C o n q u e s t o f S p a c e s {Drace}
Jul 25, 2013 5:41:37 GMT -5
Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Jul 25, 2013 5:41:37 GMT -5
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"You could still be,
what you want to,
What you said you were,
when I met you." ;[/b][/size][/color][/font][/center]
His heart beats beside mine, a steady pulse, sped up and loud in my ears. There is fear in his eyes, and when he blinks, it's through blood and sweat. My arm is wrapped firmly around his shoulder, and his weight is against my skin, his own hot and sticky. He smells of tar, of iron, and Drace. It intoxicates me, calms me down from the previous rage I felt only moments ago when I knew I could tear him and everyone else apart with one finger and not feel tired. A shiver of fear runs down my spine, and I quell it just as quick. There is anger that rests beneath my bones, wanting to be let free, but not right now, not when he is in pain. He is, I know he is. His breath comes in ragged gasps from his short run, and he limps from the beast's attacks.
I don't know how long we have been moving, I have only been trying to get as far away as possible. From the tar, the mutt, my emotions, everything. Moving feels good and correct. It feels safe. We come into a clearing and Locust stops, so I do as well, choosing a spot clear of tar and debris to set Drace down, slowly, I rest him against a log, afraid of my own legs giving out beneath me, both calves now cut. Carefully, I tighten the bandages I hastily tied around the bleeding calf only moments ago, grunting softly from the burning pain at the movement. With that taken care of well enough for the time being, I move on to inspect Drace's wound. His leg is almost completely cut through from the mutt's tusk, and I sigh in soft exasperation at his inability to stay safe.
My movements are quick and focused, long fingers stitching him up with the needle and thread from his bag. I try to ignore the blood on my finger tips, so close, I can almost taste it. My mouth waters, and I literally have to bite my tongue to keep myself from tasting it, I want it so bad. I can remember how it tasted that day in the bathrooms, his hair between my fingers, and no space between us. Now there is a canyon, with me on one side and him on the other. I know not what to say to him, because I'm afraid if I speak he'll only bark back. He's barely said one word to me since I found him between the trees, running from a dead girl.
I don't know if he's angry at me or not. I don't remember why it matters that he isn't. I can't even remember why I wanted to be here in the first place. I feel sick, wasted away, and tired. It's getting harder to ignore all the dirt under my fingertips, all the blood that cakes my shirt, and the germs. I can't stand the bugs or the itch, or any of it. I can feel myself getting ready to blow whenever I have time to remember how dirty I am. I hate the dirt, and I lost the gift of my rubber gloves already. Sitting back on my heels, I rest my face in my palms, hiding for one moment from the world, hiding from the latest death on my hands. The mutt, if we're counting it, makes ten deaths. Nine back in one, one in the games.
It only gets easier to kill.
I never went through the moment of clarity, asking me why I was alright with it, the killing. I've been close to death since I was eight and found out someone could stab you through the chest and you'd be gone. I've been close to death ever since I started drinking people's blood in the first place. Sometimes you take to much, sometimes they die. It is a natural order, a cycle. I am the predator, they are the prey. I do not feel anything about it anymore. There is no reason to.
Parting my fingers, I stare at Drace, eyes searching his for signs of anything. I'm curious, I suppose. I'm not one hundred percent sure on why I'm here. At first, it felt vital that I protect him, but if he's going to do stupid things like not move when a charging elephant is going at him, I'm not sure if I see the point. Leaning forward, I break my eye contact with him, and begin to wrap a bandage around his leg. I take my time, making sure it is perfectly wrapped before I stand up and move beside him to rest against the dead log as well, keeping reasonable space between us. When I am comfortable, I simply ask, "Why?"
[/center][/font][/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size][/td][/tr][/table] I don't know how long we have been moving, I have only been trying to get as far away as possible. From the tar, the mutt, my emotions, everything. Moving feels good and correct. It feels safe. We come into a clearing and Locust stops, so I do as well, choosing a spot clear of tar and debris to set Drace down, slowly, I rest him against a log, afraid of my own legs giving out beneath me, both calves now cut. Carefully, I tighten the bandages I hastily tied around the bleeding calf only moments ago, grunting softly from the burning pain at the movement. With that taken care of well enough for the time being, I move on to inspect Drace's wound. His leg is almost completely cut through from the mutt's tusk, and I sigh in soft exasperation at his inability to stay safe.
My movements are quick and focused, long fingers stitching him up with the needle and thread from his bag. I try to ignore the blood on my finger tips, so close, I can almost taste it. My mouth waters, and I literally have to bite my tongue to keep myself from tasting it, I want it so bad. I can remember how it tasted that day in the bathrooms, his hair between my fingers, and no space between us. Now there is a canyon, with me on one side and him on the other. I know not what to say to him, because I'm afraid if I speak he'll only bark back. He's barely said one word to me since I found him between the trees, running from a dead girl.
I don't know if he's angry at me or not. I don't remember why it matters that he isn't. I can't even remember why I wanted to be here in the first place. I feel sick, wasted away, and tired. It's getting harder to ignore all the dirt under my fingertips, all the blood that cakes my shirt, and the germs. I can't stand the bugs or the itch, or any of it. I can feel myself getting ready to blow whenever I have time to remember how dirty I am. I hate the dirt, and I lost the gift of my rubber gloves already. Sitting back on my heels, I rest my face in my palms, hiding for one moment from the world, hiding from the latest death on my hands. The mutt, if we're counting it, makes ten deaths. Nine back in one, one in the games.
It only gets easier to kill.
I never went through the moment of clarity, asking me why I was alright with it, the killing. I've been close to death since I was eight and found out someone could stab you through the chest and you'd be gone. I've been close to death ever since I started drinking people's blood in the first place. Sometimes you take to much, sometimes they die. It is a natural order, a cycle. I am the predator, they are the prey. I do not feel anything about it anymore. There is no reason to.
Parting my fingers, I stare at Drace, eyes searching his for signs of anything. I'm curious, I suppose. I'm not one hundred percent sure on why I'm here. At first, it felt vital that I protect him, but if he's going to do stupid things like not move when a charging elephant is going at him, I'm not sure if I see the point. Leaning forward, I break my eye contact with him, and begin to wrap a bandage around his leg. I take my time, making sure it is perfectly wrapped before I stand up and move beside him to rest against the dead log as well, keeping reasonable space between us. When I am comfortable, I simply ask, "Why?"
