![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Not quite a full month in the strange city called Darrow, and Aimeric was finding that some days were better than others. Some days he woke with the sun, availing himself of the modern wonder known as a shower and dressing in clothes that were becoming gradually more familiar with wear. On those days he ventured outdoors, exploring the city's every inch bit by bit, asking questions where he could, gradually becoming familiar with the places where they would be readily answered. He continued to find himself somewhat regularly handing over his phone so someone could enter their number into it, telling him that he could call them with questions or if he just wanted to hang out, as the locals were so inclined to say. He hadn't gotten used to the excessive helpfulness, blushing, and occasional stammering that often preceded such an exchange. He knew what he looked like. He also knew how poorly his looks had served him, thus far.
The other days, the more frequent days, he did not venture out. He might get so far as to gaze out the window, but sometimes even that was more of an effort than he could manage. Sometimes he remained cocooned within his bedclothes, not eating, not counting the hours. He was constantly aware of how much stolen time had passed, days he'd spent alive when he should not have been, but those days, even the seconds were agonizing. He knew the solution. He did not own a sharp enough knife, which was a poor excuse. He knew how to break a window.
Today, he was outside, basking in the mid-morning sun as he walked through the park, his long black coat buttoned up against the chill. A few days after moving from the hospital to his rooms he'd discovered a little cafe nearby that sold the most delicious croissants, and he was eating one now, occasionally reaching into the little white bag with a gloved hand to tear off another piece. He was not so optimistic as to ever pronounce himself happy, but the thoughts that constantly plagued him seemed perhaps a little fainter as he paused to watch a squirrel run up a nearby tree.
The other days, the more frequent days, he did not venture out. He might get so far as to gaze out the window, but sometimes even that was more of an effort than he could manage. Sometimes he remained cocooned within his bedclothes, not eating, not counting the hours. He was constantly aware of how much stolen time had passed, days he'd spent alive when he should not have been, but those days, even the seconds were agonizing. He knew the solution. He did not own a sharp enough knife, which was a poor excuse. He knew how to break a window.
Today, he was outside, basking in the mid-morning sun as he walked through the park, his long black coat buttoned up against the chill. A few days after moving from the hospital to his rooms he'd discovered a little cafe nearby that sold the most delicious croissants, and he was eating one now, occasionally reaching into the little white bag with a gloved hand to tear off another piece. He was not so optimistic as to ever pronounce himself happy, but the thoughts that constantly plagued him seemed perhaps a little fainter as he paused to watch a squirrel run up a nearby tree.
