[ al may have noticed earlier on in the day (or, by now, yesterday) that alois had been sleeping over-excessively, or at the least not leaving the bed much. he's already something of a problem, the brat sort, when it comes to chores, but earlier it had been down right refusal. the loud, door-slamming refusal, likeliest. at times, the room was too quiet, and others, it might've been filled with crying, or the tiny murmurs of two brothers talking, and others, when luca wasn't in it all, with the sounds of things snapping or shattering.
it's nearing five in the morning and for the last hour a lot of noise has come from the kitchen. the swinging open (but not closing) of cabinet doors, in too rapid a succession to be normal, shuffling, the sharp sound of porcelain or glass bursting, a door swinging open and slamming back, frenzied, soft weeping, and the tiny, urgent clucking of a hen. it depends on how close to the kitchen al is or has been, he may not hear the next part—there's flurried, rustled flapping, something that sounds like a stick, or a lot of small twigs, snapping all at once (the flapping becomes slower at this point), a mixture of high-pitched clucking and that airy-growl frightened and furious chickens are capable of, and finally, a sickening wet sound accompanied by a loud, snapping, crack. for a few minutes, it's pure, thick and suffocating silence.
the sun still isn't quite up yet, but whenever it is al does decide, regardless of having heard any of the noise or not, to venture into the kitchen he'll find a, well, probably a more than nerve-wracking mess. on one end of the kitchen, is a hen's head. its beady black eyes still open, its beak slightly ajar, and a little pf its spinal cord and esophagus laying out like a slimy pink worm behind it. the body is a foot or two away, feet crooked, one of the wings mangled, and unquestionably, there's a pool of blood underneath it (tinier pools trailing away from it in all directions). there's a soft splattering of it here and there, on cabinet doors, on dishes, on the faucet and some places on the counters. places where feathers have stuck on.
a damp, crumpled up towel lies near-by the sink, eerily soaked pink-red.
alois trancy is under the kitchen table, with all the chairs pulled in around him, laying on his stomach and chewing his thumbnail. his hands are raw, pink also, from the looks of them he's probably scrubbed them too hard. blood is still on his wrists, though, and in his hair with feathers, and on his clothes. ]
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action into oblivion & :c back-dated to uhh. when it needs to be.
Date: 2012-10-18 06:19 am (UTC)it's nearing five in the morning and for the last hour a lot of noise has come from the kitchen. the swinging open (but not closing) of cabinet doors, in too rapid a succession to be normal, shuffling, the sharp sound of porcelain or glass bursting, a door swinging open and slamming back, frenzied, soft weeping, and the tiny, urgent clucking of a hen. it depends on how close to the kitchen al is or has been, he may not hear the next part—there's flurried, rustled flapping, something that sounds like a stick, or a lot of small twigs, snapping all at once (the flapping becomes slower at this point), a mixture of high-pitched clucking and that airy-growl frightened and furious chickens are capable of, and finally, a sickening wet sound accompanied by a loud, snapping, crack. for a few minutes, it's pure, thick and suffocating silence.
the sun still isn't quite up yet, but whenever it is al does decide, regardless of having heard any of the noise or not, to venture into the kitchen he'll find a, well, probably a more than nerve-wracking mess. on one end of the kitchen, is a hen's head. its beady black eyes still open, its beak slightly ajar, and a little pf its spinal cord and esophagus laying out like a slimy pink worm behind it. the body is a foot or two away, feet crooked, one of the wings mangled, and unquestionably, there's a pool of blood underneath it (tinier pools trailing away from it in all directions). there's a soft splattering of it here and there, on cabinet doors, on dishes, on the faucet and some places on the counters. places where feathers have stuck on.
a damp, crumpled up towel lies near-by the sink, eerily soaked pink-red.
alois trancy is under the kitchen table, with all the chairs pulled in around him, laying on his stomach and chewing his thumbnail. his hands are raw, pink also, from the looks of them he's probably scrubbed them too hard. blood is still on his wrists, though, and in his hair with feathers, and on his clothes. ]