GUNS and POETRY

stray

01 | stray

He wakes up alone.

The smell of smoke still lingers in his mind as he breathes into the new air. It's cold, he realizes as his fingertips reach out for the barest sense of warmth or comfort that might be available. They grasp onto something coarse- cotton, he is sure, and pull onto it, covering himself in the hope of a prolonged rest. The sound of a fan creaks overhead, and even through his closed lids, he can taste the hue of the sunlight as it dances in the confinement of his memories.

His attempt to escape vitality falls short in the face that had planted itself. Her face- drawn in an artist's unsymmetrical hand. His memory of her is too strong, too tangible for him to hide away. The sound of her laugh, the heat of her skin as his hand wrapped around her in silence. The indenture of her words on his mind. He can almost taste her lips at the tip of his tongue- a flavor so raw and poignant that he cannot escape from. He doesn't want to.

But her memories are also what make him realize they are what they are: memories.

He wakes up alone.

The last vestiges of his thought come up short when he realizes the absence. He's missing... something. The cotton in his hand twists nervously under the closure of his fist for a moment. Something. Everything. The closure unveils and he bolts up as panic claws in his chest, his fingers vacant and lost.

His eyes open to a solid gray wall.

Who am I? He wonders, staring at the gray wall that stood protectively in front of his eyes. Who am I? Where am I?

The room is small. A gray cube. Solid. Impenetrable. Wooden furniture dots the floor- a desk, a chair, a cupboard and the bed he is on. Together with bleary curtains they greet him, all determined to keep the world out of his reach. How could he have known the sun back then, in his dream? Was it the dream itself? The blades of the fan keep up their rhythmic creaking, unknown to the new mysteries that awoke in him.

He looks around the room again, cold fear and dread sweeping into his lungs, making it harder to breathe. Where am I? How long have I been here?

Who am I?

The silence is his only answer.

Frustrated, he kicks the blanket away from himself. It falls on the floor softly. Swinging his body to the side, he flinches when his feet nudge over something on the floor. A wooden shoebox waiting for him.

He hesitates at the sight. He is desperate for answers, and this might be the only thing that might offer something for the confusion that rattles him. Slowly, he reaches for it, feeling the smoothness of the wooden board that lightly pricks his skin. It doesn't have any name or address. Whoever left this here must have known he was here. He takes a deep breath before he pulls off the top.

Three things greet his vision: a letter, a gun, and a ring.

He stares, unable to comprehend; fear intertwining with curiosity. The latter eventually wins out, and with trembling hands, he picks up the ring, turning it between his fingers. A simple band of platinum, bereft of any engravings. Whom does it belong to? He shakes his head, dropping the object right where he found it.

He doesn't dare to pick up the gun.

The letter does not have any name nor an address. It seems like there was no doubt of anyone else finding it at all. They were all meant for him.

He expects an explanation, an answer. A requisition, or maybe even an apology. Instead, he is greeted with the lines of a poem that pricks his memory- bleeding acquaintance tinged with heartache.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.

You both leave the same impression

Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

He has heard them before. Read them. The lines of some obscure poem the girl in his dream whispered to him. So it wasn't really a dream, he realizes with an aching breath. It was real, or at least a part of it had been real. The girl was real. And maybe, even his fear.

He cannot decide if he should be happy or terrified still.

It takes everything to look down and read the words that dotted the page towards the edge. The script was rushed, an unmannered hand in a sparse clock that almost gives him a sense of déjà-vu, a sense of belonging in a strange world

It doesn't matter where you began, or how you ended up where you are. Keep going. Don't look back. Never look back.

I'll always be right next to you.

~

a/n

AAAHHHH its been so long since I've been here. This story is something I've been planning to for quite a while now (if you ever followed me on Twitter you must know :)) and now it's here.

Hope you all like reading it :) Please VOTE and COMMENT. It'll all mean so much <3