| [001] Point of Discovery |
[Dec. 16th, 2008|09:19 pm] |
8:08 A.M.
Soft beams of warmth from the sun filtered through the window curtains, a groan sneaking up from beneath the covers as a figure began to stir. Damien rolled on the plush mattress, his arm extending to lethargically caress the smooth skin of the naked woman beside him. His other arm reached out, fingers trailing along the rougher skin of the man laying on the other side of him. There was a slight pound to his head from the amount of alcohol he consumed the previous night, but he knew what remedies could cure that.
After sitting up slowly, now rubbing at his temples and proceeding to run his hands through his hair, he barely noted at how bright the room was. Wait-- it was bright. The sun was up. Pretty high up. Higher than normal. Shit. Today was Wednesday. He quickly snapped his gaze to the clock, blinking several times until the red digital numbers came into focus. It was after 8! Bloody Hell.
Damien acrobatically hopped over the woman, and scrambled hastily to find his bag. When he found the sack, he dumped out his postal uniform and threw it on, bouncing between each leg as he yanked on his pants and then hurriedly buttoned up his shirt. No time for a shower unfortunately. Without a second look back at the two forms on the bed (this wasn't even his place), he rushed off, needing to check in at the post office to collect the day's deliveries.
4:04 P.M.
Thankfully his supervisor Sylvia was an older woman who always had a liking for Damien. A satisfied smile upon his lips, he just delivered the final letter to the last house on his route. As he slung his bag carrier higher on his shoulder, he felt something firm bump his thigh. His bag should be empty. When he delved inside, his fingers clasped what felt like a package. He pulled it out, and saw the brown paper wrapped neatly around what seemed like some sort of book. He shook it just in case, and flipped the package over to see the name.
Damien Wesley Wright.
What the-? Well this is indeed my personal bag. Maybe it was a gift from Sylvia. He shrugged and casually tore the paper, revealing a leather-bound book. No hold on. This was a journal he realized as he flipped directly to the pages without studying the cover. What the fuck? A different array of handwriting filled the pages. Curiosity flourishing with him, he only briefly scanned the other entries when suddenly he noticed a few messy scribbles. Wanting to know what exactly was trying to be 'erased', he squinted and read the words, "I was lying when I said I liked Julie Stiles, I hate Save the Last Dance, not to mention she acted with Freddie Prinze Jr. in that one movie."
Julia Stiles? The last time I heard that name was with Mr. Film-maker. His stare drifted further up, and he saw the words, Hello little British omen. A chortle came from him and he smiled. Maybe this was a journal meant to be passed back between he and the film-maker. A little game the other wanted. Well he wouldn't mind--anything that was interesting.
Right there on the sidewalk beside the street, he squatted down and whipped out his handy pen. Biting his lower lip, he began to scribble his own set of words on the next blank page he found.
Well well Mr. Film-maker. Too afraid to tell me your true thoughts so you decided to scribble them down in this little notebook? How endearing... You say it all depends on me eh? What if I say no to the money, but yes to you.
Now it was a matter of seeing Linus again. Not so much to return the journal, but to show him what kind of omen he could be. Damien smirked. |
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