3 Jul 2021, 17:50
Out Of The Fire
[font=times new roman]DATE ..15/07/2021 .. TIME ..DAWN.. OUTFIT ..X ..
TAGS ..-- [/font]
[font=times new roman]Foreign.
A word that had become familiar on his tongue, though it felt jagged rising from his throat like a painful truth. Try as he might, Lamont could not swallow his words back down, as they had already left his lips and rose into the empty air, falling on the deaf ears of the paintings that hung on the walls. His fingertips glanced one of the many walls of the manor, thin scarlet wallpaper beneath his touch in the absence of the familiar cobblestone of Hogwarts. If he listened closely enough, the ghosts of pleasant memories would echo laughter in the hallway, always just out of his outstretched reach. There were times that these memories teased, blinding him from reality with rose-coloured glasses so that he could once more see their lingering ghosts. He would trip as he tried to join in their delight, watching as the tinted glass fell away from his eyes and shattered as it hit the ground. He would in vain try to gather up the remnants, splinters digging beneath his skin as painful reminders that although the memory passed, the sting would remain no matter how many times he tried to wash it away. He longed for Midas' touch so that he could turn them to gold and chase away the creeping sadness that threatened to tarnish his precious memories.
But he was no Greek mythological king, just a boy who desired nothing more to bask in the fleeting glow of happiness. And so here he was, sneaking about the manor under a cloak of shadows as dusk was slowly chased away by the rising sun. Although the sky was beginning to shed its star-sequined midnight dress for the crimson hues of dawn, the sun would not rise for another hour or so. Every second was precious to Lamont, who sought to escape the manor without alerting his uncle of his disappearance. Evander's grip was as iron as the fence that encircled the manor's property, though it began to rust as time marched on. He could not escape his gilded cage forever, but he longed to stretch his wings and feel the wind lift his spirit up. The chains holding him to the manor had been forged in grief and spite, only able to be sundered by a sword of truth that would not fall into his hands for years.
Lamont's shadow crept close behind him as the boy pressed on, the old wooden flooring creaking underneath his step. In his alert state, every sound seemed to echo off the walls, taunting him by threatening to reveal his escape. The stairs were perhaps the most daunting part of his journey as he squinted in the darkness to see the step below. The railing groaned as Lamont leaned against it with every feeble descending step he took. Once on flat ground again, the boy was able to quicken his pace to a cautious stride.
Clack!
Lamont froze in his steps, hearing his freedom shatter as the sound of a glass bottle knocked against the stone floor. He was expecting to face his uncle when he turned around, but all he found was emptiness in his wake. Was his mind playing yet another cruel trick to taunt his cowardice? He had half a mind to slink back up the stairs, but his feet stood as still as though concrete had been poured over the top of them. A few minutes passed and he finally gathered the strength to take another laboured step. Through the hallway, Lamont was able to peer into the living room which had a certain stillness of death to it. That is, until a stirring caught his eye. Stretched across the settee like a lazy feline, the sleeping figure was unceremoniously draped over such an elegant piece of furniture. The sound had come from a glass bottle slipping from his uncle's grasp, clattering to the floor amongst several like it. His nose crinkled in disgust at the scene before him, wondering how a man could let his pride drip away like the dark amber liquid that trickled down to the floor from the bottle's lip. Lamont looked away from the scene, ignoring the bitter bile that stung his throat as the strong stench of the liquid spirit drifted from the fibres of the carpet to his nose.
Now that his freedom was in sight, Lamont could not be careless. He scraped up whatever courage he had left from the bottom of his soul and marched on like a quiet soldier towards the doors of the manor. A gust of wind crept past the door as Lamont opened it just enough to slip past, chilling the boy though it was not nearly as cold as the dread he felt taking his first step outside. The stone steps outside of the manor were slick with morning dew, leading to a muddy path that almost made Lamont think twice about changing his trainers out for his wellies. He would not dare to return to his prison so soon, not when the taste of freedom had just touched his lips. With his bike tucked underneath his arm, the boy slipped past the wrought-iron gate like two ships in the night, quiet and without a glance behind. He soon sat upon the seat of his bike and began to pedal away, the manor growing smaller in his wake until it disappeared completely out of sight.
