joekid
Angst Fiend
It didn’t look like that much when he was packing, but now that he realized every one of the boxes stacked at his side was going to have to be carried up flight after flight of narrow, winding staircases, Vadim sighed in exasperation. The first one he picked up was heavy, so heavy he nearly dropped it right back on the stack, catching himself at the last minute. Definitely the lab equipment box, he noted, making sure to be careful with this one in particular.
Every step of the staircases screeched under his step. The spots on the wallpaper that kissed the tops of the steps were all yellowed, some nearly blackened. The distinct smell of ash clung to the ugly flowery design, nearly nauseating.“ At least it's smoking friendly,” he muttered to himself, trying to find little comforts where he could. He could deal with the building itself, the way the pipes clanged with effort but still left the building impossibly cold. He could deal with rats in the walls, roached under his bed, all of that was bearable. It was the fact that he had so many people living *around* him now that was the worst of it.
He could be finished with the boxes in a manner of minutes if could simply force himself to knock on any of the numbered doors he’d passed along the way, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to introduce himself, let alone ask for help. Just the thought of someone looking at him struggling with his things with that pitiful expression, all that pity in their voice as they’d say ‘You poor thing, don’t you need help?’ made him sick.
‘You poor thing’.
‘Poor, pathetic thing.”
He found himself standing in front of his door, glancing over the rusting gold letters on the door three times over just to be sure he had the right one. He ran his slender finger through his hair, taking in a grounding breath. He was so close, all he had to do was open the door and rush inside and he’d be free from the fear of running into anyone he didn’t know. Reaching into his pocket to sort out which key was for the apartment made it hard to balance the box in his opposite hand. As if time was slowed, he watched in horror as a tine glass vile slipped from its cardboard container and shattered on the ground. Shards darted in all directions, the sound of breaking glass feeling like it was as loud as a nuclear explosion to Vadim. “Dermo!” he cussed in his native tongue, dropping to his knees to grab the shards.
The sound of footsteps inside apartment buildings and possibly on the staircase threatened that someone could appear any moment. Someone could walk in on him crumpled on the group cleaning up a mess he’d made within five minutes of being there. It was pathetic. That would be worse than anything. Or at least, it felt that way. The promise of such an awful interaction made his hands tremble, and it wasn’t long before a shard nicked him, slicing up his thumb, right along a rosy, bony, knuckle. Viscous blood trailed its way down quickly, gravity carrying the tiny crimson river down his wrist. “Great,” he spoke dryly, tired eyes finding themselves even more sullen.
Every step of the staircases screeched under his step. The spots on the wallpaper that kissed the tops of the steps were all yellowed, some nearly blackened. The distinct smell of ash clung to the ugly flowery design, nearly nauseating.“ At least it's smoking friendly,” he muttered to himself, trying to find little comforts where he could. He could deal with the building itself, the way the pipes clanged with effort but still left the building impossibly cold. He could deal with rats in the walls, roached under his bed, all of that was bearable. It was the fact that he had so many people living *around* him now that was the worst of it.
He could be finished with the boxes in a manner of minutes if could simply force himself to knock on any of the numbered doors he’d passed along the way, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to introduce himself, let alone ask for help. Just the thought of someone looking at him struggling with his things with that pitiful expression, all that pity in their voice as they’d say ‘You poor thing, don’t you need help?’ made him sick.
‘You poor thing’.
‘Poor, pathetic thing.”
He found himself standing in front of his door, glancing over the rusting gold letters on the door three times over just to be sure he had the right one. He ran his slender finger through his hair, taking in a grounding breath. He was so close, all he had to do was open the door and rush inside and he’d be free from the fear of running into anyone he didn’t know. Reaching into his pocket to sort out which key was for the apartment made it hard to balance the box in his opposite hand. As if time was slowed, he watched in horror as a tine glass vile slipped from its cardboard container and shattered on the ground. Shards darted in all directions, the sound of breaking glass feeling like it was as loud as a nuclear explosion to Vadim. “Dermo!” he cussed in his native tongue, dropping to his knees to grab the shards.
The sound of footsteps inside apartment buildings and possibly on the staircase threatened that someone could appear any moment. Someone could walk in on him crumpled on the group cleaning up a mess he’d made within five minutes of being there. It was pathetic. That would be worse than anything. Or at least, it felt that way. The promise of such an awful interaction made his hands tremble, and it wasn’t long before a shard nicked him, slicing up his thumb, right along a rosy, bony, knuckle. Viscous blood trailed its way down quickly, gravity carrying the tiny crimson river down his wrist. “Great,” he spoke dryly, tired eyes finding themselves even more sullen.