There was never a time when his life wasn't about waiting. Waiting is normal. Waiting is all he's ever done--an agony of suspense, of anticipation, frustration and hope and tedium all at once. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for his miracle, waiting for an, the explanation, the one that would allow him to be fixed. Waiting for what was wrong with him. Waiting to live. Waiting to die. Waiting for decay. For the clock to stop. For the earth to crack open. Waiting for opportunity. For excitement. For purpose. For pain. For that feeling.
For the one second it counts.
Waiting for the universe to notice: for his judgment, his absolution, his fate. The finalisation of his sick, pointless life. Interminable, so close and yet so inexorably far, just on the other side of the next second--just on the other side of eternity. For the end at which all his waiting would finally satisfy and the ending would be complete.
His time, his existence is hollowed out. There's an end to it, a set point, and it feels like Nothing.
The trailer floor creaks under his weight as he shifts his position, hooked clawtips snagging on carpet fibres. He stares at them between his paws, transluscent squiggles twined together in loops. He doesn't fit on the bed any more, but he doesn't mind that. It's appropriate, being relegated to the floor. Like a... well, like an animal.
At least being a bear again doesn't feel bad. It's... almost comfortable. Comforting? No. That's... stupid. That's definitely wrong.
But it's not... bad.
He can't get too used to it. Nothing here lasts. Which is.... in itself, that's actually comforting. Impermanence... meaninglessness. That's something he can understand. Even appreciate.
But bitter comfort.
He's been absorbing his memories, slowly, stories cracking open like eggs, in pieces.
It's an absolute void of purpose, the absence of matter. Of presence. He's isolated by time and space now.
But without resolution or even the hope thereof: those precious, vitalising glimpses of oblivion.
Instead of racing neck and neck with death, hurtling towards his own destruction with arms spread wide, his heart pounding--
Instead of sprinting to meet the end at its own finish line, an end that's itself racing to meet him, to hunt him down--
Instead of that horrible, exhilarating desperation, the need to make every second count, because every second could be the one--
He's just.... killing time.
He just exists, and has to keep existing.
Until the universe decides.
Not any second, but months from now.
Months from now, during which he has to keep.... existing somehow.
It's impossible. It's numbing. It's the most lifeless way to live he's never wanted. How, when second to second is the only way to live, the only way to be alive, the only way to get ahead in the race to die--
How, when enduring one more second is already the most excruciating task, when each drop of hot and living blood is a bribe to fate and the need to shut it off, to shut it off, sHUT IT OFF is only one more second away--
Unless, of course, he's wrong.
And he knows it has to be wrong.
Escaping his fate. He wanted it--he still wants it, sometimes he can even feel it, if he focuses on it enough it comes to him as an ache in his chest--
But he doesn't feel... right.
Maybe the universe will correct his course... show him how he's wrong. And he knows it will, but he wants to hope--he wants it to be possible, just weeks ago he wanted it so badly that it hurt, he remembers how it ripped him apart, how it wracking his body and heart inside and out, remembers that he was in such agony... but he can't remember the agony at all.
It's a dull soft pad only; the 'almost' of a feeling, a distant light reflected on breaking waters, glimpsed from a seat in a wooden dinghy rowing far from shore.
But he won't let go of it. It's his, it's his and he has nothing else. It's his.
Until something rips it from him, it's his. It's all he has.
He just has to be patient. For a sign. He just has to wait... until he has a sign.
Until then, it doesn't matter. Ginko can indulge his morbid curiosity, Reira can believe he is whatever misbegotten benefactor she never deserved, the Psionic can... he doesn't know what the Psionic wants. It doesn't matter.
He's just.... waiting.