The Rhythm of Your Heart [Yan!DSMP x Reader]

CHAPTER XXXIX: The Magician

His house is a mess. It always has been.

The rooms are all dark. There's no working light, and the candles are the only few sources that allow Jared to see, although the question is if he truly wants that. The walls, all dirty and covered with insects, have some old photos that he managed to get back via Sally. He's grateful to have some of his own belongings back, even if it's just a fraction of them. After all, everyone else must've forgotten that they were once his, despite the promise their great-grandparents gave.

The couch is old and filled with holes. There's no sign of modern technology, only a radio hidden away, to make sure that he doesn't get paranoid someone will find it. The house in which he lives is small and old, and isn't even a part of the town itself anymore, instead nearing the river over which the small bridge goes. He's not inside of the borders of what Crimson protects, but it's not like any human will be able to see him anyway. He's a mere ghost of the past. A nameless victim, with a nameless family.

He's a forgotten memory. It's not hard for him to acknowledge this. A remnant of what happened, not alive, but not dead either. A spirit, unable to come with peace to what happened to him and the strangers with whom he lived for those unbearable months. Hell, maybe he'd lived with them even longer; it certainly felt like an eternity. But then again, any type of suffering makes time go so slow, especially when you're starving and ill.

He turns his eyes to one of the photos on the wall. The photo of the old hotel owned by a person who tried so hard to protect him. A part of the resistance, perhaps, even if he tried to show collaboration. Honestly, though, Jared has easily moved on from his death, but he does know that the man's passing made it tough to trust anyone ever again. Jared knows how it goes in those times, though. War is all about survival. You'd much rather kill an innocent person than risk hesitating and being the one dying instead.

It's nature's first rule. Kill, or be killed. Eat, or be eaten. A sad truth, but at least Jared will never have to follow it again. He considers himself a pacifist, after all. He'd never bear a weapon, or hurt someone intentionally. The moment that happens, he's certain he'll lose himself to the images that are plaguing his mind already.

He puts his hands on his arms, his fingers tracing his long sleeves. Something's wrong. Terribly wrong, and he knows for sure. He should be feeling meat. A bit of fat. Some muscles. But he only feels bone. His skin, tightly stretched over his skeleton. He shouldn't be this skinny. The cycle is going too fast.

Or maybe, he's just misremembering things? Maybe he was this thin when he was mid-twenties as well, even if it was before he was captured. That might've been the case. There's no other possibility.

Work, work, work. That's all he's been doing since he arrived here again with you. It's a distraction, he thinks. That, and it's the only thing that makes him feel whole. That makes him feel worthy. That makes him feel free.

The house is dark and melancholic. Even if he never lived here before, he can feel its history. The people killed. The spirits who died and never found rest, only to fade away and become a part of the place. If he doesn't found a way to shatter himself, he'll surely be just like them. Only question is what he'll end up holding onto.

He turns to the plushie on the couch. If he is to fade and to choose an object to stay with forever, that will be it. It's not the teddy bear which belonged to his child, back when they were still alive, but it's rather a representation of them. He has lost the original, after all, but this one is an exact replica, created right after the end of the war.

Some days, the very few times that he'd actually spend time in this godforsaken ruin, he'd just lie down on the couch and cry, holding the teddy bear close to himself. Sometimes, his mind persuades him into thinking it's one of his children, or hell, the woman he wanted to marry, which only worsens the sadness. Every week, he falls down on here, puts the plushie against his chest and cries. There's no pain worse than the loss of his family in such an unjustified and agonizing way. At least with his brother, he could have a last conversation, before he died to exhaustion and starvation. If he is to actually end up going to Heaven, God will have to beg for his forgiveness. What he and his people went through, is something that should never have happened.