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mayfield_rpg2012-07-11 11:41 pm
likesottlyfab) wrote in mayfield_rpg2012-07-11 11:41 pm
Entry tags:
[010] Not yet lost?
[A. Outside 1332 Benny Road - Backdated to the day after the end of Welcomefield]
[After spending the morning droned as Mr. Feliks Łukasiewicz, Poland actually smiles at the three boxes that showed up in the mail later on in the day. Lithuania said that Poland would get his nationhood back soon and it actually seemed like he would now!
Not even bothering to take them back into house, Poland just plops down on the front lawn with them. He'd already done his waiting, like months of it. He couldn't wait another minute. He runs the serrated edge of his house key along the tape securing the top of one of the boxes and pulls the cardboard flaps back.]
. . .
[Poland tilts his head as he looks down at the pull toy Ukraine gave him at America's Halloween party last year. The memory it brought back was nice, but... time to move onto the next box.]
. . .
[Which was full of clothes. Of course they were fabulous clothes, they were his after all. Any other time Poland would have been happy to get them back. But now they just left him with one box.]
. . .
[Poland hesitates slightly, his heart fluttering in his chest a little. It'd been a while since he'd felt this anxious over something. He was so carefree normally anyone would find it hard to believe that he actually did worry over things. And not getting his nationhood back was something he thought was worth worrying about. Taking a deep breath and scraping together the last of his optimism, Poland tears into the box and throws it open.
Sitting in the middle of the box is a single cup, filled simply with dirt.]
A cup. Of dirt.
[Poland picks up the cup to stare at it. When you spend a good portion of your life feeding the majority of Europe, you got to know dirt pretty well. Picking up a dirt clod and letting it break up in his hand, Poland recognizes it from home from just the feel of it.
This was his land.
But. Without his nationhood it was just... dirt.]
No. No way. No freaking way.
[Poland tears through the box of clothing one more time. Maybe he missed something. Maybe there was something else in here. There had to be something else in here. He can feel his hands shaking and his breath catching in his throat as he flings shirts and skirts and pants haphazardly all over the lawn, not caring where they land or that he'll have to scrub out grass stains later. The box empties quickly and he's left staring at nothing.
It wasn't fair. He'd never gone this long without knowing how they felt or what they looked like or what they were saying. He'd been wiped from the map for 123 god damn years only to be wiped out again a few years later and still he'd never been isolated from them like this. He was able to rise from the ashes of a ruined land because of them. They kept him going, they kept him fighting, they kept him alive. It was their belief in him that made him who he was.
Who the hell was he anymore without them?
He'd died.
He didn't want to admit it. The idea of dying was so utterly foreign to him that he refused to believe it had happened once before, right after coming to Mayfield. He'd died. And it happened again just yesterday.
He'd died because he'd tried to find a way out of this town and Mayfield sent a harsh reminder of what his existence was now. Mayfield's Mr. Łukasiewicz; Head of 1332 Benny Road, town tailor. That's who he'd spent the morning as anyway. Fixing his tie and shining his shoes. Greeting his wife and doting on his children. Maybe the happiness he'd been forced to feel this morning wasn't so terrible.
At least compared to the hollowness he felt trying to cling to the belief he was still Rzeczpospolita Polska...
....and the realization that without his people, there was no longer a reason for him to rise again.]
...
[Poland simply lays in his front yard holding the cup of dirt; surrounded by torn open boxes, discarded clothing, and the tipped over pull toy. He can't find the energy to do anything else right now.]
[After spending the morning droned as Mr. Feliks Łukasiewicz, Poland actually smiles at the three boxes that showed up in the mail later on in the day. Lithuania said that Poland would get his nationhood back soon and it actually seemed like he would now!
Not even bothering to take them back into house, Poland just plops down on the front lawn with them. He'd already done his waiting, like months of it. He couldn't wait another minute. He runs the serrated edge of his house key along the tape securing the top of one of the boxes and pulls the cardboard flaps back.]
. . .
[Poland tilts his head as he looks down at the pull toy Ukraine gave him at America's Halloween party last year. The memory it brought back was nice, but... time to move onto the next box.]
. . .
[Which was full of clothes. Of course they were fabulous clothes, they were his after all. Any other time Poland would have been happy to get them back. But now they just left him with one box.]
. . .
[Poland hesitates slightly, his heart fluttering in his chest a little. It'd been a while since he'd felt this anxious over something. He was so carefree normally anyone would find it hard to believe that he actually did worry over things. And not getting his nationhood back was something he thought was worth worrying about. Taking a deep breath and scraping together the last of his optimism, Poland tears into the box and throws it open.
Sitting in the middle of the box is a single cup, filled simply with dirt.]
A cup. Of dirt.
[Poland picks up the cup to stare at it. When you spend a good portion of your life feeding the majority of Europe, you got to know dirt pretty well. Picking up a dirt clod and letting it break up in his hand, Poland recognizes it from home from just the feel of it.
This was his land.
But. Without his nationhood it was just... dirt.]
No. No way. No freaking way.
[Poland tears through the box of clothing one more time. Maybe he missed something. Maybe there was something else in here. There had to be something else in here. He can feel his hands shaking and his breath catching in his throat as he flings shirts and skirts and pants haphazardly all over the lawn, not caring where they land or that he'll have to scrub out grass stains later. The box empties quickly and he's left staring at nothing.
It wasn't fair. He'd never gone this long without knowing how they felt or what they looked like or what they were saying. He'd been wiped from the map for 123 god damn years only to be wiped out again a few years later and still he'd never been isolated from them like this. He was able to rise from the ashes of a ruined land because of them. They kept him going, they kept him fighting, they kept him alive. It was their belief in him that made him who he was.
Who the hell was he anymore without them?
He'd died.
He didn't want to admit it. The idea of dying was so utterly foreign to him that he refused to believe it had happened once before, right after coming to Mayfield. He'd died. And it happened again just yesterday.
He'd died because he'd tried to find a way out of this town and Mayfield sent a harsh reminder of what his existence was now. Mayfield's Mr. Łukasiewicz; Head of 1332 Benny Road, town tailor. That's who he'd spent the morning as anyway. Fixing his tie and shining his shoes. Greeting his wife and doting on his children. Maybe the happiness he'd been forced to feel this morning wasn't so terrible.
At least compared to the hollowness he felt trying to cling to the belief he was still Rzeczpospolita Polska...
....and the realization that without his people, there was no longer a reason for him to rise again.]
...
[Poland simply lays in his front yard holding the cup of dirt; surrounded by torn open boxes, discarded clothing, and the tipped over pull toy. He can't find the energy to do anything else right now.]
no subject
no subject
I don't think I'll ever get it back. [He'd built up a thousand years worth of material crap back home for Mayfield to pull from and send through the mail. He could be waiting forever, if he even lived that long. Human bodies were so fragile and fleeting.]
no subject
[Tapping herself on the arm to prove her point. There's the distinctive sound of metal there.]
It's just taking a while.