with rifles in the front seat | thundy&soap
Aug 17, 2014 12:22:53 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Aug 17, 2014 12:22:53 GMT -5
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Leon Krigel
I feel sick to my stomach as I begin to stand
Like a dolphin leaping across the ocean Leon slips in and out of consciousness in the days of recovery that followed. There is very little he can remember of the time: a beaming bird-coloured face, murmured voices fading in and out of his mind, a clear bag of translucent liquid hanging near where he lay, and the bitter taste of iron lingering on his tongue.
It's not victory.
He has no visitors, or at least none he is aware of - though at one point he thinks he remembers Jizav and his team fluttering around his dulled frame with white cloths to polish him brighter like they're trying to find the ghost of a shine that may have existed once on his skin. It may well have been a dream because where one of the team once had neon pink skin it is now a blinding white, and, coupled with the clothes on his back, Tobin looks very much like some kind of demented, feathered spirit. The others seemed much of the same, but Jizav's eyes are a shocking shade of blue when dream-Leon meets his gaze.
They were hypnotic, and Leon cannot remember anything that followed.
When he is able to remain conscious for more than a minute Leon is moved into a room with a window - and it is then he recognizes the lack. Yet even with the sun brushing over his pale skin and returning it to gold Leon doesn't actively resist help but he certainly doesn't try to make any lives easier either - even the shadow of his own. Attempts to bring him further out into the sun are met with blank stares and nothing else; wherever he's taken his body remains limp in the hold of strong-gentle-chipper nurses, and why should he bother?
In silence he craves the touch of human skin to anchor his listlessly floating soul, but loathes the clinical touch of the doctors latex-covered hands. Even so, there is no one else around and a part of Leon treasures the warmth of someone else's hand on him as his face barely breaks the surface of the water enough for him to breathe.
He wakes one day with an itch he can't scratch; when Leon's gaze turns towards the IV stand both it and the bag are gone, leaving him as bereft and lonely as though he were an abandoned child. The nurses come in with their chirping voices that grate much more with him than is usual; he is helped to wash up in warm water that leaves him shivering all the more, teeth chattering as they run fluffy towels over his emaciated frame. Leon can barely look himself in the mirror, but from the glimpse he catches he's startled to see the extent of the arena's hardships - but he is scarless but for the false arm attached at his elbow, and maybe that scares him most: it's like none of this ever happened, like it was all just a dream.
They were not just a dream, they existed, they were real, or so his soul screams for no one to hear.
They dress him in the same shade of white as his recovery room, but upon return he no longer matches: his room is full of brilliantly coloured flowers that hurt his eyes when he stares at them for too long. His name, as far as he can tell, is scrawled in various hand upon each tag but Leon doesn't make any attempt to look closer; why should he, when they are but reminders of the stains under an overlaying coat of purity that he never wants to leave?
Leon is placed back upon the sheets like a china doll with no control over his limbs, and the nurses prop pillows behind his back to support him as they tell him that he is to receive an important guest. "You should thank him," they chirp like a song they've memorized before they entered. Leon doesn't press because he doesn't want to know who the hell this guest is. President Snow is an option, but even if the President has words for him Leon has none in return as he forces his face into an expression so impassive he may as well not be there at all.
His hand trembles when they leave despite his empty gaze, and in silent desperation he latches onto the false plastic of his new forearm for a temporary anchor.
It does nothing to help him stay afloat.
(He wonders who his guest is.)
It's not victory.
He has no visitors, or at least none he is aware of - though at one point he thinks he remembers Jizav and his team fluttering around his dulled frame with white cloths to polish him brighter like they're trying to find the ghost of a shine that may have existed once on his skin. It may well have been a dream because where one of the team once had neon pink skin it is now a blinding white, and, coupled with the clothes on his back, Tobin looks very much like some kind of demented, feathered spirit. The others seemed much of the same, but Jizav's eyes are a shocking shade of blue when dream-Leon meets his gaze.
They were hypnotic, and Leon cannot remember anything that followed.
When he is able to remain conscious for more than a minute Leon is moved into a room with a window - and it is then he recognizes the lack. Yet even with the sun brushing over his pale skin and returning it to gold Leon doesn't actively resist help but he certainly doesn't try to make any lives easier either - even the shadow of his own. Attempts to bring him further out into the sun are met with blank stares and nothing else; wherever he's taken his body remains limp in the hold of strong-gentle-chipper nurses, and why should he bother?
In silence he craves the touch of human skin to anchor his listlessly floating soul, but loathes the clinical touch of the doctors latex-covered hands. Even so, there is no one else around and a part of Leon treasures the warmth of someone else's hand on him as his face barely breaks the surface of the water enough for him to breathe.
He wakes one day with an itch he can't scratch; when Leon's gaze turns towards the IV stand both it and the bag are gone, leaving him as bereft and lonely as though he were an abandoned child. The nurses come in with their chirping voices that grate much more with him than is usual; he is helped to wash up in warm water that leaves him shivering all the more, teeth chattering as they run fluffy towels over his emaciated frame. Leon can barely look himself in the mirror, but from the glimpse he catches he's startled to see the extent of the arena's hardships - but he is scarless but for the false arm attached at his elbow, and maybe that scares him most: it's like none of this ever happened, like it was all just a dream.
They were not just a dream, they existed, they were real, or so his soul screams for no one to hear.
They dress him in the same shade of white as his recovery room, but upon return he no longer matches: his room is full of brilliantly coloured flowers that hurt his eyes when he stares at them for too long. His name, as far as he can tell, is scrawled in various hand upon each tag but Leon doesn't make any attempt to look closer; why should he, when they are but reminders of the stains under an overlaying coat of purity that he never wants to leave?
Leon is placed back upon the sheets like a china doll with no control over his limbs, and the nurses prop pillows behind his back to support him as they tell him that he is to receive an important guest. "You should thank him," they chirp like a song they've memorized before they entered. Leon doesn't press because he doesn't want to know who the hell this guest is. President Snow is an option, but even if the President has words for him Leon has none in return as he forces his face into an expression so impassive he may as well not be there at all.
His hand trembles when they leave despite his empty gaze, and in silent desperation he latches onto the false plastic of his new forearm for a temporary anchor.
It does nothing to help him stay afloat.
(He wonders who his guest is.)
just set my heart on fire like gasoline
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