oom: upstairs
Jun. 18th, 2008 01:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lasthalfmileThere's nothing remarkable about the room he stays in when he's feeling like he needs to be a bit 'normal', but Dan Evans has never been a man in search of the finer things in life. Sure, he'd like to live in a fine house with nice things, but he's not kidding himself when it comes to two facts:
He can't afford it, and, he's dead.
Dan doesn't really even need a room, sometimes he just...comes and goes. He doesn't need to eat that often, and he only does when he feels like he's missing out on...life.
The room he keeps upstairs is small; wooden floors, a bed large enough for two, an attached washroom. There's a chair near the window which looks out over the lake and woods, a bedside table with a small stack of books, a chest at the foot of the bed to hold his things. Not much in that, either.
No matter, because simple works for him.
Technically, Dan doesn't need to sleep, since he's never really tired, but sometimes it's comforting to lie down on clean linen sheets and stare at the ceiling. He clears his head of worries, only to let it fill back up again:
Are they happy? Is the crop doing alright? William listening to his mother? Butterfield give them the money? Are they hungry? Scared? Hurting for anything at all?
Dan sighs as he closes his eyes and then sits up on the bed. Being dead has advantages, sure. But the unknown, the unseen, the unheard of things, those are what worry him the most.
That night he takes the time to clean himself up a bit more than he usually would, trying to wash the oil from his skin, the grit from under his nails. He's clean, of course, but he can't help but stare at himself in the sheet of glass mirror mounted over the sink. Skin still tan, weathered, eyes still brown, hair still falling just the way it was.
The day that he died.
Brown eyes wander to pale skin on his chest; pink scars, four of them. Charlie Prince was a damn good shot with a pistol but by stroke of...something, he missed his heart. Dan fingers lightly at his skin, looking at himself in the mirror, at those scars.
It was a blue sky afternoon, in Contention. Snow on the outskirts, crisp air, split only by the sound of a steam whistle and the hiss of hydraulics as the train pulled into the station. He got him on the train, the famous Ben Wade, on the train to Yuma prison.
He got him on the train.
William told him so, as he laid there on that ground, staring up at that shadow, into the eyes of one of the most feared men in the territories. His boy told him that he'd done it, he'd gotten Ben Wade on that prison train.
Took four shots to the chest and dyin' in front of his son's eyes, but he'd done it.
You done it, Pa. You got him on the train.
Dan moves from the mirror to leave the washroom, hand steady on the doorframe as he makes his way, eyes falling on the wooden boot and leather straps sitting up against the chest. A few careful hops get him across the distance between the washroom and the bed and he flops down on those linen sheets and pulls himself to the center.
It feels weird to be sleeping alone, even more because he doesn't have to sleep at all. He could stay up for hours, days, weeks, and never get tired, lost in his thoughts, trapped in memories of Bisbee and a train depot in Contention.
Two days.
Only took Ben Wade two days from being put on that prison train to escape custody (and kill another man, a rancher, a bullet between the eyes -- but who's keeping count, anyways?) and gain his freedom.
Two days.
He gave up everything, all of it:
The way she smiled when he'd walk up behind her and kiss her shoulder while she was standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the boys. The way William would look at him after a hard day's work with the team. The way Mark would curl up against his shoulder when he was sitting on his lap, reading him verses from the Bible. The feel of fresh dirt in his hands and the tick of a pocketwatch when he'd hold it near his ear, the wind against his face, so hot and dry it would burn your throat. Dust so dry it stuck to your sweat like glue, and rains against the roof of the barn, lightning crashing down from the heavens.
For two days.
Dan stares at the ceiling a long time, thinking about that. About the whole picture of things.
Little red ants on a hill.
Marching one by one to find their way home.
Home.
He was going to go home. Not to stay, of course, he couldn't stay, not longer than three days. Anything else and he'd risk not getting back to the bar, back at all...but to what? A quiet room upstairs, food that he doesn't need to eat, whiskey that burns his throat but doesn't still his nerves, people and faces in a crowd that's always changing, always moving. Like a busy train station back East. People coming and going and always heading somewhere.
Ants.
"So she gave me a bible, sat me down in the train station, told me to read it. She was gonna get our tickets. Well, I did what she said. I read that bible from cover to cover. It took me three days. She never came back."
Three days.
Three days to lose his mama.
Only took two to break those shackles and mount up on that black horse of his, though. And for what? Four bullets and a dead rancher lying next to the train, six bullets and six dead members of his outfit, lying next to him. Dan saw that, while he was lying on the ground, the way Ben cut them all down. Took two shots to kill Charlie Prince, looked him right in the eyes as he blew his heart out, held him close before he dropped him too. He saw all that, before the sky grew dark with shadows and the hissing from the train faded away.
