I kinda used to be free â
I kinda used to be bold â
I'm kinda missing me â
I'm kinda missing my soul.
It was always like this. He closed his eyes against the lights, to drive away the sight of hope that the sun still set like any other day stuck in a prison. The library was always quiet, but new arrivals always brought an influx of action in the dingiest parts of the hospital.
Slouched on the bumped out window seat with boots drawing dirt on the pristine panes of glass, Casey hadnât a care in the world, disregarding the plethora of mental issues still painting him as a monster. Wasnât the last part of grieving acceptance? Ah, whatever.
âBut Iâve had this chest pain.â Her voice sounded worried, too loud in Caseyâs ears even if she tried to whisper it to whoever was listening to the list of symptoms. Involuntarily his head tilted to the source of the noise, blue eyes still closed but turned towards them. It wasnât his conversation, but it was morbid curiosity. If allowed, the flashbacks to his residency would come back in full swing, the years heâd spent listening to people complain about sniffles and joint pain. Sheer willpower kept the reminiscing at bay, as it always did, and the blonde strained to hear the conversation further.
Some murmurs later he almost gave up on the eavesdropping, when she continued, still despair in her voice; âAround here, but like deeper.â He could almost chortle at that, but he cracked one eye open to see if he could glimpse what she meant. Blinking away the blurry vision he could see the two friends sitting by one table like good little new patients. Her hand hovered over her left side, over the chest. A clear reason to call a nurse to check it out. It wouldâve been his first instinct if he wasnât stubborn.
It wasnât his area of expertise, cardiology and all that. Big wow if heâd failed that class, or ever taken it. Did he? A frown appeared on his face. The memories of med school were blurry, everything before America had got like that.
She was leaning forward with evident intention, that much was clear. She shifted, but never backwards. Side to side, pulling her legs up so she sat on her tiptoes. It wasnât an alarming thing, Casey himself sat like that when he was anxious, but he was assuming, not connecting.
âNo, you donât get it, I donât want to tell the nurses! Theyâll say Iâm just imagining things because Iâm stressed!â
Her voice rose, and a coughing fit rang through the library. All the while she held her chest, a sign of painful spasms, maybe. From her chest to her neck, a radiating pain then. Now invested, he focused on the new patient. Maybe this was the thrill heâd needed, getting out the repressed doctor from his brain.
âTheyâll just give me something for this damn fever and tell to sleep it off.â Between coughs, she was barely audible. It sounded like just a cold, but heâd seen more than enough of those. Was it wishful thinking he would make some breakthrough by listening to complaints in a library? Something to remind him he wasnât a failure, that losing one patient wasnât his fault. It took more willpower to stop that train of thought, the brief stress enough to make the Aussie ball his fist, consider breaking another window, maybe a finger to distract from the spiral of self hate gathering on the horizon.
âI canât just sleep it off, it hurts to lie down, and I can barely breathe! I canât even sleep at night, and Iâm so tired.â
Pain, a cough, fever, shortness of breath, alleviated by sitting or leaning forward, fatigue. It didnât narrow it down much. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of diagnoses for those flu-like symptoms.
She was getting hysterical; the tears were almost audible in her tone, so Casey let out a sigh and pushed himself up and off his seat. The patients silenced when he approached, pretending to focus on their books about... Botany. Cute. Leisurely lounging by the table took only about five seconds before he reached his hand out, confusing the young girls even more.
âI ainât here to ask you for a bloody dance, gimme your arm, would ya?â There were more eloquent ways to ask for a pulse, and the stress of having a big, rugged thug ask for your arm wasnât a way to keep the pulse steady, but it was all he knew now. She was hesitant, obviously, the question of why on her lips before her friend interjected. âJust do it, Maya. Or does that hurt too?â Ouch, not good friends then. That assessment had been wrong. Her wrist was delicate, adorned with a telltale green wristband that promised Casey some more days in solitary if the guards ate their piss-soaked cereal that morning.
Her skin was clammy, sticky from the apparent fever she was sporting. Eyes on the clock, her pulse kept racing
like sheâd just witnessed her crush confess to her. It could be from his sudden appearance, but he could add it as a symptom, just for the extra challenge. As soon as his fingers left her pulse point, she yanked her hand back and curled in on herself. A shy one, which was unfortunate.
âSo, you always got your heartbeat up like that, or are you scared?â Pointed question, he assumed, but she shook her head.
