Post by Manslaughter on Jul 8, 2008 14:16:16 GMT
There is a world beneath the couch cushion.
Curled against the back of the sofa, Roger idly traces faces in the dust that had come and gone, while their secret treasures had become lost in the cracks of the furniture. A rubber band, a nickel, a paperclip, a Cheez-it--they are just a few of the parts of people that had been left behind before those people had disappeared almost altogether. Reproachfully, he gives the room another once-over, expecting it to be full like it had been almost a year before.
He understands that his brothers and sisters have gone away one by one, but he still eagerly peeks into the foyer when the front door creaks open or swings wide. The Brotherhood band had been slowly losing its players since the conductor behind them all had stopped making appearances. Most of their members were young, and who could blame them after all? Vengeance against humanity couldn't be sought with picking fights over who would have the remote next. They had gone off to find bigger and better causes that hadn't lost their luster like this estranged band of extremists.
At first, they had all adjusted accordingly. When one person moved out there would be a mad dash for a room that was supposedly bigger or had a window. Fighting and bitching over a room that was probably only next door or down the hallway gave them something to do instead of sitting around and twiddling their thumbs. They made their own wars that way, childishly waging them against each other to forget there were no real ones going on.
And when people stopped caring about trivial conflicts about who was going to get the shower next or who had to at least make an effort to reduce the climbing pile of dishes in the sink, then there was nothing to hold them together. Some of them left in pairs, but mostly they left alone, taking what little things they could actually call their own and walking out the door without looking back. Now there is a mere fraction left of what used to be, and for the most part they all keep to themselves.
"Next of kin is not next..," he murmurs to himself, imagining all the places his once-family must be.
Curled against the back of the sofa, Roger idly traces faces in the dust that had come and gone, while their secret treasures had become lost in the cracks of the furniture. A rubber band, a nickel, a paperclip, a Cheez-it--they are just a few of the parts of people that had been left behind before those people had disappeared almost altogether. Reproachfully, he gives the room another once-over, expecting it to be full like it had been almost a year before.
He understands that his brothers and sisters have gone away one by one, but he still eagerly peeks into the foyer when the front door creaks open or swings wide. The Brotherhood band had been slowly losing its players since the conductor behind them all had stopped making appearances. Most of their members were young, and who could blame them after all? Vengeance against humanity couldn't be sought with picking fights over who would have the remote next. They had gone off to find bigger and better causes that hadn't lost their luster like this estranged band of extremists.
At first, they had all adjusted accordingly. When one person moved out there would be a mad dash for a room that was supposedly bigger or had a window. Fighting and bitching over a room that was probably only next door or down the hallway gave them something to do instead of sitting around and twiddling their thumbs. They made their own wars that way, childishly waging them against each other to forget there were no real ones going on.
And when people stopped caring about trivial conflicts about who was going to get the shower next or who had to at least make an effort to reduce the climbing pile of dishes in the sink, then there was nothing to hold them together. Some of them left in pairs, but mostly they left alone, taking what little things they could actually call their own and walking out the door without looking back. Now there is a mere fraction left of what used to be, and for the most part they all keep to themselves.
"Next of kin is not next..," he murmurs to himself, imagining all the places his once-family must be.
