Information
Siyre
Legacy Name: Siyre
The
Hydrus PherretOwner: Bolt
Age: 20 years, 4 months, 3 weeks
Born: October 31st, 2005
Adopted: 20 years, 4 months, 3 weeks ago (Legacy)
Adopted: October 31st, 2005 (Legacy)
Statistics
- Level: 12
- Strength: 28
- Defense: 24
- Speed: 25
- Health: 13
- HP: 13/13
- Intelligence: 1
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Second Person Narrative
Your fingers feel frail and thin as they fumble with the case where you keep your skins and your filters nestled in with your addiction. Rolling in the unlit alley is difficult, especially when the cold chews at you, almost as if you’re the gristle from the end of a bone. The very idea of sitting out in the cold usually dissuades you from smoking but today, there’s nothing you need more than a fag. You only have ten minutes so you sit there on the curb in your uniform, carefully balancing the case on your bare knee and trying not to let your skin make contact with the concrete step beside you.
The wind is tearing through the alley as though it’s a fine sheet of gauze, reddening your nose and whipping your hair into your face and your slightly open mouth. You always part your lips when you roll- especially when you’re trying to concentrate.
A loud clatter of something heavy colliding with the battered metal of the dumpster jolts you out of your thoughts. Some of the neatly packed tobacco spills onto the tarmac. You don’t notice for a moment – you are too transfixed on the jumble of tattered cloth, dirt and bones that has collapsed by the mouth of the alley. ‘He’ is about ten feet from the employee entrance where you have perched with your case. By now, half of the contents of your skin, save for the filter, have spilled onto the street. You curse and the pads of your fingers graze painfully against the concrete as you try to reclaim what had been the dregs of your packet. The man by the dumpster coughs and you can hear his lungs labouring from the sheer effort. He does not lift a wizened hand to cover his mouth, nor does he press the cheap flannel sleeve against his running nose.
Callously, you press the tobacco back into your cigarette and seal it, unconcerned with the bum’s presence. He coughs again, pauses to take a few gasping breaths and then picks up directly where he left off as you finally light up and watch him reproachfully. You absently wonder if you can finish your cigarette before you catch anything. A layer of what you sincerely hope is only dirt cakes his aged hands and crusts beneath his fingernails. His eyes, when they are open between coughing fits, look like muddied water. Working with the elderly has given you a high threshold for disgust and the pink of his gums when he wheezes does not bother you. You watch him with a strange mixture of curiosity and boredom, almost as if he is a particularly unflattering portrait rather than a person.
You finish your cigarette with a sigh of relief. The cough has been grating on your nerves and, although he has not noticed your constant staring, something about him makes you feel ill at ease. A headache is beginning to develop and you go inside early, almost grateful for the noise that surrounds you like a thick curtain. Anything, you think, is better than that wretched cough.
--
The remaining three hours of your shift are relatively normal. In the last few minutes, there are rumours of an ambulance near the west wing of the nursing home. You ignore them, choosing to focus on the very last bedpan that you have to change. As you finally leave in your street clothes, keys in hand, you head to the parking lot. A small crowd has clustered by the alley and, out of morbid curiosity, you elbow through the throng of people to see.
A gurney is being pulled towards the back of the ambulance. Most of what you can only assume is a body is covered. Your stomach lurches as you recognise a tattered flannel coat peeking out from beneath the sheet.
Your fingers feel frail and thin as they fumble with the case where you keep your skins and your filters nestled in with your addiction. Rolling in the unlit alley is difficult, especially when the cold chews at you, almost as if you’re the gristle from the end of a bone. The very idea of sitting out in the cold usually dissuades you from smoking but today, there’s nothing you need more than a fag. You only have ten minutes so you sit there on the curb in your uniform, carefully balancing the case on your bare knee and trying not to let your skin make contact with the concrete step beside you.
The wind is tearing through the alley as though it’s a fine sheet of gauze, reddening your nose and whipping your hair into your face and your slightly open mouth. You always part your lips when you roll- especially when you’re trying to concentrate.
A loud clatter of something heavy colliding with the battered metal of the dumpster jolts you out of your thoughts. Some of the neatly packed tobacco spills onto the tarmac. You don’t notice for a moment – you are too transfixed on the jumble of tattered cloth, dirt and bones that has collapsed by the mouth of the alley. ‘He’ is about ten feet from the employee entrance where you have perched with your case. By now, half of the contents of your skin, save for the filter, have spilled onto the street. You curse and the pads of your fingers graze painfully against the concrete as you try to reclaim what had been the dregs of your packet. The man by the dumpster coughs and you can hear his lungs labouring from the sheer effort. He does not lift a wizened hand to cover his mouth, nor does he press the cheap flannel sleeve against his running nose.
Callously, you press the tobacco back into your cigarette and seal it, unconcerned with the bum’s presence. He coughs again, pauses to take a few gasping breaths and then picks up directly where he left off as you finally light up and watch him reproachfully. You absently wonder if you can finish your cigarette before you catch anything. A layer of what you sincerely hope is only dirt cakes his aged hands and crusts beneath his fingernails. His eyes, when they are open between coughing fits, look like muddied water. Working with the elderly has given you a high threshold for disgust and the pink of his gums when he wheezes does not bother you. You watch him with a strange mixture of curiosity and boredom, almost as if he is a particularly unflattering portrait rather than a person.
You finish your cigarette with a sigh of relief. The cough has been grating on your nerves and, although he has not noticed your constant staring, something about him makes you feel ill at ease. A headache is beginning to develop and you go inside early, almost grateful for the noise that surrounds you like a thick curtain. Anything, you think, is better than that wretched cough.
--
The remaining three hours of your shift are relatively normal. In the last few minutes, there are rumours of an ambulance near the west wing of the nursing home. You ignore them, choosing to focus on the very last bedpan that you have to change. As you finally leave in your street clothes, keys in hand, you head to the parking lot. A small crowd has clustered by the alley and, out of morbid curiosity, you elbow through the throng of people to see.
A gurney is being pulled towards the back of the ambulance. Most of what you can only assume is a body is covered. Your stomach lurches as you recognise a tattered flannel coat peeking out from beneath the sheet.