âN-No, Iâm not scared. Itâs been doing that a lot.â
So, heart palpitations. Casey nodded and crouched down by the large wooden table, throwing his arms over it for support. Squinting into nothingness, the silence prevailed for a while longer before she peeped up again. When had his eyes closed? The insomnia had really taken a toll, apparently, but he slowly cracked his eyes open anyway. âUm,â she began, unsure, eyes darting around the room, âAre you a, uh, doctor?â
She barely had time to finish the sentence before Casey snorted, dismissive, maybe rude. She looked taken aback, apologetic almost, like a deer caught in headlights. If heâd get a penny for every time he caused that reaction, heâd have... Many pennies. At least six.
âNah, jusâ a guy who reads too much WebMD.â A half-truth is better than a lie, isnât that what Sophia had said? All those hours scouring through that very site, as a young hopeful med student hoping to make a mark on the world. What a mark that was.
âThen whyâ â
âRight, you got swollen legs lately? Stomach?â The questioning didnât head in a direction he could call comfortable; Medical questioning was easier, more routine, something calming about the puzzle it presented even if some called him too dumb to play with a stick. Sheâd nodded at some point, and Casey dipped his head under the table to check the situation himself. Skin-tight jeans werenât the best for that, but the compression might be what kept her standing.
âWho are yââ
âShould have the nurses check you for pericarditis.â
âWhaââ
âMight be a nasty infection âround your heart, yeah? Or you want the professional sounding spiel? An inflammation of the pericardium, membrane around your heartâs swollen, extra fluid in the space between the pericardial layers, blah blah blah, yada yada yada.â Slamming his hands against the tabletop makes both the girls jump, even in their bewilderment. The patient in question gingerly places her hand over her heart, anxiety clear on her face. Right, he wasnât supposed to scare the other patients anymore. Maybe he was making up for the violence in his past by collecting himself, softening a rough, aggressive voice into something kind and caring, something he knew how to do but never wanted to. No reason for them to get attached.
âIf I'm right, itâs treatable, you ainât gonna die. Just a few meds and youâll be runninâ around reading about... Coneflowers. Thatâs tight. Go see a nurse.â
Leaving them with a confused stare in their eyes was all he could do as he stretched his arms up and left their side. His shoulder popped twice before his thoughts settled in lunch, a welcomed distraction from the growing feeling of pride, a twisted sensation he was quick to kill off with another deadly sin of glutton.
âIâm going to see a nurse.â Her relieved voice carried into the hallway, and Casey distantly wondered if he could get the cook to smuggle him some Tim Tams.
                â 'cause ain't nobody gonna save you.
 ( Song inspiration )
Emerton, Sydney, 1997
Underneath a clear night sky, it was easy to lose the sound of slamming doors and broken bottles.Â
The dewy scents of the nigh-morning was setting over the whiff of blood clinging to a dirty shirt hanging over shoulders too small to hold it properly. Breathless gasps escaped lungs too small for the air needed to bring a little boy further and further from the lights of a home that would never be his, angry shouts still echoing in his mind between every choked gasp, iron taste lingering on his tongue like an imprint of all the times before.
Shoes on concrete drowned out the sounds of the city, the lights blurring past as he ran through the latest drunken patrons bumbling their way out from the clubs now silenced by the approaching morning hours. Hollering followed by curses when his small body pushed them aside, as always; Nothing but obstacles between him and freedom, that glimmering hope that somewhere, somehow, there was peace and freedom. As far away as possible.
Bruised cheeks ached, stinging against the tears still flowing freely, unwanted from bring blue eyes focused on the horizon; Anywhere but in the moment. He could run, run until he wouldnât be found, until the ocean greeted him and brought him some peace. Until his lungs gave out, until everything finally faded to black and there would be no more pain. Beautiful, starry-eyed dreams that came crashing down along with his body as another wave of pain brought him to his knees. Dulled senses heard the agonized scream that forced its way through exhausted lungs, behind a veil of a buzz heâd grown so used to. Emotions that ran rampant in the silence of the night that welcomed him into its clutches, a dangerous, loving cradle that had become more of a home to the runaway child than his own motherâs arms.
