This could be triggering for some people as there is mentions of suicidal thoughts; please don't read it if you are easily triggered
A smell.
6 in the morning, and all he is is jittery bones spiked up on too much caffeine.
Swells and tides break against the rocks that are his nerves.
There's a slumped body in the bed next to his, and every other second thin motel blankets will rustle up and down.
He takes this as a comfort.
He's sitting quietly on his bed, pulling on old sneakers that used to be white.
His fingers won't tie the knots and the shoelaces slip out of his hands again and again.
The sun is rising, climbing on the furniture and running past worn carpet fibers like it's a race.
It seems to get faster and faster in his mind's eye, so he abandons his shoelaces and ignores the shudder that runs through him.
It's easy to slip out and beat the sun to the door.
Almost.
It takes him a milli-second to turn back and snatch something off the table because he almost forgot.
Silly him.
The person in the bed next to his does not even react.
The door clicks quietly into place and he moves along the side of the building before the sun can reach him.
It's a race, it's a race.
A one-story motel in a single story state.
It's been practically carved up, mustard-yellow wall paint peeling.
Moldy shower curtains rocking back and forth minutely because someone didn't close the window.
He shakes his head and keeps walking past the concrete and into the meadow.
The meadow behind the motel is a wide open space.
It's endless possibilities covered in long stalks of grass and baby flowers.
He squints his eyes and stumbles back, turning just to peek at the sun.
The whole world is asleep.
It's just him and the sun and his broken dreams.
Correction-
He had broken dreams.
They tempted and overwhelmed him.
Fear and anxiety swelled and rocked like dinghies on the turbulent ocean of want.
He shakes his head again and images float out of his brain.
A girlfriend, a degree, a family, a passion for something he'd never get to have-
The meadow is large, and the grass is damp, and it smells like being woken up too early but it's not exactly unwanted.
His jeans sag off his hip bones as he runs and he wonders why.
He's wearing an olive green undershirt that used to have a slogan on it.
It's faded from enough wear that it's only soft color on him now.
The sun has risen up past the one-story motel and back down into the meadow, roaming towards him at a steady pace.
He goes loose-limbed in the presence of the sun and the absence of sleep.
The grass is soft under his palms and hair that shines copper brown in his eyes doesn't bother him anymore.
He wants to lay down but he feels if he puts his back to the ground there will be a thousand burning bodies on the ceiling of the world.
It won't be a relaxed blue anymore, no, it'll be the flames of an encroaching sun that's been dialed to one hundred.
Right now though, the sun is fine.
It's warm and welcoming just as the grass is cooling and delicate.
He's tall, but green reaches up to a little below his shoulders, all in a non-threatening way.
Settled comfortably on the earth, he images it's still early.
He choose a very wonderful morning.
Thin boned hands reach for what he took from the table.
It's safely tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and he draws it slow enough that not even the rustle of sturdy fabric against skin makes a noise.
All he can hear are birds and the swish of wind as dips in between plants and the earth and the sky.
The metal is matte.
It does not glint in the sun, and it does not reflect in his eyes.
He draws his knees up to his chest and fiddles with the safety.
He lets his legs sprawl out on the ground and doesn't mind when the dew makes his jeans wet.
A tag sticks out the back of his shirt, he might be wearing it backward.
A year or two ago, he might have cared.
He bends over slightly, shielding the metal from the sun so he's the only one that can see it.
It blends into the ground then so he straightens up a little, letting the light cover him again.
He's only ever trusted two things in his life.
One; the unmoving person in the motel room.
Two; the power of what lies in his hand.
He never thought he'd crave it.
A black mouth in the shape of an O, pressed right up to his forehead.
A clean and hollow hole, made right where he used to feel something, anything, pump through his heart.
Funny, how he's thought about sticking metal in his mouth more than actual food.
The sun shines, and birds from far-away trees chirp.
This could be ground zero.
It's wrong that his insides are rattling like caged animals, but outside he is still.
It should be wrong.
Not this morning.
Everything feels particularly right.
Twenty-eight years of experience tell him he hasn't been taken. There would be signs of struggle where there are none, clues to a rapture that didn't take place.
The sheets are been thrown back lazily and when he looks around the room, everything seems fine. He must have gone outside for a jog, woken up with nature like he seems hardwired to do. There is nothing out of the ordinary so why does his gut clench like a well-made fist.
He nabs a sweatshirt and throws it on, walking outside because instinct tells him to. In their line of work, instinct is everything. The difference between waking up and burning in a pyre. He starts jogging a little, going around the one-story motel to where he thinks he might find him.
There.
Where the grass crawls up the pavement and begins to grow and mix with the cracks. He raises his hand to block his eyes from the sun and takes in a little breath. His gut still churns and his brain feels incorrect, but everything looks at peace.
Four small steps forward and he's in eye-shot.
Sitting in the middle of the meadow, looking like he's part of the whole scene. Legs unrestrained and simply laying in the meadow. Mousy, tousled hair framing his face. Queen Anne's Lace reaching up and brushing his cheekbones and his eyelashes. Bent over slightly, reposeful eyes fixed on something only he can see, his little brother looks no older than seventeen.
He takes two more steps forward and suddenly he's not moving fast enough. Suddenly he's moving through molasses, thick and paralyzing, like the scream stuck in his throat.
He's only feared two things in his life.
One; the person splayed in the flowers taking their last breath.
Two; the power of what lies in their hand.
6 in the morning, and a sound echoes through an almost empty meadow.
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