How To Live Without A Heart // Ems{Blitz}
Jan 1, 2017 22:14:43 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Jan 1, 2017 22:14:43 GMT -5
Cobalt Truus
The cold creeps through my skin, I hear a lark leaping from a nearby tree while I remain frozen on my spot. Single strokes consume my flippant fingers as my pen furrows within the folds of my journal. Before me a single stone devours my stares, consumes every conscious cent I haven't spent. Question after question quells within the creases of my pages, produces endless amounts of proportionate answers. Were there even any answers to such immoral images of morality? Was there any person aside from the reaper who flies within the forests of bones in search of sorrowful souls that could answer such questions? Of course not, yet my pen produces them upon my paper anyway as I succumb to my own skepticism.
A breeze builds from the south shaking the tendrils of my long black coat, the cold creeps inside me even further. From the night I hear movement behind me. A sense of worry wrinkles my hand tightly around my pen as my icy irises peer through the pandemonium of the night. The grip gives way as the boy's face is shone beneath the sheen of the moon. I turn back to my paper pages, back to my pen producing pathetic problems. My eyes hover upon her name on the stone for a second. Bailey Truus. I look away.
I feel his shadow slinking closer as snow stems down from the sky. I close away the secrets of my struggles with a slam and dare to look the relative in the eyes. We look nothing alike, we share no blood, we are both adopted from some different life of ascension. Yet somehow we share the same family name, we're both Truus, whether for better or for worse.
A breeze builds from the south shaking the tendrils of my long black coat, the cold creeps inside me even further. From the night I hear movement behind me. A sense of worry wrinkles my hand tightly around my pen as my icy irises peer through the pandemonium of the night. The grip gives way as the boy's face is shone beneath the sheen of the moon. I turn back to my paper pages, back to my pen producing pathetic problems. My eyes hover upon her name on the stone for a second. Bailey Truus. I look away.
I feel his shadow slinking closer as snow stems down from the sky. I close away the secrets of my struggles with a slam and dare to look the relative in the eyes. We look nothing alike, we share no blood, we are both adopted from some different life of ascension. Yet somehow we share the same family name, we're both Truus, whether for better or for worse.
Word Count: 297
