Status: Weekly updates,
You Make Me Sick
July 15, 1852
He was beginning to feel weary. He had not been able to go back to the meadow with the cabin or Abigale for quite some time now and his skin was starting to feel tight and crawling. His mentor or the harpy wouldn't leave him alone, claiming they must protect him from the witch. This only made his irritation worsen.
He was at his writing desk, quill in hand and a blank sheet of paper before him. He was so uninspired without the dream girl, who turned out to be from the future by some freak occurrence, and now nothing came forth when he tried to write some poetry. Nothing seemed worthwhile. He almost wished his illness would take him, perhaps by some miracle he'd magically appear in her time? With a heavy sigh, he placed his forehead in his hands, the balls of his palms digging into his eyes sockets.
"Pierce! My good boy!" His mentor slurred, bursting through the door to his apartment, any calm or resemblance of peace shattered.
"Yes?" He asked flatly.
"You seem a bit under the weather."
"Perhaps it may be from the second degree burns in my forearm or my restless sleeps?"
"Or a witch!"
"Drop the witch thing."
"No, I'm serious, Pierce...you've been shouting a woman's name. One whom I've never met. She must be the witch!"
He froze. His whole being stiffening. "...what was her name?"
"Abigale. I've informed the priest and now we are on the look out for any maiden in the shadows going by the name! We will protect you Pierce." His mentor came over and placed a heavy hand on his shoulders. "Don't you worry."
"If anything I need help from superstitious fools." He grumbled.
"What was that?" The drunkard shouted a bit too loud.
"Nothing!" He retorted back at the same volume, abruptly standing from his desk and grabbing his jacket.
"Where are you going now?"
"A walk."
"Pierce.."
He did not pause.
"Pierce!"
He refused to stop.
"Stop and listen for a moment!"
But he did not, Pierce hurried from his own home to the solace of the woods he knew so well. He found the same tree again and for what seemed to be the hundredth time, he attempted to sleep. Not sleep truly, but to dream. To find his way back to Abby again.
And yet, once more, he could not.
He was at his writing desk, quill in hand and a blank sheet of paper before him. He was so uninspired without the dream girl, who turned out to be from the future by some freak occurrence, and now nothing came forth when he tried to write some poetry. Nothing seemed worthwhile. He almost wished his illness would take him, perhaps by some miracle he'd magically appear in her time? With a heavy sigh, he placed his forehead in his hands, the balls of his palms digging into his eyes sockets.
"Pierce! My good boy!" His mentor slurred, bursting through the door to his apartment, any calm or resemblance of peace shattered.
"Yes?" He asked flatly.
"You seem a bit under the weather."
"Perhaps it may be from the second degree burns in my forearm or my restless sleeps?"
"Or a witch!"
"Drop the witch thing."
"No, I'm serious, Pierce...you've been shouting a woman's name. One whom I've never met. She must be the witch!"
He froze. His whole being stiffening. "...what was her name?"
"Abigale. I've informed the priest and now we are on the look out for any maiden in the shadows going by the name! We will protect you Pierce." His mentor came over and placed a heavy hand on his shoulders. "Don't you worry."
"If anything I need help from superstitious fools." He grumbled.
"What was that?" The drunkard shouted a bit too loud.
"Nothing!" He retorted back at the same volume, abruptly standing from his desk and grabbing his jacket.
"Where are you going now?"
"A walk."
"Pierce.."
He did not pause.
"Pierce!"
He refused to stop.
"Stop and listen for a moment!"
But he did not, Pierce hurried from his own home to the solace of the woods he knew so well. He found the same tree again and for what seemed to be the hundredth time, he attempted to sleep. Not sleep truly, but to dream. To find his way back to Abby again.
And yet, once more, he could not.