[November]
Nov. 7th, 2017 08:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
literaryimmortalityHawkeye had been one of the first people I messaged when the chaos started, and then again when it ended – although I'm not sure it has, yet. It's been a handful of days but people are still recovering and recuperating, and some people simply aren't ever coming back again. When the Purge was announced, I'd known there would be casualties.
I just hadn't quite grasped the reality. Like a lot of things in Darrow, it had been easy to feel detached from until it happened. I'd started writing about it beforehand and come up with nothing. Now I'm still struggling to come up with anything. It feels too soon. It feels too close. People have lost loved ones, people are nursing injuries they'll carry with them for the rest of their lives. And Hawkeye is carrying the memories of a bloody nightmare that I was privileged enough to stay away from.
I'm worried about him, even though I know this is something he's used to. He'd been a surgeon in a war, and a surgeon in general before that, so he's used to the blood and the fear and the chaos. The Purge and the war surely have something in common, the systematic destruction of human beings for a political agenda. The victims – both dead and surviving.
My immediate want is to go straight to him when I know he's back, but I know it's not my place and it's not the time. He needs space. Sleep. Time. I think we all do. After a few days, though, I send through a message and agree to meet up at his place. I feel almost sick as I make my way over, wondering what to say – if there's anything. Wondering if I should bring something. But there's nothing, and when he opens his door to me I'm at a loss except for three words. "I'm so sorry."
I just hadn't quite grasped the reality. Like a lot of things in Darrow, it had been easy to feel detached from until it happened. I'd started writing about it beforehand and come up with nothing. Now I'm still struggling to come up with anything. It feels too soon. It feels too close. People have lost loved ones, people are nursing injuries they'll carry with them for the rest of their lives. And Hawkeye is carrying the memories of a bloody nightmare that I was privileged enough to stay away from.
I'm worried about him, even though I know this is something he's used to. He'd been a surgeon in a war, and a surgeon in general before that, so he's used to the blood and the fear and the chaos. The Purge and the war surely have something in common, the systematic destruction of human beings for a political agenda. The victims – both dead and surviving.
My immediate want is to go straight to him when I know he's back, but I know it's not my place and it's not the time. He needs space. Sleep. Time. I think we all do. After a few days, though, I send through a message and agree to meet up at his place. I feel almost sick as I make my way over, wondering what to say – if there's anything. Wondering if I should bring something. But there's nothing, and when he opens his door to me I'm at a loss except for three words. "I'm so sorry."