Consciousness had nothing to do with the sobs that broke the surrounding silence, shaking hands curled against the ground, brushing away the drops falling from a pain-strewn face â crimson and clear pallettes blending into a faded pink to hide the stark truth of what his mind would later come to repress. Short, staccato breaths made him nauseous, his body retaliating with more pain from an empty stomach attempting to ease its agony. Sour tangs found their way up to his throat and sobs morphed into dry heaves, the bite of blood and acid mingling like a reminder of what ran from.
Curled against a blissfully cool wall was the next time the world came back into focus, the trail of gore following his trek there. The lights avoided him, advertisements flashing one by one right above a tiny body hidden in the shadows. Every movement ached, a familiar sting still sticking to a battered cheek, cut lips, broken nose. Shifting from the wall twisted his broken fingers, swollen and blue, but pushing through the sensation wasnât anything new. Exhaustion pushed on like a tidal wave, and fighting it felt impossible as the world around him blurred away, the tears now dried to give way to a new darkness. Somewhere far away he heard a seagull cry in its loneliness, and for a delirious moment he wished he could answer the call, wondering if ten years was old for a bird.
Another sound cut through the first morning commute, those living their lives before sunrise. He wanted to think that the light that washed over him was the light his grandfather had spoken about, finally coming to reclaim the soul theyâd misplaced. Frowning took effort, and a new trickle of blood flowed from the opened wound it caused, and another curse came from the light. Fear was the response heâd used the most, and even now it took control and made him pull the over-sized t-shirt closer around his body, legs pushing him further into the corner wall, and the light stopped and disappeared. Daring a glance through long, matted hair revealed a figure not as intimidating as his mind had made it out to be: a young man now crouched in front of the trembling child hiding from the world.Â
The man spoke, a question, but the constant sound of hissing in his ears prevented the child from understanding, blue eyes trained on the stranger. Soft green eyes, one framed by a bruise he could compare to his own. The thin lips were still moving, a harsh sound still filled with a strange softness that the runaway had never heard before. âHelpâ was a word he recognized through the static, and a large hand slowly set against a thin, all too thin shoulder. Countless rings were cold even through the fabric of the bloodstained shirt, but warmth radiated from the palm, slowly tightening its grip, cautious, as if what it held would break from the smallest of pressure.Â
He could blame sleepless nights for the blur the moment was. Weak legs barely held him upright as the stranger pulled him from the cold ground and a heavy jacket was placed over his shoulders, a solid hand holding his as the streets turned into lanes, into alleys. Stumbling over his feet came more than once, but the pain never returned, knees staying above the ground with a solid arms holding him steady. It could be minutes or hours of walking until a warm light shone from above a doorway, the stranger pushing the door open into a room that smelled like gasoline and oil. The light was dim, worsened only by the darkness creeping through he edge of his vision, the only stabilizing contact being the hand still clutching the unbroken smaller one. Yet even that was torn away, and the safety the child was lulled into turned into fear, his entire body tensing at the loss, a panic crawling up his spine.Â
A mumble turned the childâs head, those safe green eyes set on him stopping the terror in its tracks, and a wide gesture after, the child settled down on the sofa laid against the wall. The softness felt like a cloud, and the sleep heâd been staving off for days was quickly upon him unlike it had been before. Eyes fluttered shut against his will, and a thought of fighting the slumber came to mind, yet it was too muddled to act upon. The sound of boots stopping by the couch was something he barely registered, and the rag being ran over his cheek, warm, washing away the dried tears and blood like a promise that it would be okay. And a night without nightmares would be a welcomed change, no matter how much his mind protested it.Â
Snowflakes flurried outside the windows, some managed to stick for moments before melting into the tiniest drop. Ellie paused to watch out the window as snow slowly built up around the hospital. The winter chill had officially invaded the old building, and it felt inescapable. Thin arms attempted to gather more warmth by wrapping a thick cardigan tighter.Â
Ellie moved towards the cafeteria in search of a hot drink to perk up the dull wintry day. Darkness was settling the hospital into a hushed evening as it so often did. Upon entering, the room seemed fairly subdued and almost empty, she wasnât sure if she welcomed more of the same quiet or not. It was more familiar and comfortable, but it was easier to let days slip by unnoticed.Â
Peppermint tea seemed like good company for the evening. Ellie reached for a chipped mug and a dropped the tea packet into it. The hot water and coffee pumps were blocked by another person. For a moment she waited quietly, but they didnât seem to realize they were blocking the way.Â
