Verisimilitude:
He wonders sometimes, if this is really what he wants.
As he stands at the frosted window pane, palm pressed against it in search of some sort of feeling, some dispersal of the numbness, he wonders if it's worth it.
Is it?
Is he?
He definitely isn't. But he's not doing this for himself.
This is for the voices, the Glen's. For the end.
For Elliot…
But no. He mustn't think of him now. It'll only hurt more, sting more. As if scratching at an infected wound that has yet to completely scar.
He wants the scars though. He wants the pain. He wants to remember that there was a time when he wasn't Glen, or a "lord" or the bringer of this darkness.
A time when he was just Leo.
Leo and Elliot.
Laughter. Tranquility.
Darkness.
Despair.
Death.
He can't dwell on it. He mustn't.
It hurts. The distance between his feelings and memories, the hollow, uncaring ache…
The lack of pangs of grief almost kills him inside.
But he's not Leo. He doesn't need this sadness, these memories.
Nor does he need that smile, that warmth, that voice he can almost hear in the creaking eaves…
It'll all be over soon anyways.
"Happy Birthday, Leo."
Soon.
A/N: Well, this was written back in October, and posted on the 25th in honor of Leo's Birthday. I wasn't planning on posting it here, but seeing as I'm bored and can't sleep, I figured I might as well. The title isn't the best, that's true - I actually grabbed it from a vocab word we had in English that I got really attached to for some reason or another. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this extremely short piece, or at least tolerated it. Reviews are welcome.
