Henry Goodsir (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
naturalmisery) wrote2020-05-16 12:12 pm
naturalmisery) wrote2020-05-16 12:12 pm
Entry tags:
[march]
The days following the arrival of William Gibson's remains in the lobby of his flat have progressed in something of a fog for Harry. While he hasn't gone away, so to speak, as he'd done on the day of the terrible discovery, he's still felt something of a disconnect with the world around him despite his attempts to engage. There is too much at stake now for him to simply stop participating in his own life.
He has a paper due in one of his courses, something he would very much like to receive a good grade for, but he's found himself unable to write a single word. In an attempt to perhaps jolt his mind into working with a change of scenery, he'd collected his books and his computer, then relocated from his flat to the courtyard between the buildings outside. There are places to sit here, benches and chairs, and he's spread his work across one of the tables and set himself down to properly get the paper written.
An hour has passed and he's managed only a page. Occasionally he'll flip through one of his open books, trying to find the information he's looking for, but before long he finds himself drawn back into himself. Into his memories. The ring he'd taken from Gibson's body has been on a chain looped around his neck, but he's taken it off now and is turning it over in his fingers, studying the flash of gold under the bright spring sunshine.
There's still blood on it. Mere flecks of it here and there. They would be easily washed away if he were to try, but he hasn't. Not yet. It seems appropriate to continue to punish himself in this way, something small and unnoticeable to most. Blood on a ring he was meant to return to London. The blood of a man whose body he took apart.
A sudden gust of wind rises, surprising Harry, and a few of his papers blow off the table. He looks up, frozen for a moment, then ends up rising from his seat, the ring still in his hand, and scrambling after the work before it gets too far away.
He has a paper due in one of his courses, something he would very much like to receive a good grade for, but he's found himself unable to write a single word. In an attempt to perhaps jolt his mind into working with a change of scenery, he'd collected his books and his computer, then relocated from his flat to the courtyard between the buildings outside. There are places to sit here, benches and chairs, and he's spread his work across one of the tables and set himself down to properly get the paper written.
An hour has passed and he's managed only a page. Occasionally he'll flip through one of his open books, trying to find the information he's looking for, but before long he finds himself drawn back into himself. Into his memories. The ring he'd taken from Gibson's body has been on a chain looped around his neck, but he's taken it off now and is turning it over in his fingers, studying the flash of gold under the bright spring sunshine.
There's still blood on it. Mere flecks of it here and there. They would be easily washed away if he were to try, but he hasn't. Not yet. It seems appropriate to continue to punish himself in this way, something small and unnoticeable to most. Blood on a ring he was meant to return to London. The blood of a man whose body he took apart.
A sudden gust of wind rises, surprising Harry, and a few of his papers blow off the table. He looks up, frozen for a moment, then ends up rising from his seat, the ring still in his hand, and scrambling after the work before it gets too far away.