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just_1_word | 29.3. Careful
Friday, 8 May 2009 02:03 pm29.3. Careful
[Follows THIS, THIS, THIS and THIS]
Marc put a tremor-wracked hand up to the back of his neck and caught a droplet of sweat with his fingers before it slipped down to his shoulder, yet he shivered feverishly. It was the day after the ground-shaking talk with Izzy in Central Park and about four hours since Marc had spoken to Harri online. Twenty nine hours and counting since taking his last insulin injection. The clock was ticking, and it was almost like he could hear each turn of the second hand in his head. There was no disguise. No darkened hair, no contact lenses, no flashy clothing. Just track pants and a loose, old t-shirt any of the friends from his old life would recognise. A faded AC/DC concert shirt from the early eighties, limited edition. It was a gift from his brother and had been well-loved by the time Marc had even received it. Open on the coffee table in front of him was his old photo album, pictures of himself and David spreading across the page. A couple of stray tears spilt down his cheeks, but he pushed them away with the tips of his fingers. The choice had been well and truly made now. It was only a matter of time. Maybe it was failure, but it was failure in the face of things that just had to be more important to him.
( On the table beside the album, neatly laid out on the pristine glass tabletop, there was a small medicinal vial and an uncapped syringe... )
All muses referenced with permission and are from theprinceton2nyc universe
Word Count | 1,304
[Follows THIS, THIS, THIS and THIS]
Marc put a tremor-wracked hand up to the back of his neck and caught a droplet of sweat with his fingers before it slipped down to his shoulder, yet he shivered feverishly. It was the day after the ground-shaking talk with Izzy in Central Park and about four hours since Marc had spoken to Harri online. Twenty nine hours and counting since taking his last insulin injection. The clock was ticking, and it was almost like he could hear each turn of the second hand in his head. There was no disguise. No darkened hair, no contact lenses, no flashy clothing. Just track pants and a loose, old t-shirt any of the friends from his old life would recognise. A faded AC/DC concert shirt from the early eighties, limited edition. It was a gift from his brother and had been well-loved by the time Marc had even received it. Open on the coffee table in front of him was his old photo album, pictures of himself and David spreading across the page. A couple of stray tears spilt down his cheeks, but he pushed them away with the tips of his fingers. The choice had been well and truly made now. It was only a matter of time. Maybe it was failure, but it was failure in the face of things that just had to be more important to him.
( On the table beside the album, neatly laid out on the pristine glass tabletop, there was a small medicinal vial and an uncapped syringe... )
All muses referenced with permission and are from the
princeton2nyc universeWord Count | 1,304
