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His mind had led him to a shack.
Or, really, his mind, his body, and a few signs and questionings along the way had led him to a run down apartment still in police custody for having bad things inside of it. The people who'd stood outside had made noises at each other for hours, doing their own unintelligable gestures, attempting to get their point across at one another as one waved a bunch of thin peices of paper that they got from the previous owner. From what he saw, neither was making good headway, and it was only the sound of another police patrols sirens that alerted them that they should be on their route. Once that had happened, he'd waited outside for another few bus passings, then slipped inside.
After doing so, he felt a surge of relief he was wearing sandals. The floor was covered with glass, and strange, ripped up plants. The scent in the house was hideous. It was all he could do not to run, but his mind led him here for a reason. Passing through what passed as a living room with his usual eerie gracefulness, he loped through the passage way into a room with a bed in the center. Relief swept for the third time that day through his body. Here, was a place to rest.
The discarded wrappers interested him not the tiniest bit, nor did the needles on the floor. Rest was close by, and that was all the young male wanted. Reaching forwards, as if in routine, he shook out the blankets, pushed up the matress, and did a thorough check of the pillows. Having made sure there was nothing immediately threatening about the room, he dropped into a heavy, albiet listless sleep.
" Get up and put your hands above your head!"
He recognized those voices. He'd heard them before, echoeing from their cones, yelling out words he could not comprehend. He'd heard them directed at young men, old woman, rich teenagers, poor adults. He'd run from them back in his home city countries away, not physically, but mentally, always fifty steps ahead in his taking of food. He'd hidden from them, questioned them, thought about them and what their various purpouses were. But he'd never been face to face with the uniformed creatures that seemed to dominate the lower town social pyramid with note pads and words and metal mechanism's which erupted with metal cylanders.
Until now.
Opening his red eyes, he stared up at the group of people who were exploring the room, using carried lights and image takers and what not. There were a good many of them staring at him, holding the metal objects, looking completely suspicious. His mind quickly outlining for him the events of the night before, and the events he'd arrived at, he came to his conclusion at the same time a metal L shaped trigger worked weapon was placed against his forehead.
" Hands on your head! "
Back home, from crime scenes he'd seen from afar, the uniforms worked slower then this, gave more chances. Was it that he was a foriegner? He had no idea what to do, no idea what they were asking of him. His mind was working, and arriving at conclusions, but he knew that this situation might be beyond it-
" August, mom told me that deaf people usually use hand signs like the ones we're coming up with. I don't think alot of people would have understood..." The older boy searched for a gesture, then did a quick flick of his fingers, the gesture which meant "language", his other hand busy doing up August's coat. Of course, August could do it himself, seeing as him and his ... he couldn't say the word, it made the most peculiar flush cross his cheeks... were the same age, but it gave him a flood of warmth to watch the one person for him take such careful care of him. " This is the gesture for 'deaf'. "
Such an insignificant memory, but his mind must have called it up for a reason. The sound of footsteps going back a bit alerted him to the fact his mind and body must have yet again worked together in harmony, for at the same time he was aware of his hand dropping to the side, having finished the hand motion. For another, of course, he was assured this was the most idiotic moment another could think of. But he himself felt this was like trying another language, and if you gesture wrong, it could become something else. Surely, this was the most overblown situation he'd stumbled onto yet, he reflected, even as the police men walked forwards yet again.
And one began to gesture. True, he couldn't understand these any more then he could the speech, but he felt such a ridiculous flood of happiness at the sight of another not relying on speech that he allowed himself not to interject.
Foul hope.
Any wise ones enemy.
Hope could interfere with logic, and could as well interfere with a mind so used to reacting with brilliance. Filled with this emotion, he stood up, making a broad gesture towards the other meaning his own 'Hello-'- and the next thing he was aware of was pain in his right eye, then his mind began to blacken at the edges, as did sight, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
This chapter is rougher and more fast paced due to the sequence of events being run from August's memory. I will after further translation slow it down, and work on it a bit more to make it more intelligable.
A Candied Apple · Sun Nov 02, 2008 @ 05:34pm · 0 Comments |
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