The Land Left Behind

Gone (2)

It had been a long day. Devon's father had needed more from him than usual. He had already been tired, and the last thing he needed was to spend the entire day chasing his father's needs. Yet he did it anyway. It wasn't as if Devon hated doing it, because he didn't. Typically it was something to look forward to; as it broke the monotony of the days he spent sedentary in a nearly empty house.

Instead, he had spent today distracted and unable to concentrate. The saturated blue sky and pleasant weather had barely registered in Devon's brain. He was focused on perseverance; completing his task despite the pain.

But now, thank Dresna, he was home. Devon had done his fill and submitted his dues for the day, and he could finally let himself relax. His father was never home in the afternoon. The empty house suddenly felt less lonely and more like a much-needed break.

Devon climbed the stairs to his room, wincing as he pulled his aching legs up them. It was a kind of pain hard to place. Though it could have come from simple overexertion, it was like no muscle fatigue he had ever felt before. His limbs were being pricked with needles and stabbed with nails. It made them shudder. Yes, he needed more sleep.

If he slept more, none of these problems would have existed. Now he was facing the consequences. Unfortunately, Devon was not always great at learning from his mistakes. So he sacrificed his sleep; weren't other things more important? Other things took less effort. Sleeping was a deceptively difficult task.

He climbed one flight of stairs and found his lungs short of breath. Devon wanted to believe it was due to the fatigue, but it was harder to rationalize than weary arms or legs. The polished floorboards creaked underneath his feet. They seemed unusually harsh and loud as if the wood was crying out in pain. Soon he reached his bedroom; it was not far from the stairs' landing. He coughed, still feeling the effects of his taxing trip up them. Why had taken so much out of him?

This was atypical for Devon and had only started occurring within the past couple of weeks. It had grown progressively worse. He was sure it was only a matter of time, however, until his strange weariness vanished. Until then, Devon would keep going. Wasn't it better he continued to go about his daily life instead of letting himself slowly wither away? So he hadn't told his father. He hadn't told anyone, and so far he had managed to hide it, even if it wasn't really much of a feat.

Yet, Devon thought, eying his bed, the effort would mean next to nothing if his father returned home and found Devon napping like a child. Then again, simply sitting down and resting his feet couldn't hurt. He would stay for a minute or two and allow himself that much peace. Devon gently settled himself onto his bed and felt his body finally relax. Here it was him, his bed, and his room, safe inside a large but empty house. Surely his father wouldn't return so soon. He reached for his favorite novel, the one Devon was reading for the fifth or sixth time.

At some point, his gaze had relaxed and his fingers eased their hold on the book's cover. His breath had slowed to a comfortable pace while his head had lolled gently onto his shoulder. Devon slipped softly into sleep as a thin rock slid into a pond. A moment he had unwillingly craved and had finally been awarded before he knew to stop it.