They whisper about ghosts and creatures that lived in the house at the end of the street. A dark foreboding feeling that made all pick up their pace a bit faster if they had to go by it. Kids used to- and still do- dare each other to ring the doorbell of the house. It seemed as if most had forgotten who lived there at all.
It's only been two fucking months, but they treat it as if it's been years.
Sol supposed that maybe he's the one that doesn't understand the flow of time anymore. He trudged up the sidewalk, looking over the over grown grass and wild weeds that grew everywhere. He made a face- Thane would have never let the herb garden go to waste like this. Sol couldn't help but feel guilty over that. Guilty for a lot of things.
Once inside, he flipped on the lights and sighed deeply at the dust that lightly coated everything. He didn't want to think about the kitchen, yet. it was more bearable to thinka bout the mundane things than it was to think about what was missing. That, in itself, was harder to ignore than he thought. The stillness of the room- no, of the house itself- reminded him of what wasn't there.
It's even worse when he can see it clearly in his mind's eye of what should be here and what should have happened. Yet...
Sol can't stand how dirty the house is, so he set aside his bag and started to clean.
Cleaning takes all night and the better part of the day, but that was more because of his own reluctance to clean certain parts of the house. Those parts he did last and some he didn't even touch at all.
Like Thane's study, he couldn't bring himself to go in there and organize anything or dust it at all. Part of him- that he deemed the stupid part - didn't want to clean away what Thane had touched last. Indeed, that's how he felt about his own room that he had shared with him. Too many memories. Too many nights or days..
Even Ina's room was difficult to even work through, because he remembered...
"I keep breaking promises, don't I?"
Of course there's no answer. There never was, but Sol liked to imagine that he could hear one. A laugh maybe? Scolded for something mundane like 'you can't kill them, sol.'. He rubbed his face, a smudge of dirt is left on his cheek.
His god must be feasting on everything tonight. Every scrape of raw emotion and nerves that manage to get to him, despite his own resolve to not give in to his emotions. It-
He wanted to leave, but Sol never does. Like a masochist, he set up some lamps all around the backyard so he could weed and mow the law. His shirt and hoodie long discarded on the back porch as he hacked away at the overly long grass, killed and weeded out the weeds and tried to discern among the herbs which were there originally and which had moved in.
If the neighbors complained, Sol never heard a word of it.
By the time the laundry was done and the fridge was cleared out with tea seeping in a pot, Sol had spent nearly all day and most of the night cleaning the house from top to bottom. He, himself, was even cleaned up and shaven off his beard that threatened to grow in. Now, he stared at the pot, a hand going to the end of his braids messing with them.
He wondered... just how long could he live here? Live here and not allow himself to be swallowed by misery and grief?
He doesn't know if he wanted the answer to this.
Sol's decided that this.. this is Karma.
The ghost of memories that paraded around him only amplified this notion. He's been sitting there, on the floor of his bedroom wanting nothing more than to drown his own sorrows in liquor but denied that to himself. There's two coffee mugs filled with mint tea.
He doesn't remember why he made two when only one of them will ever be used.
He's being stupid, he knows this.
But he wanted the scent of mint to follow him around, just a little bit longer.
He doesn't have the heart to do anything more than to stare at the bed. He can feel it, carving its' way into him. Eating at his insides, mocking him for his weakness.
But he doesn't want to let go. He can't.
He would give anything to hear him say his name again.
He hates that no amount of drugs, drink, or the amount of people he's killed would ever make this right again. He doesn't want to forget.. he can't forget..
he wishes he could forget how to feel at all.
Stupidly, the small part of him says to wait a while longer.
Just a little bit longer.
He doesn't believe he'll get over this.
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