âExcuse me, sorry, Iâm trying to get to the hot water.â She said gently, breaking the near silence of the room.Â
He hated it. The powdery snow falling from heavy skies with purpose. What had he even been doing before his eyes had caught those specks floating around on the outside of the window? The rest of the cafeteria seemed to bleed away as he leaned to the counter, the glare out into the cold horizon with such venom in his eyes, as if trying to melt the snow with a glare alone. Iâm so glad itâs beginning to look like Christmas! It was a loud whisper from somewhere in the cafeteria; the glee nauseating as Caseyâs mind wandered to the frozen temperatures, the torture every winter still brought him no matter how much he tried to bundle up or desensitize himself.Â
It was easy for him to hate, but nothing had ever ran as deep as the hatred for this season, be it for the birthday he desperately avoided, or the chill he couldnât get used to. Deep in thought, it was almost impossible to hear the voice that spoke up and made Casey startle out of the dead-eyed stare. Blinking rapidly, he straightened from the imposing lean over the counter, away from the window to cast a bewildered look at Ellie, then the water container. âRight,â his voice came out rough, the first words heâd spoken all day â or was it a week â of self-imposed solitary.Â
It took him a few seconds to peel reddened palms from the counter, body angling to lean against it instead. Wordlessly gesturing to the appliance she headed to, the arms crossed a moment later while blue eyes followed her movements.Â
âYou a winter person?â The gaze broke and flitted to the window, and the droplets racing on its surface. âSnow angels, winter wonderland, ice skating? Everyone seems to be so fuckinâ excited.â
Itâs no secret that Casey takes pride in his Australian heritage, although nothing worthy can be said of the memories heâs left behind. Even with this pride, a quirk heâs developed during his life in America is to hide a very prominent part of himself, the accent.
Itâs easier to say Casey is a pure-blooded American than a backwater Aussie from how he speaks. There are few occasions when he lets himself revert to his usual twang, but thorough the day he makes a considerable effort to tone down the flowery aâs and oâs, along with the slang that slips out more often than anything else. Were you to ask him why he deliberately kills the one thing that could make him stand out among the others, the answer would be vague and nondescript; He doesnât know the answer himself. It started with hopes to stay under the radar, away from prying eyes and questions that came with intrigue about his past, and motives for moving to the country. Being called exotic, and âshrimp on the barbieâ got old fast, as did the people who played out their Bondi beach fantasies, and so the unidentifiable all-American accent was born.
But there are times when the touch of home comes back to him, and the façade drops. Times like after awaking from a rarity of sleep, voice gruff and mind too tired to put up the defenses. Other times are in great distress, anxiety attacks and the rages he is prone to fly into, instinct overriding the attempted anonymity. Itâs easy to coax out the old vocalizations through addictions as well, seeing as Casey has a deep desire to numb himself with any liquor he gets his hands on. Be the one to offer him weed or ecstasy and youâd be sure to see him deliberately drop the fake front and speak to you as himself entirely.Â
After his arrival in Thornewood however, the accent has steadily stayed on the more foreign, the exhaustion of sleepless nights and the anxiety of feeling trapped running his mind to the ground, too worn-out to put up a convincing show for those around him.
It took Cameron by surprise that the bantering conversation flowed easily between the two acquaintances. An unexpected but pleasant discovery. Although Cameron kept those thoughts concealed, a breath of laughter escaped the smirk plastered across his lips. âHell on earth,â Came the sombre reiteration. Mistakes and regret filled his time in Thornewood, brief glimpses of a life of happiness outside this draconian existence only fuelled the burning desire to escape in one piece.Â
âInspiring, huh? And what does it inspire you to do?â Morbid curiosity crept into his questioning, eyebrows arching high upon a furrowed forehead as they crept through parted doorways, keeping close behind Casey as he led the way to their destination, unsuspecting of the climb that awaited him. As the blonde began a somewhat risky ascent along the outside of the building, electric hues widened with a baffled expression, watching his movements meticulously to decipher the best course of action. Hands shoved into his pockets in a moment of defiance, tempted to call Casey crazy and leave it at that, however, the rebellious need for adventure gnawed away at the young man, tempting fate seemed like the only way to subdue the ache for adrenaline.Â
