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Jul. 6th, 2008 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kayipHe wants to get rid of that bell on the door. He'd liked it at first, when he was still always looking over his shoulder, waiting for that day when someone would come in with that quiet look and this reprieve would be over, like they all ended.
It's been long enough. Now it only reminds him of those times; he doesn't need to know who's coming anymore. When it comes down to it, he's learned not to care. If that's what happens, then, so be it.
One thing Behrooz knows very well is how to survive.
But he hasn't had to just survive in a very long time. Or at least, that's how it feels; like there hadn't been a time when it was enough to just live, there wasn't a time when he could open a door and not find just another room on the other side. A way of knowing who it was coming up behind him, sensitive ears, and bright eyes that earned him nicknames were the remaining daily reminders of walking from one world to another. He can't recall enough of his parents' faces to see either of them in his reflection.
He knows it's just as well.
On Thursday evenings, he usually lets them leave early. The money had been enough for a decent-sized place in the coastal town he'd stumbled into, with a room above it so he could stay late closing up shop and fixing their records himself. They were both good kids (kids, he can use that word now, no one thinks to say it to him anymore), but he appreciated the short time with the empty space, the simple work of cleaning up the place, the quiet to sort through bills and expenses.
And on Friday nights most people were out, walking the streets or along the beach, even after he'd closed for the night. Even with all that noise that accompanied the crowds, the customers, the traffic – there was a stillness over it. Behrooz wasn't used to this.
The gun he'd stolen was shoved at the bottom of his dresser. It hadn't been used in ten years. He can't remember the last time he even thought of it. And he really doesn't mind that.
There's no forest nearby, and while he's thought about it a few times – a weekend trip, close the café or leave it in Saniye's care for a few days. At least they'd stop bothering him to take a vacation. But he didn't, and he doesn't really plan to. The dreams are still there, if more infrequent, and they're the closest he really wants to get to going back. Maybe they're the closest he can really afford to.
It happens when he's nodded off at his desk in the back, after only meaning to close his eyes for a few moments after finishing some paperwork. He'd become so accustomed to his name here that anything else would probably look unfamiliar. It wasn't what he was called, even in those dreams.
Saniye coming in for the morning startles him awake.
He really needs to get rid of that bell.
It's been long enough. Now it only reminds him of those times; he doesn't need to know who's coming anymore. When it comes down to it, he's learned not to care. If that's what happens, then, so be it.
One thing Behrooz knows very well is how to survive.
But he hasn't had to just survive in a very long time. Or at least, that's how it feels; like there hadn't been a time when it was enough to just live, there wasn't a time when he could open a door and not find just another room on the other side. A way of knowing who it was coming up behind him, sensitive ears, and bright eyes that earned him nicknames were the remaining daily reminders of walking from one world to another. He can't recall enough of his parents' faces to see either of them in his reflection.
He knows it's just as well.
On Thursday evenings, he usually lets them leave early. The money had been enough for a decent-sized place in the coastal town he'd stumbled into, with a room above it so he could stay late closing up shop and fixing their records himself. They were both good kids (kids, he can use that word now, no one thinks to say it to him anymore), but he appreciated the short time with the empty space, the simple work of cleaning up the place, the quiet to sort through bills and expenses.
And on Friday nights most people were out, walking the streets or along the beach, even after he'd closed for the night. Even with all that noise that accompanied the crowds, the customers, the traffic – there was a stillness over it. Behrooz wasn't used to this.
The gun he'd stolen was shoved at the bottom of his dresser. It hadn't been used in ten years. He can't remember the last time he even thought of it. And he really doesn't mind that.
There's no forest nearby, and while he's thought about it a few times – a weekend trip, close the café or leave it in Saniye's care for a few days. At least they'd stop bothering him to take a vacation. But he didn't, and he doesn't really plan to. The dreams are still there, if more infrequent, and they're the closest he really wants to get to going back. Maybe they're the closest he can really afford to.
It happens when he's nodded off at his desk in the back, after only meaning to close his eyes for a few moments after finishing some paperwork. He'd become so accustomed to his name here that anything else would probably look unfamiliar. It wasn't what he was called, even in those dreams.
Saniye coming in for the morning startles him awake.
He really needs to get rid of that bell.