Lamont pedaled his way down the muddy path to a familiar village that seemed to be stuck in time since the day he parted ways from its streets. Most of the inhabitants were still sleeping soundly in their beds, allowing Lamont to ride alongside the street without fear of being caught up in a conversation where he would have to explain his early morning ride. He knew these streets like the back of his hand, the alleyways providing him a convenient cloak of darkness to ride under. He would not stop to brake until he was at the foot of a hill that was covered in viridescent grass that swayed in the gentle morning breeze. Dismounting the bike, Lamont let it tip to the side as he left it behind to summit the hill.
Once again, he felt like a foreign presence in what was supposed to be familiar to him. His feet were firmly planted where the doorway of his family's cottage would've welcomed him home. That is, if there was a home to return to. The ashes of the fire had long since disappeared, buried beneath lush green grass that hid any remnants of evidence that a cottage once stood here. Suddenly, Lamont felt an anger rise in him, burning as hot and destructive as the flames that tore his childhood apart. How dare the ground, that had seen the same tragedy as him and had been burned, flourish despite the trauma inflicted on it while Lamont soul was trapped in a barren wasteland of anguish and loss. How dare its lush growth mock him while he knelt upon it, burning tears leaving tracks of salt behind them as they rolled across his cheeks. He let out an anguished cry, digging his nails into the dirt and pulling up clumps of grass to reopen the wounds beneath so that he was not alone in his suffering. He only found faint scars beneath the destruction he dealt, having been healed for years while the wounds dealt to Lamont's soul were freshly weeping.
Anger gave way to loneliness as he came to the realisation that time had marched forward and healed all wounds but his. He tossed away the clumps of grass that he had torn from the ground, he could not inflict his pain on something that had already forgotten his existence. There was no home for him to return to, only buried remnants. The fire had burned all roots tying him to the village, he only wished he realised that the moment he decided to take a step outside the safe walls of the manor. Tears were brushed away by a dirty sleeve as Lamont stood to his feet, refusing to look back at the past that taunted him with a sick feeling of hope that he, too, could grow despite the damage that reached the very depths of his being. Back on the bike, Lamont rode as fast as he could away from the village that had once been familiar but had become as foreign as he felt there.
Back to the gilded cage where he would sing a sorrowful song and yet, make no move to escape though the opportunity was there.
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A word that had become familiar on his tongue, though it felt jagged rising from his throat like a painful truth. Try as he might, Lamont could not swallow his words back down, as they had already left his lips and rose into the empty air, falling on the deaf ears of the paintings that hung on the walls. His fingertips glanced one of the many walls of the manor, thin scarlet wallpaper beneath his touch in the absence of the familiar cobblestone of Hogwarts. If he listened closely enough, the ghosts of pleasant memories would echo laughter in the hallway, always just out of his outstretched reach. There were times that these memories teased, blinding him from reality with rose-coloured glasses so that he could once more see their lingering ghosts. He would trip as he tried to join in their delight, watching as the tinted glass fell away from his eyes and shattered as it hit the ground. He would in vain try to gather up the remnants, splinters digging beneath his skin as painful reminders that although the memory passed, the sting would remain no matter how many times he tried to wash it away. He longed for Midas' touch so that he could turn them to gold and chase away the creeping sadness that threatened to tarnish his precious memories.
But he was no Greek mythological king, just a boy who desired nothing more to bask in the fleeting glow of happiness. And so here he was, sneaking about the manor under a cloak of shadows as dusk was slowly chased away by the rising sun. Although the sky was beginning to shed its star-sequined midnight dress for the crimson hues of dawn, the sun would not rise for another hour or so. Every second was precious to Lamont, who sought to escape the manor without alerting his uncle of his disappearance. Evander's grip was as iron as the fence that encircled the manor's property, though it began to rust as time marched on. He could not escape his gilded cage forever, but he longed to stretch his wings and feel the wind lift his spirit up. The chains holding him to the manor had been forged in grief and spite, only able to be sundered by a sword of truth that would not fall into his hands for years.
Lamont's shadow crept close behind him as the boy pressed on, the old wooden flooring creaking underneath his step. In his alert state, every sound seemed to echo off the walls, taunting him by threatening to reveal his escape. The stairs were perhaps the most daunting part of his journey as he squinted in the darkness to see the step below. The railing groaned as Lamont leaned against it with every feeble descending step he took. Once on flat ground again, the boy was able to quicken his pace to a cautious stride.
