An alarm was ringing. Clark fumbled his arm beyond the comfiness of his blanket, searching, seeking. There. He found his twin bell alarm clock and turned the lever at the top, silencing the menace. He yawned and opened his green eyes to a pitch-dark room, thanks to the blackout curtains. He turned on the lamp on his bedside drawer, next to his clock. With the click of the switch, his eyes reflexively squeezed shut as they adapted to the light.
He opened his bedside drawer and pulled out a large book. It was somewhat heavy, but not only in the physical sense. It was a dark grey, almost black leather hardcover, with no title or writing. Not that there'd be space for those, as the cover ornament took the entirety of it, with a mix of something between symbols, geometry and decorative embellishments. Those were all made of a silvery metal that was embedded into the book's cover, barely protruding from the aged cover, filled with what looked like small scratches and scuff marks all over.
Fingers slid over the cover as he felt the metal ornaments, not being able to feel any of the scratches and scuff marks that his eyes could definitely tell were there, the metal and leather felt smooth and flawless. He opened the tome, revealing aged, slightly yellowed pages within.
He flipped to the chapter list, tracing it down with his finger in routine, quickly passing by a mix of chapters written in either black or red ink. Passing a red chapter, abruptly pausing and going back to it, eyes widening. 'Samuel Hill - ...' he read again. His brows furrowed as his lips pressed into a tight line. He let out a deep sigh before he traced the rest of the chapters, found no new surprises, and closed the tome with a snap.
'There's a better time and place for these emotions.' He thought as his eyes glistened after closing the book. 'I knew this would happen someday soon. I had accepted it. I thought I was prepared and ready. Guess you can't truly prepare yourself even when you know it's coming, if you get attached. Well, I did keep hoping for him to live another day, another week, then a month, before this finally came to pass. Four months is already more than I anticipated when I initially met him.'
Clark closed his eyes. He focused on a specific part from the stories of a woman whose chapter was also written in red ink. She never truly allowed herself to grieve the loss of her son in her later years and kept her emotions bottled up. That emotional repression was what Clark was focusing on channeling. Aligning himself with that specific aspect of her story, he felt the stone on his heart get lighter and lighter, until he could no longer perceive it. He slowly let out a breath as he opened his eyes, then got out of bed.
After he had got dressed in jeans and a deep red t-shirt, he walked out to his living area and opened the door to the adjacent bathroom on his right. A relatively small one with a shower, currently obscured by a curtain, with vinyl flooring, white tiled walls and wooden ceiling. As he was staring at his reflection in the mirror while brushing his teeth, he looked up before combing his brown hair with his fingers to get rid of bed hair, eyes slightly and uncharacteristically lifeless, mind elsewhere.
When he left his bathroom, he crossed his living room to his kitchenette and walked to his DVD player at the end of the kitchen counter. He looked through his collection of CDs. 'Not feeling this... Not that either... Chopin's nocturnes? That fits the mood.' He pulled the disc out and inserted it into the player, chose Nocturne 20, then put it on shuffle and pressed play. The melancholic piano started playing as he got to preparing breakfast. Two slices of ham and cheese sandwich along with a glass of milk, which he sat down to eat on his old but fairly well-kept, ornately carved dark wood dinner table. He noted how the food tasted... blander than usual.
As he finished eating and cleaning his dishes away, he glanced at his antique grandfather clock standing against his living room wall, noting it was 7:30 am. He took the prepared magazine with word puzzles from the counter before pausing and looking down at it in contemplation. Opening it, he flipped through the pages, the first third of the magazine filled with 2 different sets of handwriting intermixed. He sighed, shoulders slumped slightly despite the emotional repression as he thought, 'Guess I don't need to-' He paused. 'It'd be odd to not bring it with me. Act normal.' "Might as well take it then..." he muttered, as he placed it in his black backpack along with his tome, turned the DVD player off, turned back to the kitchen to pack a few tissues, got his earbuds in, choosing the playlist with Chopin's best from his phone to continue listening to the same composer through his commute.
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After putting his shoes on and wearing his backpack, he checked his pockets for his keys and phone, confirming them, he left his apartment, testing the handle to make sure it was locked. He then walked down three flights of stairs in the apartment building's internal stairway, steps echoing loudly.
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At the end of his 15-minute bus ride towards the more outskirts of the city, Clark was looking out of his window as brick buildings generally around three to five stories tall were whizzing by, Clark noted how the trees next to the sidewalks were getting properly green now. 'About time, it hasn't been cold for a while now.' As his bus slowed to his stop, he got up, and when the doors opened with a hiss, he got off. Turning to his left, he headed towards the familiar parklike area with fewer buildings, replaced by mostly grass and trees, with only a few sporadic buildings on the edges of it. After a few minutes, the elderly home came into view, a few separate and connected buildings, mostly older brick and stone, two stories high, surrounded by greenery.
Clark walked towards the building's entrance, a string for the automatic door opener hanging from the ceiling outside the building. The door opened as he pulled on it, and as he stepped inside, he noticed someone coming, so he held the door open so it wouldn't close on her, greeting her with a polite smile as she passed him. "Good morning."
"Morning. Thanks," she said as she hurriedly carried a cardboard box towards one of the elderly home's side buildings.
Gaze lingering on her for a moment as he walked inside, turning around after a step. 'Is she a new employee or volunteer? Haven't seen her before. Or it's a random relative, carrying a box to the other building mainly for employees... unlikely.'
Stopping in the entrance, he reached into his backpack to retrieve the magazine before he focused on the story he had actively aligned with, before detaching himself from it. Then he entered the lobby and turned right, swerving past the large potted plant towards the reception desk, with a small smile and a wave with the magazine. "Morning, Claire!"
She looked up and a small smile appeared in recognition of the voice and the face, but it wavered as she looked at him, then turned into a small frown as she noticed the magazine. "Morning, Clark. I'm sorry, but I have bad news." She said slowly.
He slowed down his steps with a slightly confused expression, "Sorry?"
"Mr. Hill passed away last night." She said as her eyes moved back to the magazine in his hand, then back to him.
He stopped walking. His eyes widened before he looked down at the magazine in his hand. "Oh." he said softly, "I see." His eyes slightly teared up now that he had detached from the story.
Claire looked at him with a tinge of sadness, "You going to be alright?"
He pulled out some tissues and wiped his eyes. "Yeah- I mean no, but I will be."
"It might be better to take the day off today. We always appreciate you volunteering, but you need to take care of yourself. You and Sam had gotten quite close. Losing someone is never easy."
Nodding slowly, he answered after a moment, "Maybe I should." His gaze turned to meet hers. "Thank you. See you next time, then." He mumbled, then turned and walked back towards the entrance. Feeling slightly guilty.
His lower back felt like the tome in his backpack was trying to burn a hole through it. He knew he was imagining it.