He'd got him on the train.
And even if he'd gotten off it, two days later, that half mile -- those last four steps, those last four bullets, that one last look -- that last half mile was worth it.
So was his life.
He can't afford it, and, he's dead.
Dan doesn't really even need a room, sometimes he just...comes and goes. He doesn't need to eat that often, and he only does when he feels like he's missing out on...life.
The room he keeps upstairs is small; wooden floors, a bed large enough for two, an attached washroom. There's a chair near the window which looks out over the lake and woods, a bedside table with a small stack of books, a chest at the foot of the bed to hold his things. Not much in that, either.
No matter, because simple works for him.
Technically, Dan doesn't need to sleep, since he's never really tired, but sometimes it's comforting to lie down on clean linen sheets and stare at the ceiling. He clears his head of worries, only to let it fill back up again:
Are they happy? Is the crop doing alright? William listening to his mother? Butterfield give them the money? Are they hungry? Scared? Hurting for anything at all?
Dan sighs as he closes his eyes and then sits up on the bed. Being dead has advantages, sure. But the unknown, the unseen, the unheard of things, those are what worry him the most.
That night he takes the time to clean himself up a bit more than he usually would, trying to wash the oil from his skin, the grit from under his nails. He's clean, of course, but he can't help but stare at himself in the sheet of glass mirror mounted over the sink. Skin still tan, weathered, eyes still brown, hair still falling just the way it was.
The day that he died.
Brown eyes wander to pale skin on his chest; pink scars, four of them. Charlie Prince was a damn good shot with a pistol but by stroke of...something, he missed his heart. Dan fingers lightly at his skin, looking at himself in the mirror, at those scars.
It was a blue sky afternoon, in Contention. Snow on the outskirts, crisp air, split only by the sound of a steam whistle and the hiss of hydraulics as the train pulled into the station. He got him on the train, the famous Ben Wade, on the train to Yuma prison.
He got him on the train.
William told him so, as he laid there on that ground, staring up at that shadow, into the eyes of one of the most feared men in the territories. His boy told him that he'd done it, he'd gotten Ben Wade on that prison train.
Took four shots to the chest and dyin' in front of his son's eyes, but he'd done it.
You done it, Pa. You got him on the train.
Dan moves from the mirror to leave the washroom, hand steady on the doorframe as he makes his way, eyes falling on the wooden boot and leather straps sitting up against the chest. A few careful hops get him across the distance between the washroom and the bed and he flops down on those linen sheets and pulls himself to the center.
It feels weird to be sleeping alone, even more because he doesn't have to sleep at all. He could stay up for hours, days, weeks, and never get tired, lost in his thoughts, trapped in memories of Bisbee and a train depot in Contention.
Two days.
Only took Ben Wade two days from being put on that prison train to escape custody (and kill another man, a rancher, a bullet between the eyes -- but who's keeping count, anyways?) and gain his freedom.
Two days.
He gave up everything, all of it:
The way she smiled when he'd walk up behind her and kiss her shoulder while she was standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the boys. The way William would look at him after a hard day's work with the team. The way Mark would curl up against his shoulder when he was sitting on his lap, reading him verses from the Bible. The feel of fresh dirt in his hands and the tick of a pocketwatch when he'd hold it near his ear, the wind against his face, so hot and dry it would burn your throat. Dust so dry it stuck to your sweat like glue, and rains against the roof of the barn, lightning crashing down from the heavens.
For two days.
Dan stares at the ceiling a long time, thinking about that. About the whole picture of things.
Little red ants on a hill.
Marching one by one to find their way home.
Home.
He was going to go home. Not to stay, of course, he couldn't stay, not longer than three days. Anything else and he'd risk not getting back to the bar, back at all...but to what? A quiet room upstairs, food that he doesn't need to eat, whiskey that burns his throat but doesn't still his nerves, people and faces in a crowd that's always changing, always moving. Like a busy train station back East. People coming and going and always heading somewhere.
Ants.
"So she gave me a bible, sat me down in the train station, told me to read it. She was gonna get our tickets. Well, I did what she said. I read that bible from cover to cover. It took me three days. She never came back."
Three days.
Three days to lose his mama.
Only took two to break those shackles and mount up on that black horse of his, though. And for what? Four bullets and a dead rancher lying next to the train, six bullets and six dead members of his outfit, lying next to him. Dan saw that, while he was lying on the ground, the way Ben cut them all down. Took two shots to kill Charlie Prince, looked him right in the eyes as he blew his heart out, held him close before he dropped him too. He saw all that, before the sky grew dark with shadows and the hissing from the train faded away.
He'd got him on the train.
And even if he'd gotten off it, two days later, that half mile -- those last four steps, those last four bullets, that one last look -- that last half mile was worth it.
So was his life.
