Post by Italia Veneziano on Sept 15, 2014 1:20:56 GMT -6
A wine cellar. How perfectly unfitting for this place of darkness and despair. Yet, the kitchen was in full-working order, the bedrooms were functional, and surprisingly comfortable despite their dustiness. So, as unfitting as such a luxury should be in this horror house, it's only logical to stumble across stone steps, cool air, and the familiar scent of wood trying to find a pantry in the kitchen. The room was dimly lit, but it was a comfortable dimness--a taste of home, even.
Nostalgia had hit him square in the face, and before even making it down the stairs Feliciano had sat down, pulled his knees to his chest, and bawled. It was an inopportune moment of weakness to be sure, especially in this place, but he could practically taste the comforts of home; mere finger's breadth away from his touch. One little push more and up those stairs he'd be walking into his own kitchen, warmly painted and graced with the soft rays of a sleepy Italian sun. Warmth and comfort in the scent of his wine, in the taste of his cuisine, in the heat of his weather as he took lunch outside, watching Lovino work in the garden a few minutes more before retiring together for siesta. So close--it was all too close, but it wasn't the same.
There were no pretty shopkeepers to greet him during his morning errands, a few willing to trade a few treats in exchange for sweet words and silly little kisses. There were no children to play ball with whilst walking the park. His people were gone--their heartbeats gone from the thrum of blood in his veins. No whirling machinery in his chest, crooning musicians upon his lips, the hustle and bustle and insanity of his stock markets swinging aches and pains upon his form; all a sharp stillness, a gaping hole where awareness should be. As if he'd lost a limb, or part of his soul.
Feliciano wanted to go home.
At that moment, tears still damp upon his cheeks and throat raw from harsh sobs as he stumbled the final stairs to the floor proper, that was all that mattered. No friends and family trapped in this dismal place with him. No blood upon his hands, accidental or otherwise. No pain, fear, nor exhaustion so cumbersome dark stains appeared permanent beneath his eyes. All that mattered was the fact he was scared of this place, and feeling homesick enough to send bile crawling up his throat. If there was but a way to return to sun-drenched vineyards, steep mountains, and sandy beaches marking the rich tapestry of his land, in this moment....in this moment he would take it in a heartbeat. Whatever the cost. Hadn't he lost enough of himself already? What was one more piece if it guaranteed his freedom?
The first bottle he'd fumbled with had fallen to the ground and shattered, soaking the legs of his pilfered clothing with dark liquid. He'd nearly burst into tears once again at the waste. His emotions were a complete wreck--he was a complete wreck. It was enough to keep him from cleaning up the glass, uncaring of any cuts or stains to his skin as the Italian reached for another bottle. This one he clutched almost desperately to his frame, stumbling back until he bumped into the rack at the opposite wall. With cool wood and glass bottles capable of supporting his weight, he slumped against it, eventually sinking to the floor.
It was impossible for him to pry the cork from the bottle with trembling fingers. The failure drew another pained sob from him. Always failing, always falling just short of what he wanted, what he needed. He curled around the bottle in his grasp, resting his cheek against the bottle and letting more hot tears spill down his face.
He couldn't even die properly. What was he good for now?
Nostalgia had hit him square in the face, and before even making it down the stairs Feliciano had sat down, pulled his knees to his chest, and bawled. It was an inopportune moment of weakness to be sure, especially in this place, but he could practically taste the comforts of home; mere finger's breadth away from his touch. One little push more and up those stairs he'd be walking into his own kitchen, warmly painted and graced with the soft rays of a sleepy Italian sun. Warmth and comfort in the scent of his wine, in the taste of his cuisine, in the heat of his weather as he took lunch outside, watching Lovino work in the garden a few minutes more before retiring together for siesta. So close--it was all too close, but it wasn't the same.
There were no pretty shopkeepers to greet him during his morning errands, a few willing to trade a few treats in exchange for sweet words and silly little kisses. There were no children to play ball with whilst walking the park. His people were gone--their heartbeats gone from the thrum of blood in his veins. No whirling machinery in his chest, crooning musicians upon his lips, the hustle and bustle and insanity of his stock markets swinging aches and pains upon his form; all a sharp stillness, a gaping hole where awareness should be. As if he'd lost a limb, or part of his soul.
Feliciano wanted to go home.
At that moment, tears still damp upon his cheeks and throat raw from harsh sobs as he stumbled the final stairs to the floor proper, that was all that mattered. No friends and family trapped in this dismal place with him. No blood upon his hands, accidental or otherwise. No pain, fear, nor exhaustion so cumbersome dark stains appeared permanent beneath his eyes. All that mattered was the fact he was scared of this place, and feeling homesick enough to send bile crawling up his throat. If there was but a way to return to sun-drenched vineyards, steep mountains, and sandy beaches marking the rich tapestry of his land, in this moment....in this moment he would take it in a heartbeat. Whatever the cost. Hadn't he lost enough of himself already? What was one more piece if it guaranteed his freedom?
The first bottle he'd fumbled with had fallen to the ground and shattered, soaking the legs of his pilfered clothing with dark liquid. He'd nearly burst into tears once again at the waste. His emotions were a complete wreck--he was a complete wreck. It was enough to keep him from cleaning up the glass, uncaring of any cuts or stains to his skin as the Italian reached for another bottle. This one he clutched almost desperately to his frame, stumbling back until he bumped into the rack at the opposite wall. With cool wood and glass bottles capable of supporting his weight, he slumped against it, eventually sinking to the floor.
It was impossible for him to pry the cork from the bottle with trembling fingers. The failure drew another pained sob from him. Always failing, always falling just short of what he wanted, what he needed. He curled around the bottle in his grasp, resting his cheek against the bottle and letting more hot tears spill down his face.
He couldn't even die properly. What was he good for now?
Deaths: 1
