A/N: I kind of love this one.
Fourth entry for Cal's Some Kind of Character contest. First number is the word from the table, second number is the photo, the word is the word from the table.
[051-04: Yesterday]
The music played, and Nevada danced.
He didn't have the courage to stand up and dance, so he sat alone on the settee, rocking out in his own way. Debris from the party were scattered everywhere; crushed plastic cups, food wrappers, stains Nevada wasn't keen on identifying. Someone had been sick in one corner. The stenches of sweat and sex and herbal cigarettes intermingled in the air.
The people were gone.
Nevada danced on.
The neighbours would talk, gossip as time progressed. What a shame, they would say. Such a promising, strapping young lad. Ever since that party, he hadn't been the same. No one could get through to him, even though dozens had tried. The poor chap.
Nevada danced on.
Winter came, and the house was covered in snow. It gave way to spring, and the birds chirped outside the derelict houses' windows. Inside, the impartial drapes hung still, gathering layer after layer of dust.
Nevada danced on.
The neighbours would forget about him, move on as time progressed. Times changed, the newspaper headlines were different each day, and the world kept going. Ever since that party, the world had moved on. No one tried to get through to him.
Nevada danced on.
Summer came, bringing broiling heat with it. The children laughed and played under hoses and sprinklers, free from the shackles of education. They had no care in the world. Inside, the impartial drapes hung by threads, the way of the world destroying them from the inside out. The dust continued to collect.
Nevada danced on.
As the foilage began to turn from a vibrant green to a rainbow of warm autumn colours, someone stopped in front of the derelict house. Weeds and plant life had grown up over the cement walkway, and the grass in the yard was unchecked. The impartial drapes were in a heap on the floor, collapsed from decay and disuse. The visitor came to the door, knocked twice, and paused as it creaked open.
Nevada danced on.
The visitor called out his name, picking her way through the debris and dust. Filth had accumulated on nearly every surface. She found him there, still on the settee where she had left him. She spoke to him, telling him of how she had heard of what had happened to him, and how she was sorry for what she had done. A long, well-rehearsed soliloquy of fake apologies and staged sincerity. She even stepped forward and ripped the headphones out of his ears.
Nevada danced on.
She swore at him, picked up one of the crumbling cups and threw it at him. She yelled his name, yelled bloody murder, catching the attention of people across the street. Bathed in the dregs of year-old booze, he noticed nothing and everything, purposefully ignoring the witch who had ruined him. His body was decimated, his energy slowly fading. He hadn't had much to drink, and had eaten even less. A sorry mix of bones and skin were all that held his spirit inside of him, and even that was weakening. The music was slowing down, entering the traditional low tempos reserved for the end of a dance.
Still, he danced on.
She calmed, not bearing to look at the former love of her life. She chose instead to stare at a patch of dirt-stained carpet, muttering under her breath. It sounded distinctly like an apology, a genuine and sincere apology. Then, as quickly as she had come, she left. He closed his eyes, smiling slightly.
Nevada stopped dancing.
The people were gone.
