It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]

It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

[Open as discussed]

Comments

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I was just going to the end of this and then it opens out again..." and I think I see him shifting aside as I advance.

"Oh, well, alright then," I say mildly as we make our way down the alley. He sounds young, and I am not hearing any indication of respiratory distress, but I cannot quite see, damn it. I am disinclined to put a great deal of effort towards someone who might have Addison's or something similarly inconvenient, and so we are nearly at teh opening to the street before I speak again.

"Pardon me," I say, frowning through the dim light--even with the clouds clearing the moonlight is still hardly a match for civilized lighting. Still, something of his face seems familiar in a way I cannot place, and rather suited to the alley, which makes very little sense. "But have we met?"

[damien-dw.livejournal.com]

Oh, well, alright then, my unknown companion says and we walk down the alley. Neither of us say anything until we reach the end. I am about to step into street when he speaks.

Pardon me, He says very politely, and I turn back to face him, But have we met?

"Before, you mean?" I answer, shaking my head. I can sort of see his face and while I might have seen him before I can't say that I recognize him. "I don't think so." I shift from one foot to the other and lick my lips, uncomfortable with standing here in this alley talking. A memory rises up. I think I dreamed something bad in an alley.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"Before, you mean? I don't think so," he says, licking his lips--

Oh.

"Of course," I say pleasantly. I do not hear anyone approaching, and while I do not care to place too much importance on the odd similarities between this and some vaguely-remembered dream, I am certainly feeling suddenly hopeful. "Here, if I could just get past--" and I set one hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

I move my grip from his shoulder to his hair, and slam his head into the wall.

[damien-dw.livejournal.com]

Of course, he says and I am wondering what someone who talks so politely so formally, is doing down in this part of town. He puts one hand on my shoulder and I just manage not to flinch,Here, if I could just get past--Thank you.

The hand moves upwards and pain explodes in my head. Like an instant hangover. I roll my head and realize that something is in my hair and it hurts to move. Oh god, it hurts.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

This is always the most troublesome part of things, I find; even disposal afterwards is generally simpler, if only due to the fact that they can be reduced to smaller pieces by then. I knock his head into the wall once more, and take a moment to assess his state. He seems compliant.

It is late on a weeknight, and while the moon is full the sky is rather overcast. Blood does not show up particularly well in dark hair, and if we do run into anyone on my short trip home I hope I shall be able to pass it off as merely walking home a rather drunk friend gets hom. I hoist one of his arms around my shoulder and start down the street.

[damien-dw.livejournal.com]

More pain and then some one is holding me up and I am stumbling along with them. What happened? My head hurts and every step we take is like a spike driven inside my skull.

Where are we?

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

I do believe he is starting to stir. No matter. I can make out my house ahead of us (http://estdeus-innobis.livejournal.com/417627.html?view=10595675#t10595675); this should not take much longer.

"Come along," I say pleasantly enough. It is remarkable how often that works. "You've hit your head." I am rather relieved I will not, apparently, need to hit him again. It is not a common concern for me, insofar as any trauma does not interfere with the ability to endure, but I think I should like to ask him a few questions about where we may have seen each other before.