âIâm good,â Cameron called up quickly dismissing the offer of help with a narrowing of his eyes at the man now above him. Exhaling a short breath against the cool night air before climbing out onto the window ledge and assessing his next move. Outstretched fingertips found unforgiving brick as he pulled himself upwards, relying heavily on the grip of old leather-bound boots and tattooed hands to keep steady as he began the climb. Once feet hit the sturdy ground of rooftop, the air captured in his lungs finally escaped. Cobalt orbs glanced out at the miles of dense forest and city lights before them, âI âspose thatâll do.â Cameron lightheartedly complimented Caseyâs findings with a nonchalant shrug then reached for a cigarette and placed it between his lips, âWant one?â
Withholding his inspirations was an innate reaction Casey felt, biting his cheek, harboring those thoughts until it was certain there werenât any stray eyes or ears nearby. The thoughts faded to the background as he stood there, hip cocked to the side, eyes set on the ordeal of his new frenemy climbing to join him on the off-limits floor no one had dared to join him on before, only almost. âImpressive,â came a compliment, still tinged with haughtiness, nothing too companionable, even if the grin conveyed some respect for the taller man. He waved the offered cigarette off as Casey dug out his own from the depths of his jacket.Â
âThat booze tough? Iâll take that any day,â it was the words of a man addicted, but there was no denying that in a place like this. While sharp eyes glanced at the hidden bottle still in Cameronâs possession, Casey took a step back, further up the mossy shingles that crunched below his boots. The cigarette was quickly lit as he turned on his heel, stalking towards the usual spot near the chimney that should still hold some warmth after the dayâs fires. It was routine by now, finding the usual spot adorned with discarded cigarette butts and shards of glass from discarded contraband. With a grunt, Casey plopped down, the impact sending some loose vegetation rolling down the slope. Patting the peak of the roof beside him, Casey offered the subtle camaraderie while keeping his eyes on the blinking lights on the horizon.
What did the sight inspire him to do? Off himself, maybe do something that would send him to jail instead of here, back to Australia? It fluctuated every time he caught the faraway promise of liberty, but the answer always boiled down to one word; âFreedom,â came the confession between the smoke of his lungs. It was quick to dissipate with the shake of his head as Casey stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, the rough roof digging into the palm he was leaning on. âIâm gonna get out of here, doesnât matter how. Itâs right there, isnât it? The city, the life, the chaos. Inspiring, like a kick in the arse.â A chuckle colored the end of the confession, even if it came out more somber than expected.Â
âWhat, you didnât think Iâd start spouting poetry, didya? Ainât got no brains for that, roses are red ââ The laugh was more boisterous this time, even if the sound didnât match the look in his eyes. At least the blonde was adept at shrugging off those thoughts, the longing look in his eyes exchanged to an usual dulled darkness as he dared look at Cameron again.Â
âBut hey, thatâs what everyone wants, letâs forget that. We came here to drink, didnât we?â
Caseyâs muttered sentence went unheard by Ellie since he was a few steps behind. Though she did glance over her shoulder to catch the tail end, realizing he had spoken. She shot him a slightly annoyed look at the disregard for her challenges with verbal communication. âHey, I canât hear a thing youâre saying.â She reminded him with a small huff. Ellie was often patient, despite a lifetime of her needs being ignored, but with Casey she didnât feel the need to gently sugar coat the issue.Â
Ellie was ready to defend her original plan to settle on a bench and soak up the fresh air. If the books werenât occupying her arms they wouldâve been crossed over her chest defensively. Ellie didnât feel the urge to be so timid around Casey. He had seen her for what she was the day of the fight, he had seen the pure rage and fear that could explode from her with zero control. Her soft brown eyes flicked towards the waiting woods at his gestures.Â
The challenge in Caseyâs voice was unnerving, but not in a bad way. This invitation is what she had wanted a few months back from Cameron, when she needed to feel anything other than a constant ache. She was no longer the person longing for a rush, but there was something that drew her to agree. Ellie missed feeling truly alive, like she was just a young girl in her early twenties with no real worries. âFine, Iâll go with you.â She replied, as if agreeing only because he had bothered her to. âIâm not hauling all these books through the woods though.â She added, her eyes glancing for a safe spot to set most of them down. Ellie set all but two books under a bench with as much care as she could. âYou know the way, right? I donât wanna become a ghost that haunts this place.â She quipped, a hint of playfulness in the tone.
The reminder of her hearing loss was swift as she reprimanded him, and Caseyâs eyes flicked to her hearing aids before he shot her an apologetic smile over his shoulder. As apologetic as it could be with the wolfish grin it turned out to be. Heâd never had an issue with being loud, it being the twisted defense mechanism heâd learned before he could even walk properly. Sometimes, just sometimes, the weight hanging over his shoulders shifted to press on his lungs, emotions choking up somewhere between an overactive brain and pained lungs.
