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Oh I wish, I wish I was a fish...
Who is he?
Who was she?
"Should be bothered, but not."
His hands are stuffed tightly in his pockets, the dark coat rustling behind him as he walks towards the fish market downtown. It's Wednesday; they get fresh fish on Wednesday, and throw out the old fish on Wednesday. He's hoping for a good bite to eat from the bin out back, but he can't be sure if there will be anything left over.
There's a rustle (not him) across his path, and he knows the wind is cold.
"Not bothered," he mumbles. "Should be, but not. Not like me. Not like them."
But he doesn't feel cold. Stiff, but not cold.
Doesn't matter. Have to hide your wings. Nobody can know.
Don't want them to know you're a freak?
He hears the sharp bark of a dog from ahead on the path; the creature is pulling eagerly at its leash in an effort to break free of its owner's grasp. He keeps walking.
When he passes the dog, it quiets, suddenly.
(Then snarls.)
Hard to hide it from them.
He keeps walking. It is four and a half blocks further to the fish shop.
The owner emerges from the back door as Skellig is rifling through a box he's pulled from the rubbish container, and both men share a startled glance when they realize that they're not alone in the alley.
Neither of them say anything.
(Skellig removes his hands from the box, automatically wiping his dirtied fingers on his coat as he steps back. He will go. There is no need for trouble; no need to call the police. He will not bother the fish shop.)
"Wait--"
The owner holds up a hand and the look on his face is something that Skellig is not used to seeing.
Not angry.
So he waits.
It takes only a moment for the man to return, and he's holding a brown paper sack, which he hands over to Skellig. It doesn't weigh much, but the smell (faint, not sour, fresh) confirms what it holds without having to glance in at the contents.
Skellig bows his thanks just a little dizzy but getting better and then shuffles on down the alley, intending on heading back to the park.
He has some change in his pocket that he fumbles with while trying to buy a cup of soda from a hot-dog vendor he passes on the way, his fingers stiff need some brown to wash it down, and maybe a few pills to fight off Arthur but he's not cold.
It takes him much too long to get the correct amount, but he manages, and then stiffly moves on down the sidewalk with his cup and his paper bag.
He's crossing the street when someone turns in front of him, blaring their horn angrily.
He jumps (doesn't spill) backwards with an unnatural sort of hop, but his balance wavers on the concrete as his head spins. He glances up at the light. Green?
No.
Red.
(He doesn't remember not looking at the signal.)
What else don't you remember? Who is he?
He sits on the same bench as the day before, ignoring the ache in his joints (used to it) and the prickle of light at the edges of his vision. It has been a long day.
The park is empty.
He eats his fish and drinks his soda.
And watches the empty swing-set. It does not move.
"Doesn't bother."
(But it should.)
There's an ache in his wrist and arm, a tingling, but he ignores it, too. Blame Arthur. Things will be better tomorrow. He has fish. Things are okay.
Who is he?
Who was she?
"Should be bothered, but not."
His hands are stuffed tightly in his pockets, the dark coat rustling behind him as he walks towards the fish market downtown. It's Wednesday; they get fresh fish on Wednesday, and throw out the old fish on Wednesday. He's hoping for a good bite to eat from the bin out back, but he can't be sure if there will be anything left over.
There's a rustle (not him) across his path, and he knows the wind is cold.
"Not bothered," he mumbles. "Should be, but not. Not like me. Not like them."
(What's that guy's problem?)
But he doesn't feel cold. Stiff, but not cold.
Don't want them to know you're a freak?
He hears the sharp bark of a dog from ahead on the path; the creature is pulling eagerly at its leash in an effort to break free of its owner's grasp. He keeps walking.
When he passes the dog, it quiets, suddenly.
(Then snarls.)
Hard to hide it from them.
He keeps walking. It is four and a half blocks further to the fish shop.
(It is still Wednesday.)
The owner emerges from the back door as Skellig is rifling through a box he's pulled from the rubbish container, and both men share a startled glance when they realize that they're not alone in the alley.
Neither of them say anything.
(Skellig removes his hands from the box, automatically wiping his dirtied fingers on his coat as he steps back. He will go. There is no need for trouble; no need to call the police. He will not bother the fish shop.)
"Wait--"
The owner holds up a hand and the look on his face is something that Skellig is not used to seeing.
Not angry.
So he waits.
Oh I wish, I wish I was a fish...
It takes only a moment for the man to return, and he's holding a brown paper sack, which he hands over to Skellig. It doesn't weigh much, but the smell (faint, not sour, fresh) confirms what it holds without having to glance in at the contents.
Skellig bows his thanks just a little dizzy but getting better and then shuffles on down the alley, intending on heading back to the park.
He has some change in his pocket that he fumbles with while trying to buy a cup of soda from a hot-dog vendor he passes on the way, his fingers stiff need some brown to wash it down, and maybe a few pills to fight off Arthur but he's not cold.
It takes him much too long to get the correct amount, but he manages, and then stiffly moves on down the sidewalk with his cup and his paper bag.
He's crossing the street when someone turns in front of him, blaring their horn angrily.
He jumps (doesn't spill) backwards with an unnatural sort of hop, but his balance wavers on the concrete as his head spins. He glances up at the light. Green?
No.
Red.
(He doesn't remember not looking at the signal.)
What else don't you remember? Who is he?
He sits on the same bench as the day before, ignoring the ache in his joints (used to it) and the prickle of light at the edges of his vision. It has been a long day.
The park is empty.
He eats his fish and drinks his soda.
wish I was a fish
And watches the empty swing-set. It does not move.
"Doesn't bother."
(But it should.)
There's an ache in his wrist and arm, a tingling, but he ignores it, too. Blame Arthur. Things will be better tomorrow. He has fish. Things are okay.