a war in my head {ansel vs cynthia; day 7}
Dec 2, 2017 18:13:41 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Dec 2, 2017 18:13:41 GMT -5
► ► ►
For two years, I told myself I saw the world in color.
I sunk my spear into Josephine Emerson's flesh and watched the life fade from her eyes without so much as an apology to seek her approval. "Wherever you go, I hope you see the sunrise." I told her because no one deserves to die with the harvest moon being the closest thing seen to dawn. She had lost her grip on reality, her sanity crumbling to glass dust and her eyes wide and frantic in the moments before the sound of her cannon reverberated across the sky and branches in the trees. "You know, that's mercy." I remember saying to Jacinta before she fled the scene of our crime. Josephine Emerson begged me to kill her and I promised to save her from living in a world where she was surrounded by shades of grey.
It was a process I'd seen before, without the bloodshed and the promise of gore. Family nights by the fire was quickly replaced by a mother hunched over the dinner table with a glass of wine and the first four stages of grief heavy on her shoulders. She sputtered words of denial in the first month, slammed her fists against the table in the second, bargained with the shadows across in the third, drunk herself into a stupor in the fourth and let acceptance settle into bitterness in the fifth.
We both settled into bitterness, but she took to burning possessions while I stuck to holding them close.
Time lost to the burden of vagabond wanderlust, the only semblance of evening I sense is the sight of the harvest moon setting and fading behind the clouds. And he comes before the tone of the anthem, tall white and faceless. "What do you want?" I call out, holding out the point of my spear and watching it shake as my hand trembles. Yet he doesn't move, and he doesn't reply, he just stands and stares. "Leave me alone!"
The Capitol's call snatches my gaze from him and up to the sky, the face of Hayden Harvard is first and my hand twitches. We drunk together on the rooftop, setting our frustrations on our sleeves and forgetting where we were. She provided me warmth in a place where I was destined to freeze. Yet I do not weep at the knowledge she's gone, the sight of Alfie's dead flesh and arm hitting the ground replays across my vision and his screams reverberate through my mind. It's better of this way; I'm more than happy to apply pressure to the privileged.
Kraygon Truus appears next, the man who went on a mad charge against the thing that stripped Sirrah of his life and fingers. His death brings a frown to my face as it can only mean that Daniela Raosio is still alive.
Josephine's face is next and I instinctively put my trembling fingers against the picture in my pocket, just for the illusion of stability. "I hope you saw color again." I whisper, even if I only tell myself I do, I hope she saw color again as her life ebbed away and her sanity froze.
Alfie--
Alfie Larson is dead.
His face fades and I let my head lull back to the side for a figment of insanity but the spot where the faceless man once stood now lies empty. Stupid. I told Jacinta that we could never stand on equal ground because she had not discarded the fragments of herself that made her weak. She was still windswept by humanity; broken hearts and steady compassion were tattooed clear on her chest for the allies she had lost.
"Please, I don't want to feel anymore." I tell my father, pulling that picture from my pocket and stroking the edge with my thumb.
"Then don't."
He replies.
When I sleep, I leave the void Alfie Larson's cannon left unfilled.
White light shines over my face and my eyes flicker open. There's a full moon in this world of darkness, white noise and bright flares pry my eyelids open and I hoist myself up. When I step I stumble, falling over a gravestone onto my hands and knees and biting my lip at the scrape left on my knee. I turn, reading the name of Atlas Lumiere upon the tombstone but failing to put two and two together.
All I know is that he's been dead for two years, for some reason.
I don't like this; from the blood on my hands to the plaque on my teeth and the feeling of a plague rotting me from the inside out, turning my bones to dust and my testing the proportional limit of my sanity. I spot the faceless man on the horizon in the corner of my eye and I wonder if he is waiting for my most vulnerable moment before he decides to wrap his slender fingers around my throat and take what little redeeming quality -- what do I even have left?
I'm still breathing, that's what I have left.
So that's what I settle for as I wade through dust and a crevice of madness. Dragging myself across the arena with my weapons, bearings and scattered heartbeat.
I
"Fuck."
Can
"Fucking fuck."
Breathe.
I wonder if he's taunting me, if it was for anything else I would be long dead.
Perhaps this is simply my comeuppance for not being more careful with my humanity and my heart. I played with fire and watched the kingdom of knowledge I was meant to inherit burn. I carried the memory of a dead man in my pocket for two years and visited his grave in the hope he would rise. I swore to carve something new for myself and instead sit with crimson iron stained upon my hands and a galaxy of people that must surely hate me.
I ought to have been more careful with how I scattered the figments of my sanity.
The sight of nooses and gallows slowly comes into view and I freeze in my tracks, a scream catches in my throat and the beauty of being able to take a breath becomes something to be feared, not admired. I collapse, falling to my knees and biting my lip.
I will not die to a bitter trophy of justice.
When I look back up, I do not see the trap door and creaking rope that became a catalyst for grief and despair two years ago, but a pair feet, a sword and golden hair bathed in moonlight. Not within striking distance but definitely not safe. I scramble back, gripping my bag and spear, tight and lurching myself up and on my feet. Eyes wide and breathing rapid.
"There's blood on your sword." I say flatly, slowing my breathing and circling her. The girl from One; Cynthia. My face twists into a scowl and my grip tightens around the shaft of my spear bloodied spear. She tried to kill Sirrah and she would have me die to this world without color. "How many people did you kill?"
I don't think it matters, careers are all the same and I will not hesitate to apply pressure to the privileged.
Spear raised and eyes bloodshot, I see the world in only shades of red when I strike.