Clack!
Lamont froze in his steps, hearing his freedom shatter as the sound of a glass bottle knocked against the stone floor. He was expecting to face his uncle when he turned around, but all he found was emptiness in his wake. Was his mind playing yet another cruel trick to taunt his cowardice? He had half a mind to slink back up the stairs, but his feet stood as still as though concrete had been poured over the top of them. A few minutes passed and he finally gathered the strength to take another laboured step. Through the hallway, Lamont was able to peer into the living room which had a certain stillness of death to it. That is, until a stirring caught his eye. Stretched across the settee like a lazy feline, the sleeping figure was unceremoniously draped over such an elegant piece of furniture. The sound had come from a glass bottle slipping from his uncle's grasp, clattering to the floor amongst several like it. His nose crinkled in disgust at the scene before him, wondering how a man could let his pride drip away like the dark amber liquid that trickled down to the floor from the bottle's lip. Lamont looked away from the scene, ignoring the bitter bile that stung his throat as the strong stench of the liquid spirit drifted from the fibres of the carpet to his nose.
Now that his freedom was in sight, Lamont could not be careless. He scraped up whatever courage he had left from the bottom of his soul and marched on like a quiet soldier towards the doors of the manor. A gust of wind crept past the door as Lamont opened it just enough to slip past, chilling the boy though it was not nearly as cold as the dread he felt taking his first step outside. The stone steps outside of the manor were slick with morning dew, leading to a muddy path that almost made Lamont think twice about changing his trainers out for his wellies. He would not dare to return to his prison so soon, not when the taste of freedom had just touched his lips. With his bike tucked underneath his arm, the boy slipped past the wrought-iron gate like two ships in the night, quiet and without a glance behind. He soon sat upon the seat of his bike and began to pedal away, the manor growing smaller in his wake until it disappeared completely out of sight.
Lamont pedaled his way down the muddy path to a familiar village that seemed to be stuck in time since the day he parted ways from its streets. Most of the inhabitants were still sleeping soundly in their beds, allowing Lamont to ride alongside the street without fear of being caught up in a conversation where he would have to explain his early morning ride. He knew these streets like the back of his hand, the alleyways providing him a convenient cloak of darkness to ride under. He would not stop to brake until he was at the foot of a hill that was covered in viridescent grass that swayed in the gentle morning breeze. Dismounting the bike, Lamont let it tip to the side as he left it behind to summit the hill.
Once again, he felt like a foreign presence in what was supposed to be familiar to him. His feet were firmly planted where the doorway of his family's cottage would've welcomed him home. That is, if there was a home to return to. The ashes of the fire had long since disappeared, buried beneath lush green grass that hid any remnants of evidence that a cottage once stood here. Suddenly, Lamont felt an anger rise in him, burning as hot and destructive as the flames that tore his childhood apart. How dare the ground, that had seen the same tragedy as him and had been burned, flourish despite the trauma inflicted on it while Lamont soul was trapped in a barren wasteland of anguish and loss. How dare its lush growth mock him while he knelt upon it, burning tears leaving tracks of salt behind them as they rolled across his cheeks. He let out an anguished cry, digging his nails into the dirt and pulling up clumps of grass to reopen the wounds beneath so that he was not alone in his suffering. He only found faint scars beneath the destruction he dealt, having been healed for years while the wounds dealt to Lamont's soul were freshly weeping.
Anger gave way to loneliness as he came to the realisation that time had marched forward and healed all wounds but his. He tossed away the clumps of grass that he had torn from the ground, he could not inflict his pain on something that had already forgotten his existence. There was no home for him to return to, only buried remnants. The fire had burned all roots tying him to the village, he only wished he realised that the moment he decided to take a step outside the safe walls of the manor. Tears were brushed away by a dirty sleeve as Lamont stood to his feet, refusing to look back at the past that taunted him with a sick feeling of hope that he, too, could grow despite the damage that reached the very depths of his being. Back on the bike, Lamont rode as fast as he could away from the village that had once been familiar but had become as foreign as he felt there.
Back to the gilded cage where he would sing a sorrowful song and yet, make no move to escape though the opportunity was there.
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