Shaking himself out of the poetic trench heâd sunk into came with a flinch and a few blinks, his eyes finding hers only to catch the brief hesitation. Assumed hesitation with the growing silence and eyes towards the woods. It was a subconscious gesture, hands wringing together with nerves that yelled at him to get out of there before she rejected him. Still, there was a buzz of rebellion thrumming beneath tan skin, raring to do something else than sitting around speaking pleasantries. Boots tapped the ground, the crunch audible just before she spoke again.Â
He hadnât noticed his brows draw into a frown before it was gone, replaced by an unbridled glee to have someone accompany him into trouble, blue eyes sparking with puppy-like excitement and mischief. âHell yeah, letâs go!â It was a quick decision, his entire body vibrating with energy at the mere thought of getting away from the mansion, as far as possible. The thick leather of the worn jacket squeaked as Casey pulled it tighter around himself, hands flexing against the cold and the promise of adrenaline.Â
âWhatâs so bad about being a ghost? Wouldnât have to pay taxes,â a grin as sharp as a knife greeted her before the blonde beckoned her to follow him through the garden towards the edge of the woods. Broad shoulders curled in in inch as the imposing man hunched over, eyes alert even if the smile still lingered, aimed at her as he listened to her footsteps echo his own. âLeast you get to prove your sneaking skills, yeah? Canât just bolt or theyâd tackle us in seconds,â speaking from experience was easy enough, a phantom ache in his ribs reminding of all those times he hadnât run fast enough to avoid the mindless detainment. A suppressed shudder wracked his body, a grumble deep in his chest before movement caught the corner of his eye. A pair of eyes scanning the gardens for him, possibly, and Casey was quick to duck behind the cover of a shriveling bush. Without a second thought, his hand shot out to grip the slender arm of his companion, the rough yank too forceful to be called a mere request to hide. âGuard,â a hushed, harsh whisper was directed her way, scarred fingers still holding her arm as blue eyes glared daggers around the corner of the flora. âLucky youâre that small, câmon. Just stay low.âÂ
The halls of Thornewood were growing colder by the day as the warmth of early autumn slipped away. The days seemed to be growing darker and as the light faded so did Finneganâs mental clarity. The passing weeks seemed to mount up around him. Erronâs guidance had helped at first. Recalling his memories of the fire that had left him scarred was difficult, but it reminded him why he was here. It was only once his therapist had begun pressing him about his relationships, his time at the Brotman Institute, and his nightmares, that lines began to blur. Lately, Finn had taken to wandering around, muttering to himself. He didnât usually seem to be aware that he was doing it, or even that he was awake.
He was sitting out in the yard on a bench when the sun finally dipped below the horizon and left the gardens in darkness. âI wasnât told until I got here.â He murmured, waving his hand as if he were explain something to an invisible interlocutor. âI couldnât have been there you know. I couldnât have started it. I didnât start either of them.â It had to make sense, in his mind. He had to make it make sense. He wasnât an arsonist. He was just covered in fire scarsâŠand had been committed for over a yearâŠand sometimes dreamed about starting those fires. âItâs just a dream, not a memory.â He muttered aggressively. Â
It wasnât a surprise that Casey, as noticeable as he was, had a tendency to eavesdrop. It was an easy hobby to have when lock-picking or pick-pocketing wasnât on the table, and the basement was off limits. Even easier with the garden silence surrounding him for the brief moments he could hide from watchful eyes and suspicious glares. It wasnât much as first, closed eyes shutting the outside world out while a lone wolf lurked at the edge of the estate, crooked cigarettes piling by the tree trunk heâd taken to habituating as of late.
