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By the hands of the Gods, you have been plucked from your time and from your world, dropped into the box. Only the box is a world of its own.

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Complete And When I Reach The Other Side...

Discussion in 'Pandora Town' started by John Silver, Jul 10, 2018.

  1. John Silver

    John Silver Black Sails
    No one, from nowhere, belonging to nothing.

    Posts:
    984
    Gender:
    Male
    Race:
    Human
    Age:
    34
    Alignment:
    Chaotic Neutral
    Directory:
    link


    June 5th, Year 7


    Old habits die hard
    was a stupid saying.
    It was a justification for resisting change, an excuse to not move forward.
    But, sometimes, habits were more complex than something for someone to cling to.

    John stood in front of the tattoo parlor, fumbling with the cigarette between his fingers which he hadn't lit yet.
    The drawing was folded neatly in the pocket of his jacket, every line seeming to burn through the paper like a curse waiting to jump onto him. It didn't feel like salvation yet - but he knew, once the ink would be upon his skin, it would.
    He didn't know where the nervousness was coming from. This was a new beginning, not different from any other.
    Just... that it was different, wasn't it?
    He was attempting to find closure, this time. And it was a first for him. He felt lost, uncertain, unsteady where he stood. What was closure even supposed to feel like? He didn't know.
    Was this closure at all? Or was it escape once more?

    For a moment, John closed his eyes. He thought of summoning into consciousness the ghosts of his past, but the idea was dropped quickly - he wasn't one to converse with ghosts. There were too many of them.

    The cigarette was pushed back into its pack unsmoked as the former pirate crossed the road and pushed open the door to the familiar parlor.
    This was a new beginning. A step forward.
    Once the marks would be gone, he would have no chance to return to them anymore - and for the first time in his life, the thought sat almost uncomfortably beneath his skin. But that way he knew all the better that he had to pull it through.

    The red-haired artist greeted him with a smile and addressed him by name. He's only been here once before, but he had a feeling this woman knew all her customers by name.
    "What shall it be this time, sailor?"
    Her voice was clear and light, an odd spark seeming to make the color of her eyes appear ever-shifting.
    It was quiet in the parlor otherwise, the glass doors though seeming thin, yet keeping out all the outside noise successfully. Disturbingly so.
    But John found odd comfort in it, once more feeling reminded of a glass globe separating him from the reality around him.

    "A cover-up. I have scars that I wish gone."

    Unfolding the paper he's pulled from his pocket, he gently placed the drawing upon the counter, pushing it towards the woman whose name he oddly couldn't remember.
    The drawing was once more a memory, once more something of great meaning to him. A piece of the past - one he had no desire to bury any longer.
    It was a realism line-art sketch of a walrus on a partly-visible rock in water, its large head tilted back just enough to direct its heavy-eyed gaze towards the two swallows in the skies above.
    John had never quite calculated how many miles he's sailed, but he was certain he's earned himself two swallows at the very least.
    As for the walrus..... his crew had seen and changed so much of him, he had found friends in them, brothers, people who mattered. People who cared.
    He wanted something to remember them by.

    The artist's eyes traced his drawing thoughtfully. John thought to hear the quietest sound of a clock ticking away somewhere in the back - but once he turned to look for it, the sound was gone.
    Then, the woman nodded. Her red hair softly bouncing with the motion.
    "You have a steady hand, sailor. Take a seat."
    John thought to have caught a steady trace of approval in her voice, but it faded into the warmth of the walls in this place like a whisper never quite spoken aloud.

    For another moment he stood at the counter, looking at nothing in particular.
    Feeling like he was writing the end of an era when, really, it was merely the end of yet another fragment of himself.
    His steps took him slowly to one of the comfortable chairs, and as he shrugged out of his leather jacket to place it aside, the scarred track marks on his forearm didn't burn with the motion much longer, didn't produce the memory of a needle burying itself beneath skin so urgently.
    For once, they were quiet.

     
    GhostOfHalloweenPast likes this.