The rain pours down on the cobble streets of Bree, overflowing the fountain near the Pony, flooding the lower parts of the city, drowning bug life and filling small ditches. The patter of it creates the familiar white noise, and soaks all who find themselves under it this sunset. As dusk threatens its arrival, Stitches leans his back against a wall, tucked behind an alley and slouching over himself, long since having let his cloak fall from his shoulders. His pale green eyes contrast as they glance up towards the sunset, catching a glimpse of golden and orange sky, beset with pink highlights. That distant beauty seems to be escaping the rain, the darkness, the storm. It is running from the things in its existence that cloud it, the things that hurt it, and most importantly the things that pull it down and make it weep.
“Funny.”
He says cruelly to himself as the analogy draws itself in his head. He stands up to his feet, for once not stumbling over bottles, for once not staggering as he moves forth. He follows the alley to the open road and gets a good view of the sunset, bereft of joy as his gaze watches it go further and further away. Like everything would, eventually. This conflict, these people, and most importantly himself would ruin everything, in his opinion, before it had a chance to live. Stitches wanders the streets, chewing lightly on his tongue as he tries to avoid the urge to reach for what he playfully labeled his “safety flask”. The name got less playful as his life had stretched recently.
Dark circles have formed under his eyes, and his walk is tired even without the influence of his vice. The last bit of sunset disappears over the horizon, and all that remains is the rain and the clouds, himself and what he brought. Spellbound, his march continues. The small voice deep within his mind chirps that this will all be over soon, the people trying to harm him or his friends in any way they can imagine will become less than a bad memory, and his life can finally start to be normal. This voice is getting smaller…smaller and smaller every day he endures, but he can hear it for the moment.
There are times when he doesn’t. For instance, when he crosses upon a puddle and is shown his reflection. His beard has grown unmanageable without effort, but with its light shade does nothing to guard him from the grotesque scar and the foul ink that follows, defining him through appearance. Looking at himself now…well it’s safe to say he hates it more than he did when he first arrived in Bree, ashamed and embarrassed. ‘Now…’ He thinks, ‘You’re just pathetic.’ The small reassuring voice was crushed in this moment, and like any and many other times this had happened, it was uncertain if it was going to return.
Stitches looked up at the sky, wishing that somehow the light had survived, that there was any hope. Those distant dreams, those ever retreating hopes and departing possibilities have left the clouds to themselves. Stitches’ face does not change. What comes after a face sewn in sorrow? Nothing is left after that. He looks down at the puddle, his reflection, and sees nothing worth stopping for. His feet carry him that night, likely until he finds himself in a spot, safe or otherwise, to collapse from exhaustion. A part of him dreads the next day of his drudgery, his inability to bring himself to even try to fix it, and his pathetic existence.
That same part of him would be happy if he simply never woke.
