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Apr. 20th, 2020 12:07 am"Ventus" was at school again. Or whatever seemed to pass for it.
The screen in front of him was grainy and covered in what seemed like eons worth of dust and grease--something he knew from experience from the first time he'd tried to rub at it to get a clearer veiw and it had left a brown smear across his hand. One he couldn't get off for days, without any water to spare and nothing to resemble clean anywhere around him.
That's right. He thought, even as he gripped at this thin clothes he wore and drew his knees up to stare at the screen, to ignore the tinny hum of the speakers nearby. Something about rules, and traffic, and it was so unbearable spoken in a condescending cruel tone that Ventus had grown to hate that he found himself covering his ears. Everything here is unclean.
It wasn't enough that there wasn't any sun (but what was the sun anyway, if nobody believed in it), it wasn't that there wasn't enough space, that the kids at the shelter pushed and shoved or stared with dark eyes (or even worse, with nothing and that scared Ventus down to his core). It wasn't that he wasn't believed, or he couldn't even believe in himself anymore.
It was that he was so, damnably unclean. It got to him in the way nothing else could. He didn't know anything but he knew he couldn't have felt like this always--trapped with no way out, wanting to rip his own skin off just to...to what? Escape it?
He was beginning to realize his thoughts weren't making sense, which was so close to what the doctors had told him it made him grip his head tighter, rocking back and forth on the chair because that at least, he'd figured out, the people here allowed.
The screen in front of him was grainy and covered in what seemed like eons worth of dust and grease--something he knew from experience from the first time he'd tried to rub at it to get a clearer veiw and it had left a brown smear across his hand. One he couldn't get off for days, without any water to spare and nothing to resemble clean anywhere around him.
That's right. He thought, even as he gripped at this thin clothes he wore and drew his knees up to stare at the screen, to ignore the tinny hum of the speakers nearby. Something about rules, and traffic, and it was so unbearable spoken in a condescending cruel tone that Ventus had grown to hate that he found himself covering his ears. Everything here is unclean.
It wasn't enough that there wasn't any sun (but what was the sun anyway, if nobody believed in it), it wasn't that there wasn't enough space, that the kids at the shelter pushed and shoved or stared with dark eyes (or even worse, with nothing and that scared Ventus down to his core). It wasn't that he wasn't believed, or he couldn't even believe in himself anymore.
It was that he was so, damnably unclean. It got to him in the way nothing else could. He didn't know anything but he knew he couldn't have felt like this always--trapped with no way out, wanting to rip his own skin off just to...to what? Escape it?
He was beginning to realize his thoughts weren't making sense, which was so close to what the doctors had told him it made him grip his head tighter, rocking back and forth on the chair because that at least, he'd figured out, the people here allowed.