I sunk my spear into Josephine Emerson's flesh and watched the life fade from her eyes without so much as an apology to seek her approval. "Wherever you go, I hope you see the sunrise." I told her because no one deserves to die with the harvest moon being the closest thing seen to dawn. She had lost her grip on reality, her sanity crumbling to glass dust and her eyes wide and frantic in the moments before the sound of her cannon reverberated across the sky and branches in the trees. "You know, that's mercy." I remember saying to Jacinta before she fled the scene of our crime. Josephine Emerson begged me to kill her and I promised to save her from living in a world where she was surrounded by shades of grey.
It was a process I'd seen before, without the bloodshed and the promise of gore. Family nights by the fire was quickly replaced by a mother hunched over the dinner table with a glass of wine and the first four stages of grief heavy on her shoulders. She sputtered words of denial in the first month, slammed her fists against the table in the second, bargained with the shadows across in the third, drunk herself into a stupor in the fourth and let acceptance settle into bitterness in the fifth.
We both settled into bitterness, but she took to burning possessions while I stuck to holding them close.
(the paper against my thumb reminds me what it means to be loved)
Time lost to the burden of vagabond wanderlust, the only semblance of evening I sense is the sight of the harvest moon setting and fading behind the clouds. And he comes before the tone of the anthem, tall white and faceless. "What do you want?" I call out, holding out the point of my spear and watching it shake as my hand trembles. Yet he doesn't move, and he doesn't reply, he just stands and stares. "Leave me alone!"
The Capitol's call snatches my gaze from him and up to the sky, the face of Hayden Harvard is first and my hand twitches. We drunk together on the rooftop, setting our frustrations on our sleeves and forgetting where we were. She provided me warmth in a place where I was destined to freeze. Yet I do not weep at the knowledge she's gone, the sight of Alfie's dead flesh and arm hitting the ground replays across my vision and his screams reverberate through my mind. It's better of this way; I'm more than happy to apply pressure to the privileged.
Kraygon Truus appears next, the man who went on a mad charge against the thing that stripped Sirrah of his life and fingers. His death brings a frown to my face as it can only mean that Daniela Raosio is still alive.
Josephine's face is next and I instinctively put my trembling fingers against the picture in my pocket, just for the illusion of stability. "I hope you saw color again." I whisper, even if I only tell myself I do, I hope she saw color again as her life ebbed away and her sanity froze.
Alfie--
Alfie Larson is dead.
His face fades and I let my head lull back to the side for a figment of insanity but the spot where the faceless man once stood now lies empty. Stupid. I told Jacinta that we could never stand on equal ground because she had not discarded the fragments of herself that made her weak. She was still windswept by humanity; broken hearts and steady compassion were tattooed clear on her chest for the allies she had lost.
"Please, I don't want to feel anymore." I tell my father, pulling that picture from my pocket and stroking the edge with my thumb.
"Then don't."
He replies.
So I won't.
When I sleep, I leave the void Alfie Larson's cannon left unfilled.
White light shines over my face and my eyes flicker open. There's a full moon in this world of darkness, white noise and bright flares pry my eyelids open and I hoist myself up. When I step I stumble, falling over a gravestone onto my hands and knees and biting my lip at the scrape left on my knee. I turn, reading the name of Atlas Lumiere upon the tombstone but failing to put two and two together.
All I know is that he's been dead for two years, for some reason.
I don't like this; from the blood on my hands to the plaque on my teeth and the feeling of a plague rotting me from the inside out, turning my bones to dust and my testing the proportional limit of my sanity. I spot the faceless man on the horizon in the corner of my eye and I wonder if he is waiting for my most vulnerable moment before he decides to wrap his slender fingers around my throat and take what little redeeming quality -- what do I even have left?
I'm still breathing, that's what I have left.
So that's what I settle for as I wade through dust and a crevice of madness. Dragging myself across the arena with my weapons, bearings and scattered heartbeat.
I
"Fuck."
Can
"Fucking fuck."
Breathe.
I wonder if he's taunting me, if it was for anything else I would be long dead.
Perhaps this is simply my comeuppance for not being more careful with my humanity and my heart. I played with fire and watched the kingdom of knowledge I was meant to inherit burn. I carried the memory of a dead man in my pocket for two years and visited his grave in the hope he would rise. I swore to carve something new for myself and instead sit with crimson iron stained upon my hands and a galaxy of people that must surely hate me.
Someone out there hates me, six legacies and an entire district I called home with open arms.
I ought to have been more careful with how I scattered the figments of my sanity.
The sight of nooses and gallows slowly comes into view and I freeze in my tracks, a scream catches in my throat and the beauty of being able to take a breath becomes something to be feared, not admired. I collapse, falling to my knees and biting my lip.
("Victims were found buried underground, dismembered and partially decayed--"
"He has shown absolute no remorse for his actions."
"The proper sentence is rather clear in this case.")
"He has shown absolute no remorse for his actions."
"The proper sentence is rather clear in this case.")
I will not die to a bitter trophy of justice.
When I look back up, I do not see the trap door and creaking rope that became a catalyst for grief and despair two years ago, but a pair feet, a sword and golden hair bathed in moonlight. Not within striking distance but definitely not safe. I scramble back, gripping my bag and spear, tight and lurching myself up and on my feet. Eyes wide and breathing rapid.
"There's blood on your sword." I say flatly, slowing my breathing and circling her. The girl from One; Cynthia. My face twists into a scowl and my grip tightens around the shaft of my spear bloodied spear. She tried to kill Sirrah and she would have me die to this world without color. "How many people did you kill?"
I don't think it matters, careers are all the same and I will not hesitate to apply pressure to the privileged.
(I'm just another bitter man after all)
Spear raised and eyes bloodshot, I see the world in only shades of red when I strike.
[ansel khiev attacks cynthia rose delgado; spear]
2fcMs6mVspear
[3175 -- Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 damage]
2fcMs6mVspear
[3175 -- Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 damage]
[/presto]
