thorns on our side {sarpedons} day o n e

My ears ring with the sound of white noise. Kingdoms are falling and it's too loud for me to hear. This destruction is what I find solace in. It's all I've ever known and all I've ever come to love; this addictive trait is the cataclysmic aftermath which comes with it. Sorrow and pain--Stella's death introduced me to the emotions and I became an addict.

And then Sylvia showed me the damage it could do.

And fuck, I swear that I can hear Sylvia's voice between my ears. It's hitting me over and over with her words of hate but she doesn't realise I am immune, and have been immune for a long time. Fires burn in my surroundings and I find myself staring at the beauty of it all; bright like a beacon in each of us but some of them are set to be extinguished.

No fuel will be able to save them, for diamond strikes are too strong when it emotion battles blades.

I feel the sickness in my head and I am caught between the polar opposites: not an angel, not a devil. In a war, however, there is no neutrality or middle ground. Territories are guarded by those who bleed with passion and pride and those who parade around wearing a face just like mine.

They are not the enemy, but the fallen of my district whisper into my ear and scream that they are. And that's when I know that I have to do this—I have to cause the havoc they couldn't and push myself into the thick of it all.

A cannon booms, filling the sky like how my rage floods through every inch of my fibres. I've never felt more alive with this adrenaline, and though I've lost Sacha in the blur that followed my flee, there is a security found in wielding a weapon and knowing that killing is an option.

And killing—if I see that bitch from Four who broke my fucking arm, I'm going to do just that. The cannon that boomed whilst I was lost in the devastation could've been signalling her death, and if not, then I pledge that the next one will be.

Ryan Summit is a child of the bad revolution; Ryan Summit did not come to play.

Shallow breaths and arrhythmia tries to strike. I won't let it, not now because I have to find Sacha. I trek on; there's no direction guiding me and so I walk empty paths of the falling. A broken internal compass—I refuse to feel lost in the bloodbath's aftermath.

Where there is a Ryanna Summit, there is a way.

Ripred and I don't get along but fuck, I swear to him that I've been walking for eternity. The same old journeys from side to side; my mind goes back and forth with the roads that seem to wind. I glance behind me and there's nothing—no footsteps or the whistle of the wind or the heavy breaths of dangerous human life.

It's silence, and it roars.

But all of a sudden, there is a movement. Life—and in the blink of an eye, it fades.

For a moment, I just stare at the two bodies which bend to break on the ground. My eyes do not flutter away from the scene, nor they fill with sadness and anger. There's a swelling feeling of nothingness and emptiness and I can't compare it to how I felt when Stella died.

That pain was addicting and bitter.

In these deaths, there is a release. And it's sweet for Two and Eight.

But there's no business for a girl like me here. I feel the weight of Seven's past and future on my shoulders and I realise that I am the root of the problem. My death would, once again, symbolise trial and error. Another failed attempt at carrying the hopes and dreams would crash and burn, and I can't let it happen.

From Stella to Heather to Eryn to Iris; they suffered moving mountains and mountains of pure pressure. It threatened to tear them apart and set fire to the inside of their stomachs. And then it happened and Seven was helpless.

The sisters of Seven were ripped, and we saw the disgusting truth.

"Oh, thank fuck." There's Sacha, and the chaos reaches a calm and I fall into a state of grace.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? I thought I lost you." I have been beautifully, brutally broken but I know that forging courage is the only way to pick up the pieces without cutting my hands. I've lost before and became addicted to the sorrow which followed,

but now, I have nothing. I am starved.

"My arm is broken. Good thing I have another to kill with, right?" I laugh for a second, and it's not appropriate because Sacha is hurting more than I am. 

Soon he'll get tired of it like I did—we all get tired of waiting and assuming and hoping that promises will be kept, saying sorry and feeling hurt. 

You get tired, you lose hope and you let go.

That's how I'm Ryan Summit, that's how I can carry Seven on my shoulders and not care.

coding : elegant