OOM: Trying to move on

[herr_bookman]

Autor has outfitted his room in the bar better than he has his room at home, but there are still some things he'd like to keep. An arrow, for instance, that Sir Lohengrin gave him when he was a child. Some books, and a few papers chronicling his life at school--awards and the like. He deliberately breaks a piano-patterned mug with a treasured hammer.

The boy leaves his favorite blanket and pillow. He keeps nothing from his old shrine to Drosselmeyer, noting that that is from his past life, which is dead to him.

Autor has been spending more time at home lately, offering his mother and sister more embraces and even acting civil towards his father. He writes several letters of goodbye to them. He treats his sister in secret with chocolate and other assorted sweet things from Milliways.

He visits his favorite places in town, eating at Ebine's café and browsing the old bookstore. All in all, his preparation to leave his world nears completion--and he knows he'll have to permanently close his door soon. The war is on, his draft notice is only a matter of time, and Autor is prepared to turn his back on his family forever. But he must say goodbye to his mother; his reluctance to leave her behind is what keeps him coming back.

Tonight, after Clara has gone to bed, Autor dances with his mother, telling her jokes and making her laugh softly long after the stars go out. He'll leave this morning.

The boy sleeps at dawn and wakes a couple hours later with a heavy heart, heading downstairs to tightly embrace his loved ones. He heads upstairs to the linen closet, his door to the bar, and opens it to see people milling around inside.

"Autorchen?" his mother calls from downstairs. "You have a message."

"Coming," the boy says, and shuts the door. He crosses into the kitchen and opens the letter she hands him. He sucks a breath over his teeth, seeing the words, "Draft Notice."

"Autorchen?" his mother says, placing a hand on his forehead. "Are you all right? You're so pale..."

"Ah, no, I'm fine. I'll..." he starts, almost telling her that he'll be right back. "I have something to check on. Upstairs."

"All right," she says, patting his shoulder.

Autor trudges away from her to the upstairs and opens his door to the bar, prepared to move in--only to see linens. He blinks. And shuts the door, opening it again to see the same sight. Again. And again.

His door to Milliways is gone.

* * *

Autor can't find a door anywhere. His draft notice came a week ago, and his route to Milliways seems to be cut off.

Autor's hands shake around the doorknob as he slams the door to his shrine behind him. He leans against it, clutching his elbow and staring at nothing. What am I going to do? Due to Fakir's injury to his right hand, he wasn't accepted into the military for the coming Great War, but Autor--oh, Autor was healthy and hale and just the right age.

So Autor does the only thing he can think of: he panics. The boy--on the cusp of being a man and a soldier--paces around the room, wringing his hands. After nearly tripping over a book, he slams his right hand down onto the desk, grasping desperately for a penknife. He raises the blade, glares at his hand one last time--and stops, trembling.

Come on, he thinks, and his chest hurts from all the breath he can't seem to keep. Come on. Stab it. Come on!

On a scream, he drives the knife down, but he jerks his hand away, embedding the sharp point in the wood of the desk. Shocked, he stares at it for a moment before coming to his senses. With a choked sob, he sinks to the floor, cradling his head in his hands.

I'm... going to war.