[ The young man body's is draping against the park bench, slow and easy (and maybe with something that almost seems like obedience; every gesture the man coaxes from him is met with easy compliance.) He lies down and blinks upwards at the man, long arms loose and limp at his sides. He stares, and it's difficult to tell how much is true comprehending and how much is a blank emptiness. Maybe at first it's more the latter, eyes so swollen black, devoid of much going on beneath the surface.
....But then there's something else, something that glitters like the black of an insect's eyes — not quite so empty. Maybe something does flutter there. Something is watching. (But who? What? The man says 'can you tell me your name' and the boy stares for another long moment, silent, unmoving, wet eyes stretching wider still.)
Name. He knows what that word means, doesn't he? But there are so many names, too many, he's been ripped open like a stuffed animal and refilled with too many. Zipped right back up, but the seams won't fit right anymore and he's about to burst wide open. The boy's tongue moves again, flutters. He gives a soft sound, like a whimper. What is his name?]
Don't.... don't know.
[ The voice that comes out is hoarse from lack of use, but the tone is soft. Almost too soft for the age that Peter appears to be; he sounds like a much younger child. His eyes slowly move to the waterbottle, staring there. An object he recognises, he thinks. The question comes of its own will. It isn't Peter's. ]
no subject
....But then there's something else, something that glitters like the black of an insect's eyes — not quite so empty. Maybe something does flutter there. Something is watching. (But who? What? The man says 'can you tell me your name' and the boy stares for another long moment, silent, unmoving, wet eyes stretching wider still.)
Name. He knows what that word means, doesn't he? But there are so many names, too many, he's been ripped open like a stuffed animal and refilled with too many. Zipped right back up, but the seams won't fit right anymore and he's about to burst wide open. The boy's tongue moves again, flutters. He gives a soft sound, like a whimper. What is his name? ]
Don't.... don't know.
[ The voice that comes out is hoarse from lack of use, but the tone is soft. Almost too soft for the age that Peter appears to be; he sounds like a much younger child. His eyes slowly move to the waterbottle, staring there. An object he recognises, he thinks. The question comes of its own will. It isn't Peter's. ]
Where's my grandma?