Thump, thump, rasp. Faster and faster. Daniel does not leap out of the coffin, though for a moment he's primed to do so— bursting forth like a fucking Dracula movie before he has half an idea of what's going on is less than advisable. So he waits and listens, suspecting a very confused hotel maid, or another vampire's mortal minion. What time is it?
There is no dramatic creak as he pushes up the casket lid, which is split into two parts the way all of them are these days, but there is a tragic thunk-thunk-thunk as his cell phone fumbles itself to the floor, slipping free of the decorative memorial display section where he'd had it tucked. No one's in the room, so that's good, but—
Oh, no, just kidding.
In a blink he's at the bathroom door, staring in. What he's seeing does not conform to reality at first as Daniel looks, flummoxed, at a dickhead opinion piece factory frozen like a deer caught before a semi-truck, all tucked into the oversized garden tub. He'd sat in there yesterday, in near-scalding water, marveling at the dexterity to do so without fear of killing himself by accident trying to get out, and admiring his own toes. (It's an achievement, he knows from his work chronicling harmless kinksters, to be a man and arrive at an advanced age and still have respectably cute feet.)
His critic beams terror and relief at him through silent, trembling eyes. Daniel tenses an invisible muscle to reach out, yank answers to questions from his head, but thinks better of it before he goes through with it. He will in a minute. But why not learn.
The saddest, tiniest whimper is emitted as Daniel shuts the bathroom door and turns back to the main room. Someone was here, and someone did the fucking most. But what else did they do?
no subject
There is no dramatic creak as he pushes up the casket lid, which is split into two parts the way all of them are these days, but there is a tragic thunk-thunk-thunk as his cell phone fumbles itself to the floor, slipping free of the decorative memorial display section where he'd had it tucked. No one's in the room, so that's good, but—
Oh, no, just kidding.
In a blink he's at the bathroom door, staring in. What he's seeing does not conform to reality at first as Daniel looks, flummoxed, at a dickhead opinion piece factory frozen like a deer caught before a semi-truck, all tucked into the oversized garden tub. He'd sat in there yesterday, in near-scalding water, marveling at the dexterity to do so without fear of killing himself by accident trying to get out, and admiring his own toes. (It's an achievement, he knows from his work chronicling harmless kinksters, to be a man and arrive at an advanced age and still have respectably cute feet.)
His critic beams terror and relief at him through silent, trembling eyes. Daniel tenses an invisible muscle to reach out, yank answers to questions from his head, but thinks better of it before he goes through with it. He will in a minute. But why not learn.
The saddest, tiniest whimper is emitted as Daniel shuts the bathroom door and turns back to the main room. Someone was here, and someone did the fucking most. But what else did they do?