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OPEN - PRE-DATED May 2 - 2015
Apr. 27th, 2015 04:13 pmThe Boardwalk is exactly as Milo remembers it, like not a single rock or slat of timber has moved or changed shape. He can smell the sea, and that's nice, he'd missed that, if nothing else. It beats the smell of pollution in the city by a long shot, even if it does mean that he's back in Siren Cove, probably making the biggest mistake of his life.
He'd gotten off the bus about an hour ago, and his feet brought him here first. He's pretty sure it's only because it's practically on the other side of town to the prison, and Milo's sure he can be forgiven for not wanting to launch straight into that old chestnut. It's nice here, calming, with the wind tousling his hair and the waves crashing, and he can shove his hands into his pockets to keep them warm and still appreciate the bite of cold on his face. The sea had always settled him, as a child, when sometimes the magic got too much and he needed a way to bite down on it and smother it back where it belonged. Milo doesn't need the outside influence so much anymore, but it's still relaxing knowing that the chances of him slipping here are very small.
He keeps his head tilted down a little as he sits and watches the water. It's a habit he'd mostly grown out of in the last ten years, where he could walk through NYC with his head held high and no fear of anyone recognising him. Here, the paranoia is back, and he wonders for the millionth time why he's thrown himself back into this hell, where everyone is going to kick him out as soon as they realise who he is. Still, it was something he needed to do. He ran away without even seeing their faces again. The last time he had was at the trial, while the sentence was read out and he sat completely still, terrified. On some level, he needs the closure. But it can wait a little while. Or a long while. He's perfectly happy to never move from this spot.
He'd gotten off the bus about an hour ago, and his feet brought him here first. He's pretty sure it's only because it's practically on the other side of town to the prison, and Milo's sure he can be forgiven for not wanting to launch straight into that old chestnut. It's nice here, calming, with the wind tousling his hair and the waves crashing, and he can shove his hands into his pockets to keep them warm and still appreciate the bite of cold on his face. The sea had always settled him, as a child, when sometimes the magic got too much and he needed a way to bite down on it and smother it back where it belonged. Milo doesn't need the outside influence so much anymore, but it's still relaxing knowing that the chances of him slipping here are very small.
He keeps his head tilted down a little as he sits and watches the water. It's a habit he'd mostly grown out of in the last ten years, where he could walk through NYC with his head held high and no fear of anyone recognising him. Here, the paranoia is back, and he wonders for the millionth time why he's thrown himself back into this hell, where everyone is going to kick him out as soon as they realise who he is. Still, it was something he needed to do. He ran away without even seeing their faces again. The last time he had was at the trial, while the sentence was read out and he sat completely still, terrified. On some level, he needs the closure. But it can wait a little while. Or a long while. He's perfectly happy to never move from this spot.
