Falling Skies

Eight

The lights don't shine as bright in this corner of Haven, just a dim yellow glow that reflects back from the shining linoleum floors of the halls December roams.

It's nearly midnight yet the boy is restless, wandering the halls in his white pajama pants and Haven corporate sweatshirt, aware of every small tick of a clock or scuttle of an ant that graces his path. From somewhere in the distance there's a chorus of low murmurs and growls. The occasional snarl that leaves December still in his place, cautious of every corner he turns and what could be lurking behind it.

He doesn't know where he's going but anywhere is better than where he had come from. The place that has left him filled with so much confusion and doubt in himself and in his company as a whole.

To spy on Ryder? It's a notion that considers him less-than in the eyes of his mother, and while December always knew that she was never a fan, he always had a small glimmer of hope inside him that she still saw him as family. This is why Ryder worries so much... The thought finds itself popping up at every other corner he turns, the dim lights flickering and leading his way to who knows where, his bare feet turning numb against the freezing tiles of the floor.

He presses his sweatshirt closer to his body as a small shiver runs through him, the inside of his body unable to warm itself against the assault of the chill, just leaving him with an empty, void feeling within himself. It's a sensation he's never been fond of, it often comes with overthinking, with doubts, with worries, and it's almost always triggered by something that Ryder had done.

Ryder.

The name only brings mixed emotions at this point in his journey, a wall coming up in front of him, adorned with small pictures and a towering fern but empty apart from these few trinkets. December can't help but let out a small chuckle at the irony of it as he turns around and makes his way back to his bedroom, legs dragging sluggishly behind him from their mile long trek.

The air in the hallway is stale with no windows to relive it. Just the occasional fragrance of a fern or flowering bush popping up here and there as he passes them on his path back to his bedroom in the south wing of the building. His body slowing out of pure exhaustion as he forces each fatigued limb to carry on.

By the time he reaches the silver door of his bedroom he's out of breath, head falling forward and hitting the metal material with a hearty thud. Ignoring the pain that seeps into the center of his head from the impact, he swipes a key card against the standard 9 digit keypad beside every door and enters his 4 digit code, the room popping open as if greeting him from a prolonged hiatus.

His bedroom is better than his office. Although the standard white walls and floors still encase the bedroom, there at least seems to be more life here. Even with no windows, no communication with the outside world, just a small overhead light that casts the same dim yellow glow around the room, causing shadows to bounce around the walls that leave December uneasy, as if the ghosts of his past have crawled back to him...

Shaking his head he lets the thought go, he drags his body into the queen sized bed that lies pressed against the upper right corner of the room, the black comforter one of the only colors in the entire bedroom.

From the bookshelf strapped across the wall to the lines of shelves, even his closet stocked full of clothes and the shoes scattered around the entirety of the room. Everything is so sterile he notes, perfected, as if somehow having a purple jacket or pink couch would throw the entire balance out of whack.

He murmurs something unintelligible to himself, wrapping his body in the binding warmth of his comforter and pulling the covers over his shoulder. The fabric settles around his neck where he curls into them tighter, shutting his eyes against the glowing lights and waiting for sleep to find him...