what the cicadas don't understand [shelby; day three]

Mind my brash,
Irrational hand.
When it falters
Or trembles
Under pressure
Low
Deemed truly grand.

I do not know what has overcome my lingering remnants of common sense, but my hand gently finds its way to rest upon the creature’s head and it seems to almost give way, as though it is trying to show me what it means to not be afraid. But I cannot find it within my heart to mimic the action, and with stiff arm and quaking hand the whip made noose continues on its path toward successful capture. However, as soon as the leather came in sight of the beast it let out a deafening noise, causing my eyes to go wide and step back as it began to heave with great effort.

Before any line of action can be processed, a wooden bottle has collided with my shin, and before a single obscenity can fall from my tongue, the creature is gone. With no threat of immediate danger now in the vicinity, I take rest on the ground and examine the bruise forming on my lower leg before reaching for the bottle to examine its contents.

Well fuck me backwards if I thought I was going to stay sober for longer than three days straight.

A smile cracks on my lips as I pull at the cork wedged into the neck of the bottle, and with success being found I take a swig. Fire in my veins never faded I see scarlett in more places than one.

I would put money on her being the best drinking partner I could have ever had.

In my still sober silence I am left to ponder for only a minute longer before being interrupted by the sound of ticking and the sight of a silver box held aloft by white parachute floating down to find its resting place in my hands. Fingers pressing against the latch it opens to reveal five more crayons in simple colors— black, gold, silver, blue, and—

Scarlett.

Tossing all but the black and scarlet aside, I put the other three with the others and pick up the vivid purple in trade. The three colors set in front of my eyes begin to swirl, and I push them farther apart in an attempt to make a distinction between the shades. I pick up the black crayon tenderly, drawing first the shape of a jar empty than filled with a substance of the same, thick and threatening to ooze between my fingers if I dared unscrew the lid.

Set aside and not forgotten I take the purple and draw a similar shape, shaded of glass and rounded at the bottom given wide. The cap drawn on I refuse to fill this with anything my hand could bring to life.

Finally, my eye falls upon the last remaining shade of red in my vision. It does not seem to fade into nothing even when I close my eyes, and with them still shut I reach out and let my hand make its way over uneven ground with no safety net below the tightrope until it grasps the crayon between thumb and forefinger with uncertainty.

Eyes opened once more I follow the shape of straight stick rounded out to the top, about the length of my finger and three in number.

Fire starter, Scarlett, and me— differentiate between the three and you’ll be hard-pressed for answers that cannot be explained.

Matches tucked into my waistband and empty canteen in hand, I leave my place of comfort and make my way to the edge of the clearing, gathering a bundle of firewood under one arm and walking along the edge until a source of sound water is brought into vision as well.

Returning back to situational shelter I place the wood down before pulling one of the matches from my waist and striking it alight. Fire now spitting back at me I hovered the container of water over it and watched the steam evaporate at its neck. Removed and set aside I find my hand hovering over the brown crayon kept from before, tracing the simple shape of crackers absentmindedly until the sound of my stomach brings me back to relations with my actions.

They seem to soften in my hands, and gingerly I place them in my mouth and begin to will my teeth to chew, but soon the driving force of hunger takes over and I am frantically scarfing them down as quickly as I can manage. With a stale taste left on my tongue, I reach for the water jug, now empty and able to be touched, and sip slowly on the water until the container is once again empty.

To have a stomach half-full and a thirst half-quenched was something not to be looked lightly upon.

After sitting in silence and letting my body adjust to its newfound feeling of semi-content, I find myself fidgeting with anything within reach of my fingers. Hair twisted around my pinky, pieces of dead skin peeled away; nails dragged across the last remnants of smooth skin— I am determined to never let rest truly find this poorly hidden soul of mine. My hand then reaches back and falls upon the silver crayon, and I grasp it and allow it to follow a similar shape to the sword I once cradled firmly in my palm. However, the end finds itself curving at a more drastic angle, and I am left with something that chilled my bones when I simply took hold of the handle.

Finally, the waves of unconsciousness begin to roll over my mind, and I find the odd colored crayon I had just received moments ago grasped in my palm. Those simple colors of strength were cut cleanly in half by the presence of this bright blue, and following motions of the same I trace the shape of a needle and thread, followed by a wadded up bundle of bandages.

Scarred gently and as though not to be remembered, the few wounds still remaining emit a glow of red around the point of contact, and my eyes follow them slowly, as though any movement of a quicker speed will cause me to lose my grasp on reality entirely.

Tearing a piece of the newly drawn bandages off of the roll, I wrap it gently around the joint cracked by Jano.

Held together by nothing more than materials of my own creation— what a sense of pride brought about at the thought.