03-31-2019, 11:37 AM
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Crow felt the rift that was ever steadily growing between he and Selby was one entirely onset by his own negligence as a caretaker. His sleeping patterns were appalling—he would stay up for days on end bumbling about in a zombie-like trance, only to ultimately crash and repeat the vicious cycle all over again the very next week. At the worst of it his days blurred into a singular continuum of time with no dividing period of unwind as it was for those untouched by the hand of insomnia. There was no 'tomorrow' to escape to, and his time conscious felt like a prison of the mind, so he became distant, not only to himself but those he loved.
A little blackbird pecked at Crow's window, and the feline unfurled a note from its leg, eyebrows squinting as he left a seed offering which the bird graciously snapped up before sending it on its way, his lonely eyes gazing after the flitting crimson accented wings of its departure. From Selby, huh? he thought, recognising the handwriting at once, and his breath hitched when he realised that after everything done, his son still wanted to reconcile with him.
The tabby was a bad father, a truth that a voice in the depths of his skull reiterated to a point where it was driven like a nail against his frail ego. He was hard to convince otherwise—it was a part of the cog of his inner workings, part of who and what he was. No one could change it, but Selby seemed to still find him tolerable despite that, and it was baffling to the cat.
I should go talk to him? Crow's gut squirmed at the thought as he begrudgingly set one paw in front of the other in the direction of the point of rendezvous, and Selby's expectant gaze caused him to drop his own. "Um," the feline stammered. "Uh, hi."
Crow felt the rift that was ever steadily growing between he and Selby was one entirely onset by his own negligence as a caretaker. His sleeping patterns were appalling—he would stay up for days on end bumbling about in a zombie-like trance, only to ultimately crash and repeat the vicious cycle all over again the very next week. At the worst of it his days blurred into a singular continuum of time with no dividing period of unwind as it was for those untouched by the hand of insomnia. There was no 'tomorrow' to escape to, and his time conscious felt like a prison of the mind, so he became distant, not only to himself but those he loved.
A little blackbird pecked at Crow's window, and the feline unfurled a note from its leg, eyebrows squinting as he left a seed offering which the bird graciously snapped up before sending it on its way, his lonely eyes gazing after the flitting crimson accented wings of its departure. From Selby, huh? he thought, recognising the handwriting at once, and his breath hitched when he realised that after everything done, his son still wanted to reconcile with him.
The tabby was a bad father, a truth that a voice in the depths of his skull reiterated to a point where it was driven like a nail against his frail ego. He was hard to convince otherwise—it was a part of the cog of his inner workings, part of who and what he was. No one could change it, but Selby seemed to still find him tolerable despite that, and it was baffling to the cat.
I should go talk to him? Crow's gut squirmed at the thought as he begrudgingly set one paw in front of the other in the direction of the point of rendezvous, and Selby's expectant gaze caused him to drop his own. "Um," the feline stammered. "Uh, hi."