[Diarmuid looks for a long moment at the book's cover.
And really, it's a strange thing. Everything Quentin says sinks into him like a pin in a cushion. And he thinks of the days he couldn't get out of bed. The days he fasted with a number of excuses for it, or the days he failed to hear the lessons in school, even though he was right there in the front of the class room. He thinks about the days he's laying in bed, scared to dream, staring at the walls and feeling like God may have really abandoned him. That hopelessness that coils around him even today —
"It feels so... endless.
I feel like I have little left to give of myself, to make it better. For anyone..."
So many dead people, so many times to be hurt, tricked, mentally exhausted... So little hope for what awaits him at home, his brothers' bodies not even buried — won't ever be buried.
"It's just getting harder and harder to believe that. That it won't last forever."
Perhaps Quentin is ill in a way Diarmuid cannot really understand. He's spent so much of his life feeling carefree, happy, oblivious to the way of the world. But the 16-year-old cannot help but feel some strange camaraderie in the way the man speaks of his sickness. He slides a hand over the cover carefully, along the indentations of illustration and coarse material, not able to look at Quentin.
"It hurts."
His voice is shrunken, like all the air's been let out of him.]
You feel that way sometimes, too?
[His eyes fill with tears, drip miserably down his cheeks. He hates what a child he is, always crying, always so emotional, especially as of late. Some days he wishes he could rip the feeling from himself like a long, ugly root. Then, he could be stronger. Someone who could actually defend others and not get himself hurt, worry everyone else.
His fingers tremble on the book.]
... I'm sorry if I made those feelings any worse.
I'm sorry I'm afraid of you. But I — I did... mean it. When I forgave you. I still mean it.
cw: depressive everything ever cont'd
And really, it's a strange thing. Everything Quentin says sinks into him like a pin in a cushion. And he thinks of the days he couldn't get out of bed. The days he fasted with a number of excuses for it, or the days he failed to hear the lessons in school, even though he was right there in the front of the class room. He thinks about the days he's laying in bed, scared to dream, staring at the walls and feeling like God may have really abandoned him. That hopelessness that coils around him even today —
"It feels so... endless.
I feel like I have little left to give of myself, to make it better. For anyone..."
So many dead people, so many times to be hurt, tricked, mentally exhausted... So little hope for what awaits him at home, his brothers' bodies not even buried — won't ever be buried.
"It's just getting harder and harder to believe that. That it won't last forever."
Perhaps Quentin is ill in a way Diarmuid cannot really understand. He's spent so much of his life feeling carefree, happy, oblivious to the way of the world. But the 16-year-old cannot help but feel some strange camaraderie in the way the man speaks of his sickness. He slides a hand over the cover carefully, along the indentations of illustration and coarse material, not able to look at Quentin.
"It hurts."
His voice is shrunken, like all the air's been let out of him.]
You feel that way sometimes, too?
[His eyes fill with tears, drip miserably down his cheeks. He hates what a child he is, always crying, always so emotional, especially as of late. Some days he wishes he could rip the feeling from himself like a long, ugly root. Then, he could be stronger. Someone who could actually defend others and not get himself hurt, worry everyone else.
His fingers tremble on the book.]
... I'm sorry if I made those feelings any worse.
I'm sorry I'm afraid of you. But I — I did... mean it. When I forgave you. I still mean it.
That's — what I wanted to say, most of all.