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[yardbird]

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Residency of Murphy Pendleton and Anne Marie Cunningham @ Ataraxion.


SIR MURPH PENDLETON THE THIRD IS IN.


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[ooc: Basically this post is for any miscellaneous pretendy funtimes that happen on the S. S. Pandorum, more specifically for anyone who just wants to visit Murphy's room for whatever reason. So if you want to just randomly drop in and say hi but don't feel like spamming the comm with logs and whatnot, shenanigans can happen here.

[P.S.: Action or prose format is fine... although a lot of people probably know by now that prose is my personal preference.]

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[forward dated to 08/15 ~ closed to anne cunningham]

[yardbird]

He could stay here forever. In fact, he wants to. The world's a hopeless place, but not here. Here, there are no monsters like Patrick Napier or George Sewell or creatures wearing someone else's skin. There is no pain or sadness or funerals for old memories.

No, here he can feel the breeze on his face. He can watch the gaping blue sky fall up forever and ever, and beyond that into an infinite universe. They are all part of the same cell, the same entity. Together in green fields and red flowers, at a tree where it would be just the two of them -- father and son.

By the old tree where they used to play together, a boy in a red jacket waves to him. There is not a single shadow on his expression, as if nothing has ever happened to him. There is a joyful innocence in him again, the same child who looks at the world with eyes that one can only hope to understand. He's learned so much from his son, who once gave him the greatest gift he could have ever asked for -- the chance to see the world from a new perspective.

"Come on, daddy! Hurry up!" His laughter echoes over the hills.

Every night it's a new game. Last night was tag. Tonight they're catching robbers.

"They're getting away, daddy!"

The boy's small body vanishes into the tall grass. He frantically hurries through the fields, looking down, scanning everywhere for movement but sees nothing. The grass blades sway as the wind picks up, carrying a spring scent that's so fresh and so vibrant that this has to be real. It's real, he tells himself. I'm awake now. Like a bad dream, but I am awake.

There is no spaceship, and he's stupid for ever thinking otherwise. He laughs at himself in hindsight now. To think that a few nights ago he just spent hours here, sharing his dreams of space to his son -- well, some of them. He tells the boy about all the people he had met in his dream: People with cat ears and a girl who uses feline puns, princesses and kings and lords and ladies, and people he knew who had been to a town called Silent Hill. He did not talk about Silent Hill very much to his son. Couldn't bring himself to recount the things he'd seen, the things he had done there. But he can't forget about them, either. The boy who thought he was a soldier. The girl who was kind of a god. The woman he later fell in love with. God forbid he ever tell his son about how he had feelings for a woman who wasn't his mother, even if it was a dream...

As much as he is glad that it's over, he misses them. All of them. Maybe when he sleeps later he can dream about them again, as he does every other night. Maybe he'll have something more that he can share with his son, who always sits at the tree. Even when he doesn't understand entirely what his dad is saying, he never gets bored.

Suddenly, the boy emerges from the grass beneath his feet, his hands pressed together like he's carrying a gun: "Bang bang!"

"You're not supposed to shoot me, Charlie!" But when the boy just stares at him, he hesitates, then swings his hand over his heart. "Friendly fire!"

He lands on his back, and the grass softens the fall.


In the waking world, a single word murmured from a man's tired voice: "Charlie..."

Murphy had been sleeping in a lot lately. Twelve hours had gone by each night for the past week, fading into morning. Some days it seemed that the only reason he ever woke up anymore was so that he could just go back to bed again, and today was no different.