Miles Edgeworth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prosecutes) wrote2009-06-21 01:04 am
prosecutes) wrote2009-06-21 01:04 am
Entry tags:
Nightmare § 4
The snooze button is swatted hastily before the first ring is finished. A bright and cheerful Miles leaps out of bed in his excitement, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. His clothes for that day have been laid out as usual from the modest dress shirt to the happy red bow tie.
The well-practiced morning routine goes by quickly; within seconds, the boy is fully dressed and his bed is made. There's no time to waste -- he rushes off to the kitchen.
He smiles to himself at his own preparation skills; the fridge is as neatly organized as the rest of his belongings. Miles hastily grabs everything he needs from the middle shelf and gets to work. His little hands fly through the air as ingredients are thrown together in well-rehearsed format. Miles knows that crafts and handiwork aren't his strong suit, which is why he's been practicing for this.
An alarm clock rings elsewhere in the house as Miles puts the finishing touches on the breakfast tray. A lightly bruised flower in a vase complements the plate of irregular-shaped pancakes, glass of orange juice and bowl of sliced fruit. It's seven a.m. He's right on time.
Miles' little feet carry him as fast as (safely) possible to his destination.
"Happy Fa--"
The words die in his throat as he has a look around. The room is cold, bleak, covered in a layer of dust; it's been abandoned for years. A man he's never seen before stands by the bed, looking down on poor Miles. Something about him is strange, but the boy just can't seem to understand what it is.
"Do you know where my father went?" he asks timidly, betraying the professional appearance he has been working so hard to keep up. Miles clenches the tray until his knuckles turn white, his little hands trembling. He doesn't know why, but he's afraid of the answer.
"He's dead," Miles Edgeworth's older self responds coldly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Edgeworth hesitantly opens his eyes. He knows what day it is. But if he doesn't say anything, then maybe for those few, precious moments he can pretend that everything he saw was just a nightmare. That, and nothing more.]
The well-practiced morning routine goes by quickly; within seconds, the boy is fully dressed and his bed is made. There's no time to waste -- he rushes off to the kitchen.
He smiles to himself at his own preparation skills; the fridge is as neatly organized as the rest of his belongings. Miles hastily grabs everything he needs from the middle shelf and gets to work. His little hands fly through the air as ingredients are thrown together in well-rehearsed format. Miles knows that crafts and handiwork aren't his strong suit, which is why he's been practicing for this.
An alarm clock rings elsewhere in the house as Miles puts the finishing touches on the breakfast tray. A lightly bruised flower in a vase complements the plate of irregular-shaped pancakes, glass of orange juice and bowl of sliced fruit. It's seven a.m. He's right on time.
Miles' little feet carry him as fast as (safely) possible to his destination.
"Happy Fa--"
The words die in his throat as he has a look around. The room is cold, bleak, covered in a layer of dust; it's been abandoned for years. A man he's never seen before stands by the bed, looking down on poor Miles. Something about him is strange, but the boy just can't seem to understand what it is.
"Do you know where my father went?" he asks timidly, betraying the professional appearance he has been working so hard to keep up. Miles clenches the tray until his knuckles turn white, his little hands trembling. He doesn't know why, but he's afraid of the answer.
"He's dead," Miles Edgeworth's older self responds coldly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Edgeworth hesitantly opens his eyes. He knows what day it is. But if he doesn't say anything, then maybe for those few, precious moments he can pretend that everything he saw was just a nightmare. That, and nothing more.]