Post by Atticus on Aug 21, 2010 14:40:37 GMT -6
I’ve seen trouble all my days
[/font][/right]In retrospect, the lumpy couch was probably not the best place to rest his weary bones. Sure, it was better than the floor (at least in theory), but after the third time a stray spring had prodded him in the side, Atticus was getting fed up. Every time he thought he might actually get to sleep… stab. He rolled over again, shoving his face in the pillow, but that goddamn spring was following him and it just wasn’t going to work no matter how hard he tried.[/blockquote]
But it wasn’t really the spring that was bothering him. No. It was the lack of warmth, the absence of another person up against him. It wasn’t a sexual thing—though it had been a while for that, too. He missed knowing that he wasn’t alone at night. Knowing that he was surrounded by people he could trust. There had been something innately comforting in it, being part of a larger group, having a place and a purpose.
If he were anyone else, he could have stayed with the pack his entire life. But he was Atticus, and it was only a matter of time before the road called him again. What had been a soothing bond became a stranglehold. He had to keep searching, and the pack held him back. So he gave up a concrete happiness to look for one he wasn’t even sure existed.
Atticus snorted. He wasn’t even sure that what he was looking for would bring him happiness. Wouldn’t it be lovely and ironic if what he was looking for didn’t even exist anymore? He didn’t know who he’d been Before. For all he knew his house or his hometown or whatever was completely destroyed. This whole quest could be entirely futile.
Alternatively, it could also get him killed.
Something in the kitchen creaked—and not the kind of creak an old house made when it was settling. It was the distinct creak of someone moving about.
Thoughts of springs and journeys flew out of Atticus’s mind. Stupid of him, to not lock the door. He’d assumed that there wasn’t anyone else in the area… but then, you know what they say about assuming. Makes an ass of you and ming. Atticus stood up as quietly as possible, thankful that the couch didn’t squeak despite its lumpiness. Keeping his eyes on the door to the kitchen, he felt around on the floor for the shotgun that he’d found in the last house he’d stayed in. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to actually use it; with any luck just the sight of the gun would scare the intruder away.
The cool metal of the barrel met his palm. Atticus picked up the gun and braced it against his shoulder; he crept towards the kitchen, focusing on keeping his steps light. It was hard to do with his heart hammering his ribcage. But over the din of his own pulse, he could still hear noises from the kitchen—and yes, that was definitely another person. Probably trying to steal his stuff. (Which wasn’t officially “his”, but it was in the house where he was squatting, so Atticus counted it as “his”.)
He paused just on the living room side, took a deep breath, then swiftly slid through the open doorway, bringing up the shotgun level with the person’s chest.
(OOC: Ha. So yeah, I've had O, Brother, Where Art Thou? on the brain because of Primetime. Hence the thread title. Sorry it took a bit longer, bro.)