Hand of Glory -> insomniac's lullaby
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 insomniac's lullaby, coffeemate
grayson d. pierce
 Posted: May 17 2017, 05:42 PM

© pierce // Offline


standing in the corner, shadowed by the light to you i seem much smaller but i know it might be you how much better could I do to be myself, not someone else? i’m losing sleep. i live only for the week
He did not consider a waste of time - that would require him thinking it was a time at all. It was more of the torment of afterlife come early; maybe he died younger than he thought. A cruel punishment beyond the wall of the Ministry. Somewhere between medieval torture and Azkaban, far more creative, for those free and without actual reason for the former (or latter, he was unsure of which sounded better). Spending hours in the suffocation of purebloods was the most delicate of the afflictions. It was like purgatory. Suspended, because you couldn’t die here, no good, no definable bad, just grey areas that were more worse than better. A waste of time would require neutrality, boredom, all he felt was bitter amusement.

It was far worse, what they wanted to call this world (it wasn’t, they did nothing to deserve the title of another world). The highest of the realities he had been born into. Skulking around in the shadows, hiding behind a badge of good, in seedy underbellies, what with undesirable companions and even more undesirable actions - it was more of a world than this. More of a home. At least the trails and tribulations were obvious, the weapons of drawn-out pain visible. Where he felt the most comfortable, it was the black to this very place’s white. It felt like forever, being away from it, back here in these walls (walls, not world, never world), like he had really died and had been sentenced to even more purgatory. Somewhere between the liquor and pretending to be this date and that, he forgot why he was even here.

He could leave. Why shouldn’t he? Isla was gone. The fad of charming mothers (or fathers), grandmothers, he didn’t care anymore, was growing tired. He was sure he had been introduced as three dates, dangled as an engagement or two. Maybe he could get married. To someone on the outside of here, out of the puppet reach of this ridiculous fantasy. He was content alone. But as one of the few single pureblooded (tarnished or not, the title still remained) men remaining, with a job and everything, the allure was there. His smile remained amused, the same bitterness in his eye. Every fantasy had made the time pass tonight.

Instead, he continued to charm and dance and sit at their empty table and talk to the same bartender. He lost track of time. What time was it? Who was here? He had consumed far more whiskey than in months. Either out of boredom or because of everything else, he didn’t want to know. Loosening his tie, he idled near one of the closest bars, his only friend the bartender he forgot the name of. He waved, somewhere between stoic and flirtatious, to one girl or another who he remembered dancing and introductions of hours before. Somehow, work seemed appealing now. Moving to lean his elbow against the counter, tapping his foot to the magical songs, spinning his half-empty glass of scotch around, he simply searched. If he knew for what, maybe it would appear and answer every question he ever had.
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