Post by slate • d9f • zoë on Jul 4, 2017 2:21:45 GMT -5
L A C E
E O N ;
They treat this place like a playground.
I watch them from the corners of the room, gallivanting about like wild animals. It must be nice to treat death as nothing more than a pencilled-in mark on their schedule, to erase it as if it didn't matter, as if this was all just a silly little game. But of course it is, a game of wits, of survival, of luck and chance and how long you can keep your pulse beating for.
I used to play the latter in the snow, daring my heart to slow to one beat per minute. It never did - to my distaste, to my relief. I'm not sure how to feel about the concept of my heart stopping in this place. I know it will break West, so certain I will return. Perhaps it will distill Espie, for a moment. Not that I care - they'll just keep on fighting. Beating up the next blonde girl in my place.
I wonder how Alaska would feel.
I wonder what we could have been.
Black, and white, and black and white and I find myself aimlessly painting squares on the floor underneath the camoflague station table. Black, and white, and black, and white - living, dying, living, dying, my life, Alaska's life, my life, Alaska's life, dead, alive, dead, alive.
Little footsteps stop in front of my hiding place and I look up, but not before I blink away the tears in my eyes from the ideas of what could have been were I anyone else but myself.
“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”
Post by puppo of doggo on Jul 4, 2017 9:59:24 GMT -5
They run around, some with eyes as wide as children, new to this world, others with eyes reflecting strange familiarity. Some are hurting, others are joyous. I am in the middle of both, my insides feel cold and not ready to run around and play. My mind keeps telling me there is no point in running around like the others, no point in playing, no point in trying to remain alive, but my heart still pumps, and so I play the game with everyone else. I fight, I swing my sword, I pretend to be a grown up who is ready to fight to the death.
In reality, I am just a child like everyone else here.
I see her under a table, a paintbrush in hand, doodling something with a paintbrush in hand. She seems to one of the only ones not swinging a weapon around or tying a noose in preparation to die with a bang. I make my way over to her spot under the table, and bend down to see the black and white squares moving in a pattern across the bottom of the table.
"Anything interesting under here?" I ask, my voice quiet so I won't disturb the placid painter too much.