Shadows
folder
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
778
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
778
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Part II - Logan
The mirror was denseh thh the oppressive fog. He stared at himself, naked, l, st, still dripping from the shower. Puddles on the clean white tiles under his feet. The faucet dripped in unison. Background music.
He ran one index finger over a curve of bone under pale, flawless skin, measuring. The iliac crest, his brain supplied. Not sharp enough.
Ribs next. Skeletal, but not perfect. There could be less flesh there.
"Logan, your breakfast is on the table." A timid tap at the door didn't disturb his concentration. "I have to leave for work. Love you."
"Love you too, mom." Mechanical, methodical. Automaton. Watch the wind-up monkey dance.
Collarbones, arched out prominently from the hollow at the base of the neck. Ending in two knobs at the tips of the shoulders. The hands doing the exploring were slender, bony. Bitten nails.
The door shutting behind her was what brought him back. Empty house, dad away on business. Older brother getting himself a college education somewhere far away.
He grabbed a towel from the rack, dried off. A palm rubbed across his cheek told him he didn't need to shave.
Logan emerged from the bathroom still barefoot, but fully dressed otherwise. Black turtleneck under a baggy old Ramones shirt, hiding a belt cinched to the second-last hole. His jeans hung loose on his tall frame, ratty at the bottoms from having been stepped on. He walked with his eyes down, head slightly back, pulling his chin down towards his neck. An ingenious trick that allowed his shoulder-length hair to hide the remarkably sharp edge of his jaw. Now it was instinctive for him, second nature. His mother wanted him to cut off the dirty-blonde mess, threatening to do it while he was sleeping. She said it made him look like a bum. He said it made him look like a rock star.
He locked his door at night anyway.
He clicked the heat up two degrees and padded down the carpeted stairs, through the living room. The kitchen was wide and airy, with big oak-and-glass cabinets and shiny brass taps. Remodeled every three years like clockwork. No expense was spared. It didn't have to be. Dr. Daddy made sure of that.
Breakfast was indeed on the table. Eggs, sunny-side up. Two of them. And toast, buttered, four halves. Diagonal cut. Orange juice. He grabbed a clean plate out of one cupboard on his way by.
He sat down at his spot at the table, facing the back of the house. The patio doors looked out on the pool, empty now for the winter.
He set the clean plate in front of him, pushing the full one away.
He took a test sip of juice. Sour, but cold with no pulp. A second sip.
He transferred one piece of toast onto the new plate. Two halves. He picked up the knife and fork.
Quarters.
Eighths.
Sixteenths.
He lifted one up to his mouth, forcing himself to chew, swallow.
There were two birds on the ground just outside the glass doors. Chickadees. The snow didn't seem to bother them. They hopped joyfully, leaving their tiny tracks, no pattern whatsoever to their madness. Logan watched them with his chin cupped in one hand, his elbow propped on the table. He pushed the bits of toast around on his plate, arranging and rearranging, a magic act.
His birds, without any warning, took to wing and disappeared.
He dropped the fork with a clatter, and turned around. The high-ceilinged house was quiet, the only sound was the subconscious hum of the ventilation, always present. Just the house breathing.
This was an exercise in futility. There was no one around to watch his one-man show.
He tipped the rest of the orange juice down the sink and scraped both plates into the garbage. No one would ever bother to look. He dumped the dishes into the sink and downed a glass of water.
He headed for the front closet, turning off the lights as he went. He stuffed his bare feet into his boots. His car keys jingled in the pocket as he pulled on his thick winter parka.
The car, a reliable Honda, started easily. The day was really not that cold, the snow was already beginning to glisten at the edges, melting in the early sun. The heat in the car was already set to the highest level. Logan cranked the fan as high as it would go and got out, slamming the door . He plodded back into the house, his boots too large without socks. He'd give it a few minutes to warm up.
***
More soon, xo.
He ran one index finger over a curve of bone under pale, flawless skin, measuring. The iliac crest, his brain supplied. Not sharp enough.
Ribs next. Skeletal, but not perfect. There could be less flesh there.
"Logan, your breakfast is on the table." A timid tap at the door didn't disturb his concentration. "I have to leave for work. Love you."
"Love you too, mom." Mechanical, methodical. Automaton. Watch the wind-up monkey dance.
Collarbones, arched out prominently from the hollow at the base of the neck. Ending in two knobs at the tips of the shoulders. The hands doing the exploring were slender, bony. Bitten nails.
The door shutting behind her was what brought him back. Empty house, dad away on business. Older brother getting himself a college education somewhere far away.
He grabbed a towel from the rack, dried off. A palm rubbed across his cheek told him he didn't need to shave.
Logan emerged from the bathroom still barefoot, but fully dressed otherwise. Black turtleneck under a baggy old Ramones shirt, hiding a belt cinched to the second-last hole. His jeans hung loose on his tall frame, ratty at the bottoms from having been stepped on. He walked with his eyes down, head slightly back, pulling his chin down towards his neck. An ingenious trick that allowed his shoulder-length hair to hide the remarkably sharp edge of his jaw. Now it was instinctive for him, second nature. His mother wanted him to cut off the dirty-blonde mess, threatening to do it while he was sleeping. She said it made him look like a bum. He said it made him look like a rock star.
He locked his door at night anyway.
He clicked the heat up two degrees and padded down the carpeted stairs, through the living room. The kitchen was wide and airy, with big oak-and-glass cabinets and shiny brass taps. Remodeled every three years like clockwork. No expense was spared. It didn't have to be. Dr. Daddy made sure of that.
Breakfast was indeed on the table. Eggs, sunny-side up. Two of them. And toast, buttered, four halves. Diagonal cut. Orange juice. He grabbed a clean plate out of one cupboard on his way by.
He sat down at his spot at the table, facing the back of the house. The patio doors looked out on the pool, empty now for the winter.
He set the clean plate in front of him, pushing the full one away.
He took a test sip of juice. Sour, but cold with no pulp. A second sip.
He transferred one piece of toast onto the new plate. Two halves. He picked up the knife and fork.
Quarters.
Eighths.
Sixteenths.
He lifted one up to his mouth, forcing himself to chew, swallow.
There were two birds on the ground just outside the glass doors. Chickadees. The snow didn't seem to bother them. They hopped joyfully, leaving their tiny tracks, no pattern whatsoever to their madness. Logan watched them with his chin cupped in one hand, his elbow propped on the table. He pushed the bits of toast around on his plate, arranging and rearranging, a magic act.
His birds, without any warning, took to wing and disappeared.
He dropped the fork with a clatter, and turned around. The high-ceilinged house was quiet, the only sound was the subconscious hum of the ventilation, always present. Just the house breathing.
This was an exercise in futility. There was no one around to watch his one-man show.
He tipped the rest of the orange juice down the sink and scraped both plates into the garbage. No one would ever bother to look. He dumped the dishes into the sink and downed a glass of water.
He headed for the front closet, turning off the lights as he went. He stuffed his bare feet into his boots. His car keys jingled in the pocket as he pulled on his thick winter parka.
The car, a reliable Honda, started easily. The day was really not that cold, the snow was already beginning to glisten at the edges, melting in the early sun. The heat in the car was already set to the highest level. Logan cranked the fan as high as it would go and got out, slamming the door . He plodded back into the house, his boots too large without socks. He'd give it a few minutes to warm up.
***
More soon, xo.