![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Muse Write. Prompt set 68: Photos
This Photo
There were very few places in the world that Ronan felt safe. tutum unsafe. It was a by-product of being Ronan Lynch. There were nights yawning and black, impossible hours to fill, that even Monmouth felt like it was teetering on an edge that Ronan wasn’t ready to tumble from.
He drove fast on those nights, fast enough to be consumed by the speed, occupied by the focus it required. Once upon a time he’d been able to thrash himself upon the rocks of competition, of speed and fast cars, of the satisfaction that beating Kavinsky at his own game brought, but Kavinsky was gone and that was what Ronan missed the most about him.
He could turn to alcohol and sometimes he did, but the idea of his losing control scared Gansey and he had two ropey, thick scars on his wrists to remind him a promise he’d made, a promise that involved, among other things, not scaring Gansey like that again.
He could destroy things. This was, sometimes, Ronan’s preferred method of feeling safe, of losing himself, of attaining the peace that came with numbness. He threw things out of Monmouth’s windows, destroyed perfectly good walls and faces; he muddled his knuckles with blood and bits of skin that weren’t always his.
He could go the Barns where it was always safe, always home, always love, but all those things sleeping reminded him of Matthew and how he had no right to be so reckless with his life. It reminded him of things he’d yet to do and things he was afraid to do because Matthew wasn’t an ancient skeleton to be sprung out of sleep.
He could assault his brain with horrible music until everything went numb, until safe and unsafe didn’t matter anymore.
He could…
He could…
And yet, more often than not, Ronan found himself in a place that wasn’t remotely safe, a place rife with danger, brimming with things that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t have:
The floor of Adam Parrish’s shitty, one room apartment over St. Agnes church.
If anyone had told him a year ago he would have felt safe there, safe from dreaming nightmares, safe from being Ronan Lynch, he would have punched them at the least and beat the hell out of them at the most.
It wasn’t that it was the most comfortable place to sleep. He generally ended up balling his jacket up under his head and lying flat on his back next to Adam’s bed. Somehow stuffed in that tiny room that smelled of growing things and grease, with Chainsaw in the rafters and Adam breathing next to him, he felt tutus. Not only that, he felt things that the English language had no words for. He felt
salvus
And nine times out of ten that pissed him off, but he craved that feeling none the less, and he was learning to live with it. He was learning to enjoy it. He was learning
And becoming less pissed off about it.
[tutus=safe, protected, secure, sure, out of danger.
Salvus=safe, sound, unscathed, alive, free from difficulties
]
There were very few places in the world that Ronan felt safe. tutum unsafe. It was a by-product of being Ronan Lynch. There were nights yawning and black, impossible hours to fill, that even Monmouth felt like it was teetering on an edge that Ronan wasn’t ready to tumble from.
He drove fast on those nights, fast enough to be consumed by the speed, occupied by the focus it required. Once upon a time he’d been able to thrash himself upon the rocks of competition, of speed and fast cars, of the satisfaction that beating Kavinsky at his own game brought, but Kavinsky was gone and that was what Ronan missed the most about him.
He could turn to alcohol and sometimes he did, but the idea of his losing control scared Gansey and he had two ropey, thick scars on his wrists to remind him a promise he’d made, a promise that involved, among other things, not scaring Gansey like that again.
He could destroy things. This was, sometimes, Ronan’s preferred method of feeling safe, of losing himself, of attaining the peace that came with numbness. He threw things out of Monmouth’s windows, destroyed perfectly good walls and faces; he muddled his knuckles with blood and bits of skin that weren’t always his.
He could go the Barns where it was always safe, always home, always love, but all those things sleeping reminded him of Matthew and how he had no right to be so reckless with his life. It reminded him of things he’d yet to do and things he was afraid to do because Matthew wasn’t an ancient skeleton to be sprung out of sleep.
He could assault his brain with horrible music until everything went numb, until safe and unsafe didn’t matter anymore.
He could…
He could…
And yet, more often than not, Ronan found himself in a place that wasn’t remotely safe, a place rife with danger, brimming with things that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t have:
The floor of Adam Parrish’s shitty, one room apartment over St. Agnes church.
If anyone had told him a year ago he would have felt safe there, safe from dreaming nightmares, safe from being Ronan Lynch, he would have punched them at the least and beat the hell out of them at the most.
It wasn’t that it was the most comfortable place to sleep. He generally ended up balling his jacket up under his head and lying flat on his back next to Adam’s bed. Somehow stuffed in that tiny room that smelled of growing things and grease, with Chainsaw in the rafters and Adam breathing next to him, he felt tutus. Not only that, he felt things that the English language had no words for. He felt
salvus
And nine times out of ten that pissed him off, but he craved that feeling none the less, and he was learning to live with it. He was learning to enjoy it. He was learning
And becoming less pissed off about it.
[tutus=safe, protected, secure, sure, out of danger.
Salvus=safe, sound, unscathed, alive, free from difficulties
]