07-29-2018, 03:21 PM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;font-family: calibri;"]It had been about a year.
Eleven long months had passed since Des had last had contact with a group bigger than a few select individuals, staying clear of such places for fear of two things. One, that the events of his past would reemerge and he'd end up becoming more screwed up in the head than he already was... but more prevalent was the fear of getting attached. He had done that once, gotten attached, and it had gone just about as well as anything had for him (which was to say, not at all.) The more people there were, the more chances that he would end up having some sort of sentimental feelings towards those who either wanted him to die or who would die themselves eventually, whether by his own bullet or someone else's. Desperado didn't get good things in his life. This wasn't any different, never had been and never would be.
He had left everything he knew once again after things went awry as a result of that. It had been a year since he had seen his former clan members, nearing three years since he'd last seen his former gang. The latter he didn't mind too much, although the former left an ache in his chest that was only curable by forgetting, which was one of the main reasons that he had picked up an addiction sometime between then and now. It had worked for the first few months, but now both the alcohol, the drugs and the cigarettes didn't do much for him anymore.
It was an addiction that was killing him without even working anymore, and he didn't even have half a mind to care.
He didn't have a mind to care about anything much, really, but he actively avoided that train of thought whenever it came up. He'd get somewhere eventually, whether he cared or didn't, and he found that the longer he dwelled on his past and future the worse his migraines became so it became easier to pretend like everything was alright to avoid them.
Now, he was standing on the border of another group, about to face strangers who didn't know him and or his past, and probably didn't care much for his future... and he felt just as empty as he always did, if only a little bit lighter knowing that he could start over again here.
Eleven long months had passed since Des had last had contact with a group bigger than a few select individuals, staying clear of such places for fear of two things. One, that the events of his past would reemerge and he'd end up becoming more screwed up in the head than he already was... but more prevalent was the fear of getting attached. He had done that once, gotten attached, and it had gone just about as well as anything had for him (which was to say, not at all.) The more people there were, the more chances that he would end up having some sort of sentimental feelings towards those who either wanted him to die or who would die themselves eventually, whether by his own bullet or someone else's. Desperado didn't get good things in his life. This wasn't any different, never had been and never would be.
He had left everything he knew once again after things went awry as a result of that. It had been a year since he had seen his former clan members, nearing three years since he'd last seen his former gang. The latter he didn't mind too much, although the former left an ache in his chest that was only curable by forgetting, which was one of the main reasons that he had picked up an addiction sometime between then and now. It had worked for the first few months, but now both the alcohol, the drugs and the cigarettes didn't do much for him anymore.
It was an addiction that was killing him without even working anymore, and he didn't even have half a mind to care.
He didn't have a mind to care about anything much, really, but he actively avoided that train of thought whenever it came up. He'd get somewhere eventually, whether he cared or didn't, and he found that the longer he dwelled on his past and future the worse his migraines became so it became easier to pretend like everything was alright to avoid them.
Now, he was standing on the border of another group, about to face strangers who didn't know him and or his past, and probably didn't care much for his future... and he felt just as empty as he always did, if only a little bit lighter knowing that he could start over again here.
♔ — I want brimstone in my garden