selby unlocked the door and slipped quietly down the stairs, painfully aware of the little pit-pats that erupted from his paws as they made contact with each step. He drank some water, and though his stomach felt empty, the medic was aggressively unhungry. Casting a gaze around the main room, he found it devoid of any life except for the plants that Crow had hung up. Not knowing what to do with himself, he headed for the front door. Pausing at the threshold, he called out "I’m heading out. I’ll be back in a little while." He had know idea whether or not the words had registered with his father, and he didn’t stay to find out.
Selby wandered around aimlessly for a bit. He contemplated heading for the tree that she had been buried under, but his feet refused to carry him in that direction. He wasn’t ready to see her. Not yet. Instead, his paws took him to his old home, the grassy knoll under which he lived clearly visible from even a great distance away. The spore plant stood thriving in the remains of his ruined garden, and Selby scowled at it, not in the mood for its nasty memories.
Deciding to make the most of the trip, Selby moved to enter his home. He might as well pack up some of things now that he was here, right? Just as he reached the door, he felt something light flutter down to land on his head. Reaching up a paw to grab at it, he stabbed it with a claw and pulled it off his head to examine it. A pink, curly flower petal had landed on him. A rose petal.
The feline looked up at the overgrown bush that had taken over the garden box in Selby’s absence and felt irrationally angry. How dare that plant, which he had planted for his sister, thrive when she was dead? How could that be? He hissed at it, then reached up to grab at the nearest branch with his teeth, yanking it down in a quick jerking motion. The plant was thin there, and the section of bush came off easily under his ministrations. The thorns hurt a little, sure, but that was life.
The medic foolishly reached up again, selecting a thicker branch and yanking it more roughly than he had the previous. The thorns scratched at the corner of his mouth, but the pain was easy to ignore in the satisfaction of ripping down that wretched plant. In fact, he kept going, the metallic taste of his own blood driving him into a sort of frenzy. His methods grew less and less effective and the branches thicker and thicker, and soon Selby was also using his paws to attempt to destroy the bush. His failures made him angrier, which made him more frantic, which made him less effective, which caused him to fail, which caused him to become angrier. He lost himself in his fury, finding it easy to ignore the blood in his mouth, the deep scratches at the corners of his mouth, the smaller wounds on the top of his nose, and the deep gouges in his forelegs. He kept going, only pausing to spit out mouthfuls of blood.