While the world turned dark, everything was clearer. Some muttering nearby that finally made the Aussie crack his eyes open and crush the last of his cigarettes. Although tired, constantly tired, Casey was a curious being drawn to things more exciting than just existing. Long hair didnât flop over his eyes anymore as he peeked over his shoulder, around the tree to spot someone horribly familiar. Even if the last few months had been smooth, the guilt didnât take to leaving. Old bones popped as he pushed himself up from the ground, rough hands dusting the back of his jeans as he called out; âYouâll get gray hair mumbling to yourself like that, mate.âÂ
âTrust me, done a lot of that in my days.â Approaching the lone man was a careful walk, with a swagger swinging his legs until he was a few feet away. Blue eyes darted around the last rays of light peeking through the woods, guards mapped and followed with every flick of his eyes. It wasnât his place to butt in on the self-reflection; God, heâd hate it if someone did that to him, but Casey had never been a self-preserving individual. âNightmares gotten worse? You look like absolute shit,â colored by a chuckle, the statement â for once â friendly banter instead of malice. Of course, he knew painfully well that he looked no better, even if he managed to drink himself to sleep for a few hours.Â
âSo, whatâs up? Youâre not jogging, sâweird.â
Caseyâs surprised reaction was no shock to Ellie. A rule-breaking reputation wasnât one that stuck around the often timid patient. âProve it? You want directions to the hidden alcohol or something?â She replied with a humorous glint in her eyes. Ellie was still conflicted about Casey, but her turmoil was slowly melting with their recent interactions. Casey wasnât bad, this place was just claustrophobic and everyone had their own problems to work through. She could only hope he saw things in the same light. Ellie wasnât typically violent, or even outspoken, she was simply protective of loved ones.Â
An easier smile lit up Ellieâs gentle features at the noncommittal shrug to accompany her outside. Did he realize it was her way of extending peace? She started towards the door, but paused at the comment about books and porn. Ellieâs brows raised in some surprise at the blunt statement. âI really wasnât thinking thatâs what you meant, but thanks for the clarification I guess.â She said with a roll of her eyes and huff of fake disgust. Though a faint pink blush colored her cheeks.Â
âIf youâre that concerned about reputation, you might not want to hang out with me. I donât exactly have a cool or badass rule-breaking rep hanging around me. People will think youâve gone soft.â She teased lightly. Ellie briefly thought of Cameron mentioning his reputation in the past. How come she always tried to make friends with the tough cookies? Maybe she could learn to mirror their resilience or how to keep on a carefree mask despite the horrors that clouded her past, or maybe she thought one of them would understand her actions that night.
âThanks-â She said with a nod as she hurried through the opened door. The chilly temperature awakened her senses. It always cleared the fog that so often permeated her days now. Ellie pointed her chin in the direction they were to walk. âThereâs some decent benches over that way. I donât wanna sit on damp leaves all day.â She explained. Ellie led the way, imagining the sight of Casey following her through the wilting garden was an odd one, but anything could happen in Thornewood.
Anxiety had a funny way of rendering an usually boisterous man silent, but the noise worked as a reply in place of actual vocals. Shifty eyes were kept forward while he trailed some steps behind Ellie, gaze never really falling on her. It wasnât her fault, but a cross-wire somewhere in a traumatized brain told Casey this was okay, but terrifying and futile all the same. It was to score patient points, speeding up his release from the prison that Thornewood still was, albeit the lines were starting to dim around paranoid thoughts, and hopes for something better.Â
âEh, itâs easy to get the rep back. Just gotta yell at a Green or tussle with a guard and suddenly youâre a feral rampaging brute.â Forgotten were her hearing loss, the sentence muttered under bitter breath aimed at everyone within the warmth of the inside mansion. While wind whipped across his face, Casey pulled a a palm to run over the short-cropped hair he regretted, fingers staying hooked around his neck as blue eyes fell onto her with a raised brow.
âBenches? Seriously?â It was tame for his tastes, danger and forbidden paths calling his name louder than the familiar landscape in the gardens. A wicked grin and a huff later, the boisterous man was back, and the hand fell into a broad gesture towards the woods, another challenge to do something arising; It was an usual dance heâd danced with Lex, but their paths hadnât crossed as of late. A simple yet painful realization Caseyâd noted amid midnight runs and looking for a fix of adrenaline.Â
Nodding a bearded chin to the dark edge of the forest was a question before he opened his mouth, âFuck benches when we got a lakeside out there, yeah?â Shifting weight from leg to leg was a manifestation of restlessness that always had a hold on the blonde, stupid ideas and undermining mundane joys a founding pillar of his reckless behavior. âNo need to show me hidden liquor, just some spirit. You in?â
Itâs not a, a bad time, time spent with you
Thereâs cool lights and songs with good lyrics
We never have to talk again, whatever, up to you
But since youâre putting up with me
Hereâs another toast just to you
Gang of Youths - Let Me Down Easy
@elliemoore-thornewoodâ
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