Post by slate • d9f • zoë on Feb 7, 2016 4:27:25 GMT -5
time won't fly
it's like i'm paralysed by it.
Eventually, he pulls himself to the ground and starts to focus on surviving in the world below. Although the high points of the training centre called his name and the air hummed with sadness upon his descent, there was a voice in the back of his head that told him he had to learn. To drink in as much of this place as he can before being thrown into the abyss of death and destruction - he ought to learn how to spread his wings and clutch at the hope of leaving death in his trail.
So the ground he stays - alone, of course, and terribly puzzled by all of it. Save for the climbing walls and high ropes the whole place is overwhelming. (The invisible clock with no hands nor measures of time strapped to his chest doesn't help either, as it counts down his time left on the earth.)
He picks up a needle and threads it hastily, stitching up fake wounds messily, finished products still leaking blood underneath harrowed stitches and awkward bandages. He mutters to himself a string of curse words in-between the bouts of concentrated silence, eyebrows knitting together as he holds his breath. Nothing ever looks fixed - still as broken and bruised as ever. The lonely boy from Nine is content with his isolation, but finds himself torn between asking for help and revealing his downfall to the inhabitants of his inevitable abyss.
. . .
[ credit - briar ]
“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”
I'm threading through this fake wound like I was born to do it. No fumbles, no pricks, no misses. The thread glides through the fake flesh effortlessly, slowly but surely closing the giant red smile gashed on it's chest. Before I had even gotten around to it messy crimson leaked out of the gash in streaks and dribbles. Afterwards it was as clean as my room back in six. Spotless. Now I'm simply stitching it up, closing the mockery of a grin with needle and thread.
Within two minutes it's closed and sealed with rows and rows of thread black thread. I can't help but admire my handy work, grinning proudly at the wound stitched shut for good. Hours and hours I laboured, constantly pricking my fingers, spilling disinfectant or putting the bandages too loose. Now no trainer can judge my perfection. I stroke the thread with my finger twice over just to test it and determine it's fine. "Hmm, what now?" I ask myself.
I hear a noise, a shuffle and I spin around, noticing there's another boy kneeling over a dummy. Attempting to do what I just did. Only not to nearly the same standard. He's an amateur, I can see his work from here and I can already see that his work is only a dull parody of my own perfect work. Interesting. I stand up and slowly approach him, on my way I notice a white nine sewn onto his shirt. District nine male, didn't bother to learn his name though.
I kneel down next to him. "I'm happy as fuck I ain't this poor bastard, with that work I'd be deader than a doornail." I remark, revealing the ghost of my smirk to him.