A Life, Unforgotten

A Shattering Realisation

A soft inhale as he shelved the books, exhaling as he lifted another one. A rhythm that gave him level, even breaths despite the bitter blackness that was starting to touch his heart. A curse, it felt like, and a thousand-ton weight. He was silent, hadn't spoken much since the breakdown he had, hadn't made a sound since wings swept up the mess in his study, though he still blocks the memory of grinding that photo frame beneath his foot. The glass hadn't broken skin but rather, tore through the photo and carved arced grooves into the wood flooring before he'd moved away and wings dipped to brush that up with the rest of the mess.

He hated what happened, only could blame himself for something that didn't make sense like this, it just was what he was used to. Something is wrong and it has to be his fault if he can't find any other explanation.

He blinked as he felt himself attempt to shelve a book where there was no shelf, brows knitting softly before he tilted his head. A note of his shelving before he flipped the book over in his hands to eye the cover. He didn't recognise it and, for a moment, an instant, he saw its scrawl on the cover. And for a moment he could only feel the spark of anger and hurt, a sharp inhale being the first interruption in his level breaths since the incident. In a heartbeat, electric webs burned into the warm violet of the book, black lines like bare branches of a dead tree. The smell of burned pages caught his better attention, moving swiftly to drop the book back onto the cart, taking a step back.

Breathe, he just needs to breathe, the slight panic in his chest had disrupted his focus. He can't do that when he's like this, he knows this. It's not a good idea to express the emotion in him. A frozen glance outside the shop window and he could see grey storm clouds gathering, causing him to hiss between his teeth and close his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms.

In.

        Out.

He knows he can get past this if he just tries. But part of him is too bitter to try to move past it. Because what's so wrong with him that a demon that lost his wings could decide to ditch him? Was it jealousy? Or was it contempt? He didn't know and despite everything, the lack of knowing just made him more furious.

And a lot more hurt.

A crack of thunder outside had him come back from his thoughts this time, that anger being muted by his alarm - he can't let his abilities run wild. He's been afraid to as long as he could remembered, the potential of having electricity as an affinity is a nightmare same as ice or fire, it's dangerous. And, looking back, it's been the cause of a lot of hell. He's still kinda scared of thunderstorms because of it. He just picked up the slightly burned book to play his fingers over the cover, it was an old favourite. Flowers For Algernon. He remembers the story too well, and the scorch marks were still giving soft wisps of smoke that he let his eyes follow. Like the steam that comes off wet, hot pavement, dry only from the heat of flames.

Come... come to think of it, he can, remember there was a storm during the accident that killed him. Was that his doing? Was it little Dana's fault? The thought had his stomach churn and drop the smoking book in his hand, only to bring it to his hand to his mouth as if stifling a sob. But there were no tears. No, instead it felt like a hollowness in his gut, and a nausea rolled in his stomach. Did he cause that?

He couldn't bear to think of it, taking a trembling breath and curling his arms around his stomach, backing away from the book and, trying to back away from the idea and the encroaching memory. This was something he didn't want to remember.

But as he closed his eyes he saw it, felt it, the fires that crawled along his gasoline-soaked back, felt his hair clinging to his face. He could feel the pain and the cold and hot that mixed in the worst way possible, only just able to focus on his surroundings to fumble for the counter he knew should be a step behind him. Instead of his hand finding it, his back did, and he gave a gasp of both surprise and pain, whirling around only to stumble and stagger.

Falling on his ass was not what he wanted, a mess of feathers and limbs, the pain of that just had him whine, but it wasn't bad as the pain that he felt ignite on his back. It's been four years. Four years and it still seared every nerve, still had his posture curve just slightly to the right so it wouldn't pull so painfully at the skin.

The memory consumed him, tears rising and falling so switfly he didn't comprehend they existed until he couldn't see, and by then he had buried his face in his hands and curled those wings around himself, giving those painful sobs. He has to ground himself but he doesn't know how, nobody is around to help and all he can seehearfeelsmell is the accident, the pain, everything reeked of burning skin and gasoline and blood.

The storm rolled, louder and louder cracks of thunder stirring outside and only making things worse until it was a practical maelstrom. A storm of pain brought only by himself. And a cry for help. Even though he knew it wouldn't come. Not for a long while.