This insomniac-troubled young lad cannot escape his nightmares; be it in daylight or under the carefully watching eye of the moon.
He lives on caffeine of drunkenly dancing to the sound of silence.
Will he be set free from this curse?
Faceclaim fo...
It was as though white noise was the normal in his head; it rung in his ears almost permanently, and, if given the chance, would grow louder and louder until it was an emphatic scream. This noise could not be slept to, though in some state of mind, that was an advantage for this boy; sleep was not a cordial aspect to Louis Valentines' life, but one that haunts him and is his own personal tyrant. He awakens with nothing but an everlasting trauma that is added to the collection of creatures of which visit him in his own head. Rest is not his ally and health is not his familiar. He lives on caffeine and dances in his room to the beat of silence; a boy who cannot sleep because sleep is an adversary, a hindrance to the health that lacks within his head.
He was not a night screamer, and there was no dramatic awakening where he jolts forward in a pool of sweat and bloodshot scleras in both eyes; no, a simple awakening of which he flutters his eyes open and desperately drags himself out of his sheets and to his record player. If the record plays smoothly, he is still dreaming and must desperately run back to his bed, however if it repeats and is broken, then he is in safety. A totem.
The needle gently was pressed into the record and the sweet sound of The Ink Spots echoed in his ears:
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"I've lost all ambition
for worldly acclaim
I just want to be the one you-
be the one you-
be the one you-
be the one you-"
"...love..."
He finished, his soft voice licking the tone of the original singer. A sigh of relief escaped his chapped lips and he hastily got dressed into a pair of black trousers and a grey, woollen jumper. Valentine took the books from his bedside table and began to walk out of his bedroom and down the creaky oaken stairs of the decrepit house. It was snowing today, the white blanket spread across the fields and hid the dying greenery beneath. He loved the snow, it made him feel alive.
He sat, his eyes squinted with his gloved hands resting on the frigid bench of which sat before the gate that led into the farms' cemetery. A plethora of mused headstones and chiselled statues before him.
What a bleak midwinter.
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