Words in MuteMature

Seattle was the biggest city he had seen since Chicago. And it was a pleasantly rainy place. Silas prefers the rain to any weather. 

Less risk of damage due to fire.

His eyes trailed across the room at the coffee bar. He had rented a room at a local hotel, he was freshly showered, clean shaven for the first time in four months, his clothes were still a mess, but now a clean mess. The scent of smoke and ash had left him.

He would have liked to have stayed a while longer in Montana. But he was woken up in the middle of the night by a hunter who accused Silas of poaching his game. Silas, in his panic, erupted.

There was nothing left of the hunter. 
The stench of burning flesh is not one to be desired.
And yet it was the one he carried with him quite often.

His flame has now sent 43 people to Charon's docks. 43 people.

"What can I get you?" 

"Anything very strong, but very sweet."

"That's not very helpful." The waitress had a playful pout on her lips.

"I guess, get me whatever you feel I would like." He spoke quietly.

"Okay. I'll make you something special."

She vanished for a while. He thought she was sweet, but too sweet. She seemed the type to wake up every day smiling, like nothing ever goes wrong.

He tried so hard to follow the man's advice from the shelter. But it was so hard. 
Every time he tried to keep control. Someone else died. 

Someone else was burned to death. And Silas can't stop it.

The police were now looking for a serial arsonist. 

There would be some nights, where the anxiety of this would keep him up all night.

The police were looking for him.           They knew there was a connection.
                                The lack of sleep left him raw.

Raw is bad for Silas.
Raw is very bad.

Coffee couldn't help either, but he needed some energy to make his way towards Oregon. 

"Here you go." She placed a frothy drink with what looked like a cinnamon stick protruding out of it instead of a stirrer. 

He thanked her, and absolutely enjoyed the hot drink. 

Smooth. Not bitter at all, yet rich and had a bit of a kick from the cinnamon. It warmed him to the bone, but in a way where he wouldn't have to feel worried for the sakes of those people around him. It was a new experience. In a lifetime of needing to remain cool, to stay away from the dry heat of anger or fear, he was able to warm up without burning up.

And in the middle of his drink.

There.

Across the room.

There she was.


"Anne…?"



She turned, but didn't see him. 

A man was there. Sitting across from her. 

He signed to her. She signed back. 

The man was deaf. She was mute.

They were made for each other.

And based on the kiss they shared, 

Silas couldn't dispute it.

The End

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