Information



Tranquilized


The Graveyard Feli
Owner: Color

Age: 3 years, 6 months, 2 weeks

Born: November 7th, 2009

Adopted: 3 years, 6 months, 2 weeks ago (Legacy)

Adopted: November 7th, 2009 (Legacy)


Pet Spotlight Winner
September 9th, 2012

Statistics


  • Level: 2
     
  • Strength: 10
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 0
     
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed


IF YOU HELD A GUN TO MY HEAD
I would smile and just say go ahead

A small room bustling with life, filled with the noise of clinking plates, of glasses and silverware, of chatter and laugher. The strong sound of a piano playing, musical notes thrown across the small dozen of tables, all occupied, all loud and cheerful, the smell of alcohol and warm food hanging in the air. A hint of perfume, too, every time the waitress passes, arms heavy with dishes, a smile lingering on her face, always a sharp word for the clients. She is swinging her imposing body from one person to the other, delivering, taking orders, exchanging a few words with those she knows before walking off again to the kitchens. It is a familiar sight, something usual, something comfortable people come back to. It is a small business, but it is full of life, every evening, busy yet carefree, comforting in that you know that whatever waits for you on the outside, this place will always be there to make you forget.

Suddenly, the lights fade out, unnoticed first until the room is almost black, a faint light coming from the streetlights through the great windows to transform the clients into silhouettes. Their chatter diminishes into a murmur, wondering, blinking at the ceiling and searching for an explanation, not really worried, only curious. The answer comes from the piano, from where a familiar tune starts, immediately recognized by everyone while their smiles broaden again, and a few drunken voices try to accompany the music with its lyrics, horribly out of tune but happy nonetheless. Eyes search for the chosen one, the one that simple song is for, the one who gains a year today.
The waitress emerges, chuckling, a plate in hand with a piece of cake prettily arranged, a candle sparkling on top, the faint smell of smoke trailing behind her with only a subtle splash of perfume mixed in. She swings toward the corner, where a man sits alone at a small table, his head in his shoulders and his gaze low, trembling slightly. The song ends, a wave of applause arises, accompanied by laugher and wishes of well being and a long life while the lights slowly fade back on, the noise of the room shooting up again.

A "Happy Birthday" comes from the woman's lips as she sets the plate on the table, waiting for a reaction. But the one she gets is not the one she was expecting. Slowly, the man lifts up his head, dark eyes rimmed with black meeting the waitress's hazel ones, revealing a face too thin and caved in to be healthy. Across chapped lips, a forced smile stretches, far too wide to be realistic, the shaking in his shoulders intensifying. He looks down again, then, trembling hands trying to open a small glass vial, the colorful pills inside emitting a rattling sound that only seems to make him more nervous. It pops open, spilling its content across the table, small blue and red medicaments rolling over the wooden support, clicking and falling and spreading while the shaking hands fall back down, unable to catch the tiny drugs.
Tears roll down the man's face then, jaws white from the clenched teeth, the sobbing drowned by the noise of the café as the woman hesitantly takes his hand, unsure of what to do, forgetting she has other clients to take care of. And the man crumbles into the warm touch of her fingers, his own pale and bony and freezing as he realizes that reality has caught up with him, even in this remote little bubble of joy where he had tried to escape the truth.

The last birthday is always sad.


Photo Credit.

Pet Treasure


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