Second Chance || KitxMohs (DC Plot)(Complete)
Jul 13, 2015 21:54:37 GMT -5
Post by Muffinface on Jul 13, 2015 21:54:37 GMT -5
Mohs Aurum
I've let it go, I've let it go
He sits, his back pressed loosely upon the overly patched cushion, gnawing absentmindedly on a toothpick, glaring down at a mess of writings below. Others around him come and go, but Mohs remains listening intently to a steady stream of metaphors and similes as they pass into his thoughts- then as soon as he scribbles them down, they leave, as swiftly as they fluttered in.
Strong fingers gingerly stroke a hardwood pencil, halting only for a moment until it furiously scratches some phrase away, and the utensil falls as the male nearly throws his arms up and away in exasperation. The small cluster ofkidsyoung men and women sitting at a table beside his lonely booth offer him glares laced with shock at his indignation; if he thinks he's all that, interrupting someone brave enough to stand onstage and bare their soul for all to see, then he could just get out, like fucking seriously.
His head falls into his hands, and he rubs at his silvery eyes. Thursdays are a respite from work and judgement, prescribed by another healer in the district, but here he sits, stresses and shaking as if he were right back at work the week before the reaping.
Pale eyes poke past his fingertips to gaze down half-heatedly at hismessnotes. One hand lowers to reach for a half-full mug of amber liquid and he sips quietly at the piss-water.
Normally, Mohs is the last person anyone could peg as an alcoholic, but today, two empty glasses accompany his half-full beverage, a sure testament to his own drunkenness. The alcohol, at least, keeps his leg from aching. The sky overhead is cloudy, he knows simply because of the dulled pain down where his knee should be.
The trembling girl with the bared soul finishes her stanza and slips away offstage to a round of polite applause. Her friends at the next table explode with cheers, shooting unopposed glares at Mohs' table.
He offers a blank stare as his only response, his mind jealously coveting the girl's confidence. He knows his poetry could, would never be heard through his own voice. The thought pains him slightly.- it would be nice, to get feedback on how to improve his writing, or how to put his feelings into perfect words, though Mohs knows this to be impossible in his current state.
The girl is the last to wander onstage- He vaguely remembers last call for alcohol a few moments ago, and struggles to rise to his feet. Hands sweep everything into a dark messenger bag, not caring about organization like he usually does. A frown plants itself firmly onto his countenance, and without a word to the owner, or finishing his final beer, Mohs leaves.
Through the downtown area of district one, hundreds of alleyways criss-cross through the district, and the fastest way for Mohs to get to his small home on the edge of the city is to wander through ten of these. The First Aid trainer leans heavily upon his cane, relying on his right side to drag him through the high walled city veins. What should have been a half-hour walk seems to drag on forever as he stumbles along.
More than once he begins to question the want or need to drink, and scowls at his poor choices. Overhead, the angry clouds gather, and begin to spit down upon the lighted streets, the ground becoming slippery and soaked in moments. He seeks refuge below a low overhang and curses as thunder rumbles across the grumpy sky following a bright white light that completely illuminates the world around him. It must be close to midnight he thinks, as all other life in the district seems to have vacated to their own homes, abandoning the outside.
A shout rends the air and two forms scurry before the male in the shadows. The first is panting heavily, wearing a fine-looking suit and clutching at a spot in his chest while the second approaches fast. Footsteps are nearly lost in the rain as the second withdraws something from his jacket, and with an animalistic scream, tackles the offender. The first man rolls on the ground, his thick, meaty hands outstretched in a defensive position while the second begins to plunge a sharp looking blade in and out of his chest repeatedly.
Mohs sits petrified as he watches in shocked awe, another bolt of lightning forking across the sky. Rain continues to pound as he counts- seven, eight, nine, ten. The murderer stands, trembling, the blade left abandoned in the abdomen of the man on the ground. He adjusts his button-up shirt, and with a cough, spits upon the corpse, staggering away.
He waits, thoughts completely lucid, adrenaline slithering through open veins. He counts again, to thirty this time- enough for the man to wander away. Without a second thought he approaches the body, collapsing on his knees beside it. Blood streaks across the chest and nice suit of the male on the ground, though his chest continues to shudder. A large kitchen knife protrudes, stuck sickeningly deep in his body.
The flannel Mohs wears is soon off of his bare body, old training scars crossing his form shining with every light from overhead. His breath lingers before his body as he counts a pulse- then begins to tear the shirt to long, thick shreds. One eye remains on the struggling chest, listening to the heavy, labored breathing. He says nothing, focusing entirely on the task he set for himself. He figures no one would hear him in the rain, and besides, it's too late for anyone to answer the door- even in the nice part of One.
Mohs ties the flannel into one long strip of mock gauze, and begins to tie off the knife deep in the victim's stomach, carefully lifting his head and shoulders and replacing them as he works. Blood begins to well below the male and after a few ties, Mohs stops and listens. Only the sound of the rain greets his ears.
"Fuck." the first word he says all night. Quickly, he rips open the ruined suit, and the white shirt below until he can see a bared chest, thick with knife wounds. Trembling hands form, the right palm on the bottom, searching until he finds the hard bone of the sternum while the left searches for the beat of a broken heart.
Nothing.
"FUCK."
He begins compressions, pushing hard while reciting lines from a long forgotten poem, keeping the beat. He checks for a pulse after the first minute- still nothing. Again, he compresses. Everything in his world revolves around pushing and rescue breaths for the stranger below him. His shoulders heave, and his own breathing becomes heavy and thick with the force of exerting pressure. Mohs can feel the bones shifting below his hands, and knows he's broken the sternum- the force has to be working.
Once again, his fingers slide to the male's neck, and finally, finally, he feels a pulse. Faint, but it is there, a bright light in the storm.
A slight crazed laugh slips through Mohs' jaws, and he looks to the thundering sky, hands held high in jubilation. Yells of help follow, as his hands return to stemming the flow of blood from the strange man's chest.
Table by Kire
