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31_days2006-01-07 06:29 pm
of-carabas.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-01-07 06:29 pm
[January 7th] [Lost Boys] Bloody Hands
Title: Bloody Hands
Day/Theme: January 7th/Cactus
Series: Lost Boys
Character/Pairing: Michael, Sam
Rating: PG
Notes: set in my vampire!Michael AU.
Michael used to keep a collection of unsent postcards. Not real ones, mind. He wasn't stupid. He'd known he would never really write home. And say what? Hey Sammy, wish you were here, you'd really get a kick out of the whole killing people gig. And speaking of killing, here's where I'm staying, why don't you come up, maybe bring along your psychos with the stakes?
No, his collection had always been just in his head. There's be an image stuck in his mind - the first time he looked down at the ocean from above the clouds, the two story Victorian whose basement had temporarily served as a giant coffin, that high-class restaurant he and David had allowed themselves to get kicked out of and the meal they'd made of that curious, bored rich girl who'd followed them - and in the early hours, waiting for the sun to rise, he'd take that image and attach a message to it in his mind. There were hundreds of messages, hundreds of ways of trying to explain, but they'd all boiled down to the same thing.
I'm okay, and it's not that bad, except that it is.
He'd never thought up a return letter, not once. It wasn't needed. Because the point of all those imaginary postcards was to reassure everyone that they didn't need to worry, and he didn't worry about Sam, not at all. Sam was safe, because he was in Santa Carla, and David and Michael were not.
So Michael wrote a hundred imaginary postcards that were never sent, and as long as there was no response Sam would remain, in his mind, perfectly safe and sound. And if Sam was a little upset and confused and - admit it - abandoned, still, he was alive, leading a normal human life, and happy, more or less. That had been the trick to it: the postcards had to stay imaginary, because real postcards might get real responses. Reality was never half as comforting.
Now, in the early morning hours, waiting for the sun to rise, he didn't write a single word in his head, didn't think up the perfect image to share. He just closed his eyes, breathing in the scent coming from the bloodspattered pages of an old horror comic.
Day/Theme: January 7th/Cactus
Series: Lost Boys
Character/Pairing: Michael, Sam
Rating: PG
Notes: set in my vampire!Michael AU.
Michael used to keep a collection of unsent postcards. Not real ones, mind. He wasn't stupid. He'd known he would never really write home. And say what? Hey Sammy, wish you were here, you'd really get a kick out of the whole killing people gig. And speaking of killing, here's where I'm staying, why don't you come up, maybe bring along your psychos with the stakes?
No, his collection had always been just in his head. There's be an image stuck in his mind - the first time he looked down at the ocean from above the clouds, the two story Victorian whose basement had temporarily served as a giant coffin, that high-class restaurant he and David had allowed themselves to get kicked out of and the meal they'd made of that curious, bored rich girl who'd followed them - and in the early hours, waiting for the sun to rise, he'd take that image and attach a message to it in his mind. There were hundreds of messages, hundreds of ways of trying to explain, but they'd all boiled down to the same thing.
I'm okay, and it's not that bad, except that it is.
He'd never thought up a return letter, not once. It wasn't needed. Because the point of all those imaginary postcards was to reassure everyone that they didn't need to worry, and he didn't worry about Sam, not at all. Sam was safe, because he was in Santa Carla, and David and Michael were not.
So Michael wrote a hundred imaginary postcards that were never sent, and as long as there was no response Sam would remain, in his mind, perfectly safe and sound. And if Sam was a little upset and confused and - admit it - abandoned, still, he was alive, leading a normal human life, and happy, more or less. That had been the trick to it: the postcards had to stay imaginary, because real postcards might get real responses. Reality was never half as comforting.
Now, in the early morning hours, waiting for the sun to rise, he didn't write a single word in his head, didn't think up the perfect image to share. He just closed his eyes, breathing in the scent coming from the bloodspattered pages of an old horror comic.