Past the Rain [Cyrille/Spike] Aug 11, 2014 19:58:14 GMT -5
Post by The Sidhe on Aug 11, 2014 19:58:14 GMT -5
An old stone bridge led the way into the little town of Milton, foundations laden with moss and supporting the way over a narrow river. Narrow streets were populated with the usual morning crowd. The shops were opening up for business with the owners giving friendly smiles to passersby, children leapt into puddles and splashed at each other laughing on their way to school, farmers moving with purpose through the small crowds trying to get feed and order restocks so they could return to their pastures as soon as possible. Grey clouds blew in overhead, blocking out the sun and threatening more rain for the already damp down.
White little buildings lined the streets, small alleyways allowing little in terms of space between them. Slanted roofs let residual rain water drip down from the second stories, hopefully onto the flower boxes in several of the second story windows than onto the people below. Simple structures, small stone stoops, little box windows. The clinic near the end of the street nearer to the woods was marked with an old looking sign, though it was now unreadable. It bore what looked like a picture of an old medicine jar and a depiction of a poultice painted on the worn hanging wood. Thankfully, there was also a clear sign beside the door.
Inside was a small and deserted waiting room, two wooden benches shoved against each side wall, the left of which kept the area closed. The white curtains were drawn over the two front windows. Given the size of both the town and the building, there was only a small writing desk which was currently attended by a young blond man, the clinic’s only nurse. He was busy punching patient information into a laptop, connected to a land line between the filing cabinets lining the wall behind him.
There was a small hallway that led to the right past the front desk. Dark wood floors were a bit creaky with age and the low ceiling could be called claustrophobic if not for the lights that kept the space well lit. Along the left were two open entryways, wide enough to fit a stretched or rolling bed through. Blair resided in the first.
The room was immaculate, but then it was a clinic. The white tiles on the floor shone and the wooden panels making up the walls were dulled and dark with age but still managed to shine. Nine small hospital beds that looked more like cots lined each wall. Three to the left, three to the right, three against the far wall with one under each square window the room possessed. Each was separated by a rolling divider with an opaque white sheet stretched across the opening for some semblance of privacy. The cold light let in from the dreary weather outside gave the room a cold feeling. To the left, there was an older man with a cane speaking softly with the town doctor, a rather round man in his early thirties.
At the back wall stuck right in the middle was Blair.
The eight year old was tucked tightly beneath the white sheets up to his waist so that he could still sit up. He had shoved the dingy looking pink blanket to the foot of the bed, deeming it too warm for it to be necessary. He wore his own pajamas since the clinic was too small to have any proper hospital attire for him. Blair was pale normally, but following the incident he now appeared almost on death’s door despite being anything but. He hadn’t slept much, eyes resembling the dark hue of the loch appearing slightly sunken with the deep circles under his eyes. Short, black hair looked a mess, like he’d just woken up and hadn’t cared to brush his hair yet. His gaze was set on the notepad in his lap, left hand scribbling away at the sketches he felt he needed to show the team. His right arm was hidden beneath the sheets at his side.
Blair stared sullenly at the images he sketched slowly on the page. He’d been at it since early in the morning. Sleep eluded him and on the off chance it drew near, he chased it away. He didn’t want to sleep. He saw Tam in his sleep. Sometimes he would be standing in the shallows waving to him. Sometimes he would be floating dead in the water. Other times Blair would see his last image of him, beneath the cold depths growing further and further away from him, holding his breath and unable to even reach for him.
The lead of the pencil snapped and Blair clicked the end viciously to reload it, lips diving into a grimace that hardened his features more than should have been impossible for a child. He sharpened the eye sockets, added more definition to the hollow cheeks, lightly added the final wisps of hair. The image of the real thing was fresh in his memory. The awful noise rang in his ears and Blair shut his eyes tight, eyes suddenly burning. Don’t cry. You can cry after they kill it, but not a moment sooner, it wouldn’t be right and Tam would laugh. He shut the notepad with more force than was necessary, shoving it along with the pencil to the side. He bit down on his lip hard enough that he drew blood from the corner of his mouth, lowering his head into his left hand.
Blair would have made a fist with his right if it were still there.