It was fruitless. He knew this, eventually, as his first action upon arriving in their new location was to find a lonely corner amongst dusty roof tiles and to try and write. Maybe that man truly was pulling his fucking leg. Him, a Prophet. Pah.
It was not like the other times he’d felt compelled to write, compelled to put down this apparent ‘vision’ whilst he was in a state best described as distant. He’s all too real. Feeling as strongly as sane pre-fuckin- end-of-the-world, Graves would feel. It’s like the day he discovered that he’d lost custody of Delilah, couldn’t even manage to get her for the fucking weekends.
Instead, he’s simply lonely old Graves, again. Despite knowing it’s a pointless task, he turns to another page of his quickly dwindling notebook. He begins scribbling, slow loops as though he’s winding the pen up to write on its own. It won’t. Of course, it fucking won’t.
Graves scrunches up the page, ripping it from his notebook before flinging it away to join the other scrunched up pages of the same fucking thing, over and over again. The same description of his girl with a toy duck then, in neat cursive loops: Where are you, Delilah? Why didn’t I try harder?
