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Thomas hasn't flinched a bit every time the biting, salty waves rushed over to his ankles for a temporary visit, the hollowness of null nights lingering steadily below the horizon, rugged seacoast and the rest of the world remained dead quiet under his feet. He's been slipping into a conventional groove after casting out of his light sleep by those everlasting, bizarre nightmares. He would run along with the onshore breeze at sometime—like most of the time of his life—as if it was the most painless way to ease the deafening sense of guilt pounding within his chest. It was never easy though, harsh gale slide against him sounded like screaming and begging overflowed with doleful cries regardless, the wetness glued on his hand as slippery as blood. Every once in a while, he would choose to forget, built up towering walls around his heart, but it'll always seek its way back to his cocoon of memories. It'll always be a part of him.
Everyone wore a mask in the safe haven, to pretend, to remember and to live on. There was a full display of tacit acknowledgment hung highly in the air. Frypan brought his renowned, special stew to the bonfire and came up with the broadest grin among people every night, but Thomas, too, as a club member of the nocturnal animals, was well-aware that Frypan would also sit still up front the memorial rock all by himself for hours at midnight and remain silent as fireflies travelled through the bushes of their homing. Each one of them had their own way of grieving, or at least endeavoring to bring the slightest comfort to their shattered souls. Where exactly did their valued destinies lead to anyway? The truth is, no any wise revelation that will make sense of all those indescribable sorrows. They were still the wild ghosts of the past, the jaded of the glades.
Run.
Run, Thomas. Run.
Don't look back.
Thus, he ran toward the yawning ocean as fast as he could, no gentle streams there to soothe his inner fears and eagernesses, stirred bushes in the wind roaring ceaselessly in his sore ears. Yet he sought out a sense of liberty underneath his weighed, soaked clothing and the obscure glares of Gally from the porch of his wooden hut. Oh, Gally. Thomas didn't recall a certain time when he, as a matter of fact, got to talk to him properly. Maybe he had nothing left to add, alternatively he was just plainly wasn't ready. They both beared an inordinate number of responsibilities on their shoulders in an effort to endured through long nights to catch a glimpse of the crack of dawn of the following day, far too busy pouring new-found pities down their throats. There was too much blood clinging onto their palms, they rather nodding to greet than shaking hands. Fairly the fellowship between them wasn't as solid as him and Minho, it never was, at least not to Thomas. It would be mad to say the gloominess hidden deep in his mind scattered without the thinest flame by those occasional glances of Gally, but came to think of it, madness happened to be an odds of living on continuously in this scorched world's unlimited mutability.
Run, Thomas. Run.
Don't look back.
A half-empty mug was held loosely within Thomas's slimy fingers, floating lights of the bonfire casting golden shadows on his face. He wasn't paying attention to what Vince and Brenda were chatting about, he hung up a slight smile around the corner of his lips nonetheless since he cherished the calming atmosphere flowing longly in the safe haven.
A dim flicker of the bonfire upon his features pushed him into a trance, he got a sense of deja vu of the seemingly endless flames in the glade, kept him warm and pursued his death. Thomas also recollected a pair of blue eyes throughout the burning blaze, overflowed with soft teases and concealed curiosity just as very same as the one throwing from the hut every night. He was ready to run down the lonesome trail before vaguely alarmed by the tint of ultramarine blue already found its way to lock on his. They stared at each other through the fire for a little while, it was such a fine line, the bright shade in their pupils glowing like awaiting, ferocious animals, just within reach, until Gally drifted his gaze to somewhere else voicelessly. Thomas availed the opportunity to finally have a fair look at him, they were men now, with broader chests and the impulses have faintly faded away in their eyes, a dusty tone of blonde with a blend of hazel brown hair grew out of his buzz cut. They no longer picked up random fights when they had nothing to bargain with, lying numbly on the savage, burnt wasteland in the ashes of a forgotten time.
Don't look back.
The blow was unexpectedly hushed this nighttime, the crackling sound of the dying embers was casually left behind, Thomas could almost taste the brackish moisture on the tip of his tongue. He heard those thoughtful, distinctive footsteps coming from a straight distance before a well-built arm brushed gingerly against his shoulder. For once in years, he didn't run away. As it may be he was just too exhausted to run blindly in circles until the soles of his boots worn out, drenched in his own sweats and lost elsewhere in the deserted cities, that being said, or he could stop running at the drop of a hat eventually since whenever he glanced over his shoulders, there will be tender offerings to complete him in the clumsiest, hopeful possible way, sharing something new under the bleak weather. Dreadful memories lived infinity, they'll keep coming back but nowhere to be found.