Anywhere something isn't actively trying to kill them is an improvement. It's increasingly difficult to sort through his memories when so much of them are tainted by tragedy and danger and fear, though; bad things that can, will and have followed him from one place to the next such that even a transdimensional kidnapping is no relief. All his best memories share that same taint.
Most of them, he's not sure are real.
What he remembers is the beach. Hilton Beach in the height of summer; in July, it's 32°C, and the heat has a weight to it that drives people in droves towards the sea. The air smells like barbecue and the tang of sea foam, and tinny music wafts from stereos and pipes out of shops along the promenade, overshadowed in places by the joyous barking of dogs as they hurl themselves into the surf. The sunlight reflecting off the water hurts his eyes, but that he's dressed for the weather in Baedal in March appears to make no difference.
In high school his friends spent most of their time here. It's the most popular surfing destination in the city, in the country, really, and nobody cares if they hold each other's hands; no one says anything about any easy displays of affection, if they mean anything or not. No one calls them homos except each other and then it's just teasing.
It's all the normal teenager things he can remember without dragging something bad in with them -- it's the loitering at the mall, sneaking into gay bars along Dizengoff Street, pushing each other along the beach and into the water, smoking weed in the park at midnight when all the kids are gone, flirting without really meaning it, making fun of tourists. The faces of his friends are more like an amorphous blur, just like the crowds of people are present without actually being there, but even without picking out their facial features it's clear that they're happy and ignorant of the greater forces at work following them like a shadow, the ones he still feels like weights on his shoulders even while sleeping.
These are dreams he doesn't have, dreams about things that really happened when he was sleeping. Euphemisms make that sound more confusing than it is.
no subject
Most of them, he's not sure are real.
What he remembers is the beach. Hilton Beach in the height of summer; in July, it's 32°C, and the heat has a weight to it that drives people in droves towards the sea. The air smells like barbecue and the tang of sea foam, and tinny music wafts from stereos and pipes out of shops along the promenade, overshadowed in places by the joyous barking of dogs as they hurl themselves into the surf. The sunlight reflecting off the water hurts his eyes, but that he's dressed for the weather in Baedal in March appears to make no difference.
In high school his friends spent most of their time here. It's the most popular surfing destination in the city, in the country, really, and nobody cares if they hold each other's hands; no one says anything about any easy displays of affection, if they mean anything or not. No one calls them homos except each other and then it's just teasing.
It's all the normal teenager things he can remember without dragging something bad in with them -- it's the loitering at the mall, sneaking into gay bars along Dizengoff Street, pushing each other along the beach and into the water, smoking weed in the park at midnight when all the kids are gone, flirting without really meaning it, making fun of tourists. The faces of his friends are more like an amorphous blur, just like the crowds of people are present without actually being there, but even without picking out their facial features it's clear that they're happy and ignorant of the greater forces at work following them like a shadow, the ones he still feels like weights on his shoulders even while sleeping.
These are dreams he doesn't have, dreams about things that really happened when he was sleeping. Euphemisms make that sound more confusing than it is.