Post by lathriel on Jul 1, 2010 15:39:13 GMT -5
Jason hadn’t been to Taki’s office for days… he had received a letter from his parents: Alexandra was dead. He had nothing left of a home now; all he had was here, a boarding school. He had choked back tears as he read the familiar icy tones in the letter. There was no sound of remorse, no grief, just impartial, cold fact. “Oh, and, son, by the by, Alexandra died last Sunday…”
How he loathed them. She was more family than they ever would be and now when he graduated all he had to look forward to was their boastful pride. There was no home after he left here, no family. Sobs began to wrack Jason’s tiny form just as they had all week. His sorrow had echoed through Jason‘s dorm and down hall. He didn’t even have the strength of will to take himself to class; it was absolute blasphemy. But what did he care? What was the point?
He fell from his bed and crawled miserably under it, groping for…
“‘Ere ya’ are!” Jason hiccupped as he cradled the foul smelling bottle to his chest. He tore the cork out with his teeth and spat it out, sending it bouncing across the floor. He placed the bottle to his mouth and tilted it until a fury of liquid flame clawed its way down his throat where it sat as burning nausea in the pit of his stomach. A hand appeared from the bed linens as Jason grasped for the cork eventually wiggling out spilling the amber liquor all over his shirt.
“D’mn ‘t.” Jason shoved the cork back in the bottle and began to slurp at his shirt before breaking out in wails again. How desperately he wanted Alexandra there to hold him—no one else had ever done that for him, only her. He pulled his quilt off his bed; Alexandra had made it from him. He buried his face to it, trying to remember her smell. The smell of whiskey burned up his nose instead of the soft musk that, to Jason, was motherly, comforting.
“Alexxxxxaaaaaaaaaaand—” Jason retched mid-sob all over the quilt. If there was anything left of his heart, winds had swept it away now. Too drunk to care, he hugged the vomit-soaked quilt to him, drowning in his own dolor. Why did she have to die?
“Stup’d whiskeeeey, I fought you’re s’posed to make ‘is betther.” He fell over, curling into a ball, shivering, covered in regurgitated whiskey, and all he could think of was her face. So much for trying to forget—he should have known this would never work.
How he loathed them. She was more family than they ever would be and now when he graduated all he had to look forward to was their boastful pride. There was no home after he left here, no family. Sobs began to wrack Jason’s tiny form just as they had all week. His sorrow had echoed through Jason‘s dorm and down hall. He didn’t even have the strength of will to take himself to class; it was absolute blasphemy. But what did he care? What was the point?
He fell from his bed and crawled miserably under it, groping for…
“‘Ere ya’ are!” Jason hiccupped as he cradled the foul smelling bottle to his chest. He tore the cork out with his teeth and spat it out, sending it bouncing across the floor. He placed the bottle to his mouth and tilted it until a fury of liquid flame clawed its way down his throat where it sat as burning nausea in the pit of his stomach. A hand appeared from the bed linens as Jason grasped for the cork eventually wiggling out spilling the amber liquor all over his shirt.
“D’mn ‘t.” Jason shoved the cork back in the bottle and began to slurp at his shirt before breaking out in wails again. How desperately he wanted Alexandra there to hold him—no one else had ever done that for him, only her. He pulled his quilt off his bed; Alexandra had made it from him. He buried his face to it, trying to remember her smell. The smell of whiskey burned up his nose instead of the soft musk that, to Jason, was motherly, comforting.
“Alexxxxxaaaaaaaaaaand—” Jason retched mid-sob all over the quilt. If there was anything left of his heart, winds had swept it away now. Too drunk to care, he hugged the vomit-soaked quilt to him, drowning in his own dolor. Why did she have to die?
“Stup’d whiskeeeey, I fought you’re s’posed to make ‘is betther.” He fell over, curling into a ball, shivering, covered in regurgitated whiskey, and all he could think of was her face. So much for trying to forget—he should have known this would never work.
