Night has fallen.
and fallen.
and fallen.
Darkness wails beyond the walls like a living thing. Time dissolves into a series of images: light glancing off the edge of a glass; blood staining the wood of the doorway; a hand tightening on the hilt of a knife. Nervous chatter, drunken laughter, the half-choked sobs of someone hidden in the crowd. For some reason, Seiji thinks this must be what war is like. Waiting in a bunker while the world ends outside. The concept is here in his head, but he does not think he has ever known war. Only this fairytale version of it, a version involving other people. Something he looks in on from the outside.
Even now, he feels a little as if he is watching himself from somewhere else. Despite the shaking in his hands, despite the frantic beat beat beat of his caged heart, he is strangely calm. He has moved toward the side of the room, his back against a wall, his pack beside him. He sits on the floor now, his legs folded up against his chest. He feels… better like this. There are not quite enough chairs to hold all the people in this building, anyway. Several feet to his left is a window, the curtains drawn, though he thinks he can feel cold air seeping in around the edges, anyway, the way cold air does when the night outside is cold beyond cold.
He is trying not to think about it. He is trying not to think about what happened the first time someone opened the door. Or who he recognizes in the crowd (who he would recognize, but cannot find). Instead, he holds a small knife in one hand and half a chestnut branch in the other. He hollows out the inside with short strokes, pausing every now and then to measure — two fingers pressed here, one there — before he returns to his work. It goes slowly because of the way his hands shake. But he is trying not to think about that. About how, despite their kindness, none of the people in Caido are yet friends. He trusts none of them to protect him from whatever is happening outside. They do not seem able even to protect themselves.
and fallen.
and fallen.
Darkness wails beyond the walls like a living thing. Time dissolves into a series of images: light glancing off the edge of a glass; blood staining the wood of the doorway; a hand tightening on the hilt of a knife. Nervous chatter, drunken laughter, the half-choked sobs of someone hidden in the crowd. For some reason, Seiji thinks this must be what war is like. Waiting in a bunker while the world ends outside. The concept is here in his head, but he does not think he has ever known war. Only this fairytale version of it, a version involving other people. Something he looks in on from the outside.
Even now, he feels a little as if he is watching himself from somewhere else. Despite the shaking in his hands, despite the frantic beat beat beat of his caged heart, he is strangely calm. He has moved toward the side of the room, his back against a wall, his pack beside him. He sits on the floor now, his legs folded up against his chest. He feels… better like this. There are not quite enough chairs to hold all the people in this building, anyway. Several feet to his left is a window, the curtains drawn, though he thinks he can feel cold air seeping in around the edges, anyway, the way cold air does when the night outside is cold beyond cold.
He is trying not to think about it. He is trying not to think about what happened the first time someone opened the door. Or who he recognizes in the crowd (who he would recognize, but cannot find). Instead, he holds a small knife in one hand and half a chestnut branch in the other. He hollows out the inside with short strokes, pausing every now and then to measure — two fingers pressed here, one there — before he returns to his work. It goes slowly because of the way his hands shake. But he is trying not to think about that. About how, despite their kindness, none of the people in Caido are yet friends. He trusts none of them to protect him from whatever is happening outside. They do not seem able even to protect themselves.
