Tommy had come to know the brunette well over the years they were friends. Wilbur did not have the same issue, and therefore the teasing that continued for years. He had come across enough hoarders in his time to regret that name. He was such a fool to pick that last name. Tommy called bullshit on the name but figured he would make one for himself. He had stay beside the fellow for over two months before they fully got acquainted. Tommy had vowed to leave when he had the opportunity, a lie in the present.
It was understandable, the weight, Tommy was just one of the lucky few who got fresh food somehow. He had stayed the night and woken to find someone had been staying here before him.Ī tall brunette, lanky and underweight. Almost cylinder-shaped, two-story building. The day of his supposed fourteenth birthday he had taken refuge in a small building. Unfortunately, he had lost his parents that day, and raised himself until he couldn’t. Tommy was eight when the first bombs went off, powerplants going down with it. The bird looked at him expectantly and the man smiled softly. Carefully tying a red ribbon into the hole and around the bird he sighed, paler than earlier and definitely weakened. He punched a hole through the corner with a knife he had nearby. His hands shook as he tried to close it and he let out a frustrated sigh as it finally shut. An envelope was violated as the letter was squished through roughly, bending and threatening to rip the paper edges of the envelope. He exhaled wheezily and folded the letter shakily. He lifted a hand to the bird stroking its back softly. Taking in everything as if it were an intelligent creature with complex thoughts. A bird, crow possibly, landed on the windowsill. Instead his eyes were grave, dimming how bright those amber rings shone. Bright and hopeful, yet all the hope was gone. His eyes a bright amber in the moonlight. He stopped for a moment, paused, thought, and proceeded to write. The ink mixed the blood, seemingly tainting the letter. Blood splattered onto another part of the letter. He spluttered again, his hands jittering with ferocity. The water at the bottom missing, perhaps why they were not looking so good. His eyes reflected emotion, something further into the situation.Ī vase of Anemone flowers. But who was the recipient? That boy? Or someone else? It didn’t seem to matter, he continued to write regardless of the recipient. A few words were decipherable but meant nothing. Blood splattered onto the paper and the man wiped his mouth distastefully. But his lungs couldn’t handle the lack of exported air. It was understandable as it was late in the night, he wouldn’t want to wake the boy asleep on the mattress. The words were incomprehensible, rushed, and sloppy. A long black feather accompanied it, crafted gently to the utensil. A utensil that appeared to be a stick, but it gave him the ability to write. Hands shook, heart pulsed, eyes strained.
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