( the graf ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dvoryanstvo) wrote2012-07-06 04:04 pm
dvoryanstvo) wrote2012-07-06 04:04 pm
( on loss )
To lose a friend is a terrible thing.
In that way, he thinks perhaps he has done these humans a service; this family in their fine house out of the way of things. The world changes - the house looked different, even before he lit it on fire, to the way it still looks in his memory - and people change, and go, and one is obliged to go on even so. One must inevitably part with the familiar. Usually violently, he finds.
It sounds violent in there, certainly. If they hadn’t been late, it’d have been better for them all around. As it is, it seemed … fitting, somehow, to do it this way. He can see their shadows through the downstairs window from where he’s sitting on the hood of the car, jerking against their bonds; admirably optimistic, but smoke inhalation will doubtless put paid to it before the fire does, that’s the true killer.
He pats himself down, absently, for the cigarette case in his coat’s interior pocket. Gucci, brown, neatly understated and single-breasted; the lining is ruined, of course, covering the blood on his suit in the event he needs to stop anywhere before he can change, but that’s why he’s not wearing the YSL. He’d really loathe having to part with that.
It’s just the heat from the fire that waters his eyes.
He waits until there’s only the sound of burning before he grinds the cigarette under his heel by the driver’s door, getting in and listening to the sound of the engine as he turns the key.
He’s smiling, as he leaves. It’s a fucking automatic.
In that way, he thinks perhaps he has done these humans a service; this family in their fine house out of the way of things. The world changes - the house looked different, even before he lit it on fire, to the way it still looks in his memory - and people change, and go, and one is obliged to go on even so. One must inevitably part with the familiar. Usually violently, he finds.
It sounds violent in there, certainly. If they hadn’t been late, it’d have been better for them all around. As it is, it seemed … fitting, somehow, to do it this way. He can see their shadows through the downstairs window from where he’s sitting on the hood of the car, jerking against their bonds; admirably optimistic, but smoke inhalation will doubtless put paid to it before the fire does, that’s the true killer.
He pats himself down, absently, for the cigarette case in his coat’s interior pocket. Gucci, brown, neatly understated and single-breasted; the lining is ruined, of course, covering the blood on his suit in the event he needs to stop anywhere before he can change, but that’s why he’s not wearing the YSL. He’d really loathe having to part with that.
It’s just the heat from the fire that waters his eyes.
He waits until there’s only the sound of burning before he grinds the cigarette under his heel by the driver’s door, getting in and listening to the sound of the engine as he turns the key.
He’s smiling, as he leaves. It’s a fucking automatic.