m_findlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
m_findlow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly2025-04-27 10:19 am
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2025-04-27 10:19 am
Entry tags:
[#258] STAGES OF GRIEF (ORIGINAL)
Theme Prompt: #258 - Scars
Title: Stages of grief
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: M
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: In Duncan’s mind, there’s no escaping the past.
Duncan wandered the city streets, unable to find sleep as he’d tossed and turned in bed, finally conceding defeat and leaving his pokey apartment behind him. His restless feet and restless head led him through the dark corners of a city gone quiet. He craved solitude but instead came upon a rumpled woman lying in the sheltered lee of a bookshop doorway.
There was something inherently common amongst the homeless. It wasn’t the caked on dirt that held their clothes together or the manky pile of possessions. There was an air about them that spoke to their loss of humility. That they didn’t look down on themselves with pity or bitterness. They simply were, and what other people might have thought of them when they went past, trying hard to not appear as if they were gawking, didn’t even register. They had hard faces, thin and wrinkled like raisins, yet frail was not a word Duncan would have used to describe them. They were like weeds, unwanted and unloved, yet indomitably existing in even the tiniest cracks.
He’d been out of the police force for eight years now, but still the old habits died hard. Moving on homeless people from out of the sight of the hoi polloi was just part of the job. And where exactly were the police anyway? Not here doing their sodding job, that was for sure.
He nudged the woman with the toe of his boot. ‘You can’t sleep here,’ he said, ‘it’s not safe for you.’ He cast his gaze around a second time. Dark shadows rose up from every corner without a CCTV camera in sight. A complete blackspot where anyone might do anything and never get caught. And people did. That was the worst part. Leave it to humans to be the worst kind of animals there were. A homeless woman sleeping rough made for fair game for drunken louts looking for a bit of cheap fun on their way home. Worst if they carried knives. Even worse still if they were off their faces on drugs.
‘Go ‘way,’ she muttered, curling over.
‘You really need to go somewhere else,’ he insisted. ‘There’s a shelter on Conroy Street, or if you won’t go there, at least try under the McKintock overpass.’ It might be crowded under there, but there was safety in numbers. ‘Please,’ he said, undeterred, kneeling to put a hand on her filthy shoulder. ‘You really need to go.’
She shook him off. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Sod off. I’m not moving. You can’t make me go!’
Duncan blinked, his eyes assaulted by bright sunlight. The cityscape was gone, replaced by unseen miles of desert scrub and crumbling stone walls. The woman was younger now, olive skinned in long black robes.
‘No. You mustn't stay here,’ he tried to tell her. ‘It isn’t safe.’ Deep brown eyes looked back at him from beneath her headscarf, uncomprehending. He didn’t have the words to articulate the danger in a language she could understand. He hadn’t picked up much more than hello and thank you. They weren’t sure if they could trust these soldiers no matter the language.
This was ridiculous. He couldn't have civilians trying to live in this place. He grabbed her by the arm, gently but firmly. ‘You have to come with me. Please.’
She tried to pull away from his grip, gabbering a whole litany of words and phrases he couldn't understand. He got the gist of it from the tone of her voice though. We're not going. Where can we go if not here? Please let go of me.
‘It’s too dangerous. Danger,’ he repeated, certain that the word could carry meaning beyond the language barrier.
The woman cast her gaze around. ‘Hafsa! Hafsa!’ A small child skipped through the gorse and the woman ran after her.
‘No!’ Duncan yelled, scarpering after her until something knocked him backwards, making the world spin. A ball of flame and smoke billowed into the clear blue sky.
The wails of the child were so shrill and high pitched it was a wonder that they could be heard by human ears. They seemed to spiral higher and higher in pitch as their desperation grew. Duncan wanted to run to the child, to bundle it in his arms and cover its eyes so that it wouldn't see what had become of the thing that had once been its mother. There wasn’t enough of her left now to recognise as a body. He wanted to move but he couldn't. Fear gripped him. One move could set off another mine. Who knew how many were out here, and here he was, stuck in an endless sea of unknown death. Then something else struck his consciousness. Pain. He looked down, his fatigues in tatters, thick red blood running down his arm where he’d held it up to his face.
He hadn’t thought he’d been hit, but now he could see the shards of shrapnel lodged in his skin. Bits of broken metal and glass everywhere. A thousand pinpricks of pain all over his body. And still the child screamed.
He blinked again and the blood was gone. The world was dark again, concrete and glass. The back of his hand was instead pockmarked with a dozen scars. Scars that ran up his arm, down his torso, and along his legs. Scars that made him look like he’d been run through a cheese grater. Scars that had seen him discharged from the reservist forces and shipped back home without so much as a commendation. He’d been a mute for months. When he tried to speak all he heard in his head was that child screaming for its mother, so he’d stopped talking altogether. It had taken almost a year until he could vocalise his words again, keeping up the practice until he was certain his whole world wouldn’t cave in on him. Small wonder he couldn’t sleep.
