Counting the Silence
by Kentra Shinataku
His head hurt. More correctly, his head was _throbbing_, but he didn't see how thinking that far into it could really solve the problem any more efficiently. He probably shouldn't have hit his head so hard, as he realized he was paying for it now. He probably shouldn't have smoked the entire carton of cigarettes, either; the middle of the kitchen table wasn't exactly the greatest hiding place. He probably _should_ have done something productive instead of letting himself loaf about all day with nothing to entertain him but a pocket knife and a crossword puzzle.
Then again, hindsight is 20/20.
It had been three days since he had seen Duo. Three days. The number resonated ominously through his mind, simply significant for simply no particular reason. He didn't know why, and he didn't especially care to find out. His head throbbed too much to bother thinking about it. He doubted he would be able to figure out the reason for his perplexity had his head been perfectly fine. Which, he was fairly certain, it never had been.
Casting one last longing glance at the way the sunlight scattered through the blinds and on to the bland, beige, carpet of the living room, he shuffled to his bathroom, his oversized sweatpants dragging under his feet. When he got into the besmirched, tiled, room, he laid his hand flat against the sink ledge, wetting his fingers in the droplets of water that never seemed to get absorbed into the cloth he used to wipe the sink.
Three days. He still didn't know where Duo was. He'd spent hours sitting next to the phone, waiting for some word of reassurance that hadn't bothered to come.
The eyes in his reflection scrutinized his face and he noticed a little bruise on his jaw line. He didn't know how it had happened, but he eyed it with contempt; perhaps it had something to do with the pulsing in his head.
He wasn't aware of his dry hand opening the mirrored cabinet so that he couldn't study his face anymore. He didn't think too much of that was good for a person, particularly him. When you hated something, it was the last thing you wanted in front of your face. Or maybe that was just his own philosophy.
He reached for a rather immense bottle of painkillers, wondering why the manufacturers insisted on making things so large. How could one person consume so many pills without offing themselves? A smaller size would have been much more convenient; he could carry them in his pocket for later.
Staring at the warnings on the label, he discovered that he hadn't exactly followed the instructions the few times he had devoured the elongated, white, pills. It said not to take more than eight in a twenty-four hour period. He glanced down at his skin as if to make sure he was still living. After all, he had taken thirty-two that one day. He shook the bottle twice before putting it back on it's shelf.
He never ended up taking any, and his head still hurt.
He trudged down the short hallway toward his bedroom. It was more of a passageway; he thought it was too short of be considered a 'hall'. Sitting down warily on the bed and scooting to the middle, he gathered the thin, threadbare, blanket around him and hugged his knees with it.
It had been three days. There had been a small argument, nothing that he felt Duo should have gotten so upset about. A little bit of the blanket was locked between his first two toes and he took to making little circles with it. He didn't want to remember it, he didn't have the time for it. He was busy waiting and counting the days. Counting the days was easier than Counting the Silence.
**********
by Kentra Shinataku
His head hurt. More correctly, his head was _throbbing_, but he didn't see how thinking that far into it could really solve the problem any more efficiently. He probably shouldn't have hit his head so hard, as he realized he was paying for it now. He probably shouldn't have smoked the entire carton of cigarettes, either; the middle of the kitchen table wasn't exactly the greatest hiding place. He probably _should_ have done something productive instead of letting himself loaf about all day with nothing to entertain him but a pocket knife and a crossword puzzle.
Then again, hindsight is 20/20.
It had been three days since he had seen Duo. Three days. The number resonated ominously through his mind, simply significant for simply no particular reason. He didn't know why, and he didn't especially care to find out. His head throbbed too much to bother thinking about it. He doubted he would be able to figure out the reason for his perplexity had his head been perfectly fine. Which, he was fairly certain, it never had been.
Casting one last longing glance at the way the sunlight scattered through the blinds and on to the bland, beige, carpet of the living room, he shuffled to his bathroom, his oversized sweatpants dragging under his feet. When he got into the besmirched, tiled, room, he laid his hand flat against the sink ledge, wetting his fingers in the droplets of water that never seemed to get absorbed into the cloth he used to wipe the sink.
Three days. He still didn't know where Duo was. He'd spent hours sitting next to the phone, waiting for some word of reassurance that hadn't bothered to come.
The eyes in his reflection scrutinized his face and he noticed a little bruise on his jaw line. He didn't know how it had happened, but he eyed it with contempt; perhaps it had something to do with the pulsing in his head.
He wasn't aware of his dry hand opening the mirrored cabinet so that he couldn't study his face anymore. He didn't think too much of that was good for a person, particularly him. When you hated something, it was the last thing you wanted in front of your face. Or maybe that was just his own philosophy.
He reached for a rather immense bottle of painkillers, wondering why the manufacturers insisted on making things so large. How could one person consume so many pills without offing themselves? A smaller size would have been much more convenient; he could carry them in his pocket for later.
Staring at the warnings on the label, he discovered that he hadn't exactly followed the instructions the few times he had devoured the elongated, white, pills. It said not to take more than eight in a twenty-four hour period. He glanced down at his skin as if to make sure he was still living. After all, he had taken thirty-two that one day. He shook the bottle twice before putting it back on it's shelf.
He never ended up taking any, and his head still hurt.
He trudged down the short hallway toward his bedroom. It was more of a passageway; he thought it was too short of be considered a 'hall'. Sitting down warily on the bed and scooting to the middle, he gathered the thin, threadbare, blanket around him and hugged his knees with it.
It had been three days. There had been a small argument, nothing that he felt Duo should have gotten so upset about. A little bit of the blanket was locked between his first two toes and he took to making little circles with it. He didn't want to remember it, he didn't have the time for it. He was busy waiting and counting the days. Counting the days was easier than Counting the Silence.
**********