Darian (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} sinister_darian) wrote,@ 2009-07-19 01:18:00 |
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Life (Darian's Epilogue)
February 14, 2015
4 a.m.
The bathroom fixture is a spotlight, drilling through his eyes into the back of his skull. He squints and shields his face while he opens the cabinet and gropes for a bottle of high-powered headache medicine, which he never used to take. Oh, but he does now, by the handful. Among the many talents of Darian and Bethany's offspring is the ability to scream like a tuneless Luciano Pavarotti.
He tosses white capsules in his mouth and swallows them dry. Then he cups his palm under the faucet and drinks some tapwater, because the kitchen, with its glasses and mineral water, is too far away. He splashes some on his face, too, in an attempt to wake himself up. The baby monitor flashes with each hiccup and whine, which will become a full-scale aural assault in minutes, so he needs to get his bearings, along with the orange earplugs that he keeps in a plastic case on the sink.
Darian raises his eyes to the mirror. He hardly recognizes this sleepless man in boxer shorts, who hasn't shaved in three days, whose arms are used for lifting a child and unfolding a playpen and hauling a stroller. The months since the portal erupted have changed him, as they've changed the blonde still asleep in his bed. While Bethany's stomach grew round and taut, his muscles went softer. If he looks very closely, he can spot a single silver hair in the mess of brown. It's because of the wish, an unspoken request to age along with his mortal partner.
He rubs a hand over his face and flips off the light switch, finding his way to the nursery in the dark. In the crib, a two-week-old infant waits, kicking its legs inside footy pajamas with barnyard animals on them, which were received at a shower (i.e. cocktail party) held for Bethany, and not a purchase either of its parents made. Darian puts his hands on the railing of the crib. "Hello to you, too."
After a minute, he cranks up a lullaby on the mobile and picks up his child. All eight pounds of it nestle into the crook of his arm. "Do me a favor and let her sleep, alright?" From a microfridge, he takes a prepared bottle, shakes it up, and sets it in a bottle warmer. Then he sits on a chair in the corner and stretches out his legs. "It's Valentine's Day."
February 14, 2015
4 a.m.
The bathroom fixture is a spotlight, drilling through his eyes into the back of his skull. He squints and shields his face while he opens the cabinet and gropes for a bottle of high-powered headache medicine, which he never used to take. Oh, but he does now, by the handful. Among the many talents of Darian and Bethany's offspring is the ability to scream like a tuneless Luciano Pavarotti.
He tosses white capsules in his mouth and swallows them dry. Then he cups his palm under the faucet and drinks some tapwater, because the kitchen, with its glasses and mineral water, is too far away. He splashes some on his face, too, in an attempt to wake himself up. The baby monitor flashes with each hiccup and whine, which will become a full-scale aural assault in minutes, so he needs to get his bearings, along with the orange earplugs that he keeps in a plastic case on the sink.
Darian raises his eyes to the mirror. He hardly recognizes this sleepless man in boxer shorts, who hasn't shaved in three days, whose arms are used for lifting a child and unfolding a playpen and hauling a stroller. The months since the portal erupted have changed him, as they've changed the blonde still asleep in his bed. While Bethany's stomach grew round and taut, his muscles went softer. If he looks very closely, he can spot a single silver hair in the mess of brown. It's because of the wish, an unspoken request to age along with his mortal partner.
He rubs a hand over his face and flips off the light switch, finding his way to the nursery in the dark. In the crib, a two-week-old infant waits, kicking its legs inside footy pajamas with barnyard animals on them, which were received at a shower (i.e. cocktail party) held for Bethany, and not a purchase either of its parents made. Darian puts his hands on the railing of the crib. "Hello to you, too."
After a minute, he cranks up a lullaby on the mobile and picks up his child. All eight pounds of it nestle into the crook of his arm. "Do me a favor and let her sleep, alright?" From a microfridge, he takes a prepared bottle, shakes it up, and sets it in a bottle warmer. Then he sits on a chair in the corner and stretches out his legs. "It's Valentine's Day."