Duncan stood and turned from the woman. Nowhere was safe.
Title: Stages of grief
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: M
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: In Duncan’s mind, there’s no escaping the past.
Duncan wandered the city streets, unable to find sleep as he’d tossed and turned in bed, finally conceding defeat and leaving his pokey apartment behind him. His restless feet and restless head led him through the dark corners of a city gone quiet. He craved solitude but instead came upon a rumpled woman lying in the sheltered lee of a bookshop doorway.
There was something inherently common amongst the homeless. It wasn’t the caked on dirt that held their clothes together or the manky pile of possessions. There was an air about them that spoke to their loss of humility. That they didn’t look down on themselves with pity or bitterness. They simply were, and what other people might have thought of them when they went past, trying hard to not appear as if they were gawking, didn’t even register. They had hard faces, thin and wrinkled like raisins, yet frail was not a word Duncan would have used to describe them. They were like weeds, unwanted and unloved, yet indomitably existing in even the tiniest cracks.
He’d been out of the police force for eight years now, but still the old habits died hard. Moving on homeless people from out of the sight of the hoi polloi was just part of the job. And where exactly were the police anyway? Not here doing their sodding job, that was for sure.
He nudged the woman with the toe of his boot. ‘You can’t sleep here,’ he said, ‘it’s not safe for you.’ He cast his gaze around a second time. Dark shadows rose up from every corner without a CCTV camera in sight. A complete blackspot where anyone might do anything and never get caught. And people did. That was the worst part. Leave it to humans to be the worst kind of animals there were. A homeless woman sleeping rough made for fair game for drunken louts looking for a bit of cheap fun on their way home. Worst if they carried knives. Even worse still if they were off their faces on drugs.
‘Go ‘way,’ she muttered, curling over.
‘You really need to go somewhere else,’ he insisted. ‘There’s a shelter on Conroy Street, or if you won’t go there, at least try under the McKintock overpass.’ It might be crowded under there, but there was safety in numbers. ‘Please,’ he said, undeterred, kneeling to put a hand on her filthy shoulder. ‘You really need to go.’
She shook him off. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Sod off. I’m not moving. You can’t make me go!’
Duncan blinked, his eyes assaulted by bright sunlight. The cityscape was gone, replaced by unseen miles of desert scrub and crumbling stone walls. The woman was younger now, olive skinned in long black robes.
‘No. You mustn't stay here,’ he tried to tell her. ‘It isn’t safe.’ Deep brown eyes looked back at him from beneath her headscarf, uncomprehending. He didn’t have the words to articulate the danger in a language she could understand. He hadn’t picked up much more than hello and thank you. They weren’t sure if they could trust these soldiers no matter the language.
This was ridiculous. He couldn't have civilians trying to live in this place. He grabbed her by the arm, gently but firmly. ‘You have to come with me. Please.’
She tried to pull away from his grip, gabbering a whole litany of words and phrases he couldn't understand. He got the gist of it from the tone of her voice though. We're not going. Where can we go if not here? Please let go of me.
‘It’s too dangerous. Danger,’ he repeated, certain that the word could carry meaning beyond the language barrier.
The woman cast her gaze around. ‘Hafsa! Hafsa!’ A small child skipped through the gorse and the woman ran after her.
‘No!’ Duncan yelled, scarpering after her until something knocked him backwards, making the world spin. A ball of flame and smoke billowed into the clear blue sky.
The wails of the child were so shrill and high pitched it was a wonder that they could be heard by human ears. They seemed to spiral higher and higher in pitch as their desperation grew. Duncan wanted to run to the child, to bundle it in his arms and cover its eyes so that it wouldn't see what had become of the thing that had once been its mother. There wasn’t enough of her left now to recognise as a body. He wanted to move but he couldn't. Fear gripped him. One move could set off another mine. Who knew how many were out here, and here he was, stuck in an endless sea of unknown death. Then something else struck his consciousness. Pain. He looked down, his fatigues in tatters, thick red blood running down his arm where he’d held it up to his face.
He hadn’t thought he’d been hit, but now he could see the shards of shrapnel lodged in his skin. Bits of broken metal and glass everywhere. A thousand pinpricks of pain all over his body. And still the child screamed.
He blinked again and the blood was gone. The world was dark again, concrete and glass. The back of his hand was instead pockmarked with a dozen scars. Scars that ran up his arm, down his torso, and along his legs. Scars that made him look like he’d been run through a cheese grater. Scars that had seen him discharged from the reservist forces and shipped back home without so much as a commendation. He’d been a mute for months. When he tried to speak all he heard in his head was that child screaming for its mother, so he’d stopped talking altogether. It had taken almost a year until he could vocalise his words again, keeping up the practice until he was certain his whole world wouldn’t cave in on him. Small wonder he couldn’t sleep.
Duncan stood and turned from the woman. Nowhere was safe.
no subject
no subject