chapter 25

Chapter 25

Ronin had left the school late, cusght in a situation he couldn't remember and yet knew got out of hand as he sat on his couch in his house that grew loud with the sound of his past seering in the pot, and the anxious demons that slammed on the table waiting for it.

He'd left his coat and boots on the floor adding to the clutter, for he had run out of room to put it in, and soon he'd run out of space to hold it.

This the dark figure to the left of him would narrate, leaning into him as his head rested in him.

Other than trauma that built pain his shoulders Ronin had noticed a new part of his head, for sitting the the right of him were the light.

The warm figure that lit the room, there it would cast shadow at everything he'd put inside the home, while Ronin could easily touch the light.

But the shadow on his shoulder would talk over him, act over him. And all he could do, would do was listen unable to imagine a world without the unconfort he'd grown comfortable with. The aspects of his mind that had built themselves in, sturdy off the foundation of his past his house would stand.

He'd wonder what would happen if he let his past cook, if he never turned the stove off, if he never shut the fosset off when he drank what little hope he'd installed to pipe under all he'd built, through the walls, through the doors, and through the lies that nailed them together.

It was when he drank that water that he would see the light of the figure glow, to use its light to use the throat that had clasped under regret that wrapped its hands around.

EdFor then he would begin to speak, aggravating the shadows that roam his house, but lighting the figure that turned to listen, he would grow closer when Ronin let him, until shoulder to shoulder Ronin spoke about wren. The hope that guided her words and the trust he put in her.

Ronins voice trailer on the topic eventually his hands would even narrate with him, growing fond of the topic he wouldn't notice the rest of the room fade, as the weight lifted from his shoulders, the kitchen grew quiet and the couch didn't sink quite as low.

For if he never looked down he wouldn't see as the lights stature slowly would soak up the darkness as it into began to seep into the warmth. Where it would stay until repurposed, made new, changed into something he would give Ronin.

Something that would build him up.

Incurag him,

Save him.

His father throwing the car door shut before locking it manually as he stuck the keys in turning them with a grunt while he rolled the bag straps back up his arm as he walked towards the dark house, trying the handle with his hand, unsurprised as it lay unlocked.

Stopping abruptly as it caught on ronin's boots that lay in the entry spread out with his other gear his father would have to put away with a sigh pushing the door open shuffling the rug beneath.

Walking through the kitchen he'd begun to unload the bag of groceries they'd needed for a while as he planned to make a meal rather than pick up her grown to used to. Closing the cabinet he turned to the fridge hesitanting to open it as his eyes met the empty door of the freezer, his hands falling off the edge he'd turned around leaning over the counter as he opened the draws running his hand through each one in an almost desperate movement.

He'd held his hands up to his head with a deep breath before grabbing a marker and shutting the drawer with his hip as he walked back to the fridge he'd left empty for so long.

His hand rested on its smooth door while he wrote with the marker, his eyes following it movement while flickering to Ronin who lay asleep across the couch, silent, peaceful, resting he lay amoung the rest of the dark house he had yet to light as well.

For just one step forward he would try to fill what he has left empty, complete what he never finished, live up to the man he never was.

For maybe if he could do that he would be able to get rid of the things that don't help him, rid of the things that hold him back, on step at a time he could try.

He could get better.

Lifting his hand it revealed what he had written, brining a smile to his face and a warmth to his chest.

It wasn't perfect handwriting, it wasn't perfectly straight, it wasn't.

And it never had to be perfect.

"7:00am Tuesday Ronins thing with Mrs camble"

It was a start.