michael gallows / d10 / (fin)

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 18, 2024 15:27:56 GMT -5	michael gallows / d10 / (fin) Aug 20, 2019 12:25:22 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Aug 20, 2019 12:25:22 GMT -5 *m i c h a e l g a l l o w s* district ten eighteen butcher hands, oh blood-red hands
	Last Edit: Aug 20, 2019 12:42:15 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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michael gallows / d10 / (fin) Aug 20, 2019 12:41:22 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Aug 20, 2019 12:41:22 GMT -5

g a l l o w s

He learnt how to be soft at ten and was forced to harden around twelve—a swift metamorphosis, gouging his skin to tatters, prying flesh from bone. It hurt but the Gallows knew how to bottle up pain; it only took clenched teeth and constant exposure to it:

hurting all day, hurting all night.

The pain, after you had faced it almost every day, became a friend, unhealed wounds nothing but portals to your inward parts. The taste of blood clinging to his teeth, after the long years, had grew as familiar as the taste of swallowed spit. His knuckles didn’t ache no more and his skin no longer bled, because he’d become hewn from stone, cut from marble, nothing but sculpture, fractured and bent, hollowed and forsaken.

The shabby scarecrows his father had planted to scare the birds, which, by the way, was to no avail, reminded Michael of his own battered self. They never took off their weather-worn and sun-bleached coats like Michael never took off the dark sweater he was gifted around eleven by his elder sister, even though the sleeves were so miserably frayed and it reeked of the hays and sun-dried manure. The fabric, overtime, had become sort of a second skin on his original one, robing it with a warmth he so rarely found outside its margins nowadays.

The one time of the day where he’d let the fabric be stripped away, was when he went to the slaughterhouse.

Blood, he thought grimly, was the Gallows’ heritage and legacy—red and furious blood, rivers and rivers of it across the tiled floor, like spilled wine, the color darker than it was when you envisaged it.

Since the tender age of twelve, Michael had been asked to become used to the killing and at age seventeen, after he’d been schooled on how to properly grasp a knife, he had two slaughters in his account,

the blood of two livestock on his cotton-soft hands.

This was the story about how skins hardened and became callous—the tragic tale of his hands, and the shame he felt in his bones whenever he had to lace them with a pretty boy’s. This was about the blood residue underneath the fingernails, and the blood etched onto the palm lines, like the intricate roads on a map, all leading to the red cross where he’d buried his guilty conscience in. This was the story about the innocence of boyhood, painted dark red.

Now eighteen and somber, Michael’s days consisted of working at the slaughterhouse long enough for his skin to become drenched with the stench of blood and returning home to take long, cold showers in order to get the putrefying smell fully out of every single pore in his physique. Blood to water, water to blood, blood to water, and then back to water to blood. Some days, he felt as though he was bathing in blood, not water, red raining down his brown curls, scarlet lips agape and curious to taste it, even though falling down the stairs numerous times and suckling on his open wounds had taught him that blood tasted akin to old pennies.

At night, he dreamed of somewhere serene and quiescent, with sun-kissed prairies glowing under the warm light of morning, air scented like spring and grass. He dreamed that he ran along the cleanly-shaven blades of grass and whenever his feet became tired, he’d sit, draw his knees close to the breastbone, and let himself be lulled by the north wind and the faerie-songs carried along its course. In these vibrant dreams, his hands were always clean and soft, no blemish or callous in sight.

Then, he’d wake up the next morning and feel nauseous all over and long for an escape from his family and the internal blood they were cursed to carry, the modern Sisyphus with thick blood instead of a heavy boulder.

Michael was plagued by more dizzy spells than the usual amount he had during this particular morning, head dense and smoggy – which meant it was trying to suppress a memory, like a fragment of bad news he’d been told yesterday, or a death in the family, or a mishap somewhere else. Something phantom that clung onto the sides firmly, refusing to let go.

Someone’s knuckles rapped at his door.

“What?” he asked, words slurred with sleep still.

“Hey, soldier,” his father,

“it’s your third kill today, remember?”

Last Edit: Aug 20, 2019 13:56:58 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 18, 2024 15:27:56 GMT -5	michael gallows / d10 / (fin) Aug 20, 2019 12:42:42 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Aug 20, 2019 12:42:42 GMT -5 ripred_bot . finito!
	Last Edit: Aug 20, 2019 12:43:01 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

Arrows Retired Staff 3,236 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen May 23, 2023 16:50:31 GMT -5 your resident blonde bisexual boy	michael gallows / d10 / (fin) Aug 20, 2019 13:44:32 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Arrows on Aug 20, 2019 13:44:32 GMT -5 This bio is absolutely breath-taking, I'm obsessed with him.
	Graphic by the Breathtakingly Talented Stare