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just because i'm losing it doesn't mean i'm lost | slate
Oct 25, 2019 23:23:39 GMT -5
Post by [ retro gm ] angel lí ✨ on Oct 25, 2019 23:23:39 GMT -5
It's a strange feeling falling asleep to the pulse of your heart in your leg, but as much as it hurts Slate finds the rhythmic pain oddly soothing. She's no stranger to sleeping on the ground or with an injury - but as she rises from sleep she blinks back questions.
Leg? Yes.
That makes her eyes sting.
Frowny? Should've killed her, but hasn't. Yet.
Penelope?
Dead. Probably.
As selfish as it is, all she can think about is her foot. Never mind poor Penelope with no hands. Her foot was gone, and surely she'd fall asleep forever as her blood pooled out of her leg and there wasn't enough left to power her organs. What a fucking way to go, she thinks, laughing to herself. It's all she can do, laugh quietly. Hurried whispers, faint huffs of breath, and she laughs quietly into the dirt until it bubbles out of her, fills the air, fuck if anyone hears her. They'd be doing her a favour killing her now.
Curled up in the leaves and the dirt and her own blood, Slate laughs and laughs and laughs until she cries. She falls asleep crying and wakes up crying and the sun sets slowly, the breeze picks up and kisses her goodnight.
By the time the canons stop firing and the forest turns a hazy shade of evening brown Slate sums up enough strength to sit up. Silently, because if she opens her mouth she's sure she'll start crying again, the tiny girl from Nine peels off her remaining sock and cuts it into strips.
Stop the bleeding, someone says in the back of her head. Sebastian - that fucker, if only he could see her now. She's cut open enough veins to know she's succumbing to blood loss and how to stop it. Slate doesn't need him telling her what to do. Not after her left her for dead.
Look what you've done, she seethes to herself. Some fucking fake-Dad you are you son of a bitch. Angry hands bind her leg up and every tiny movement stings, it stings so fucking bad that she has to let a cry slip out from pursed lips else she might combust.
When she's done she falls back to the ground and sprays her arms out wide, watching the leaves dance sporadically in the light above her.
"Not a terrible place to go..." Slate muses, hazy like a fever dream. "Not the worst place to die..."
She closes her eyes and waits.
Leg? Yes.
That makes her eyes sting.
Frowny? Should've killed her, but hasn't. Yet.
Penelope?
Dead. Probably.
As selfish as it is, all she can think about is her foot. Never mind poor Penelope with no hands. Her foot was gone, and surely she'd fall asleep forever as her blood pooled out of her leg and there wasn't enough left to power her organs. What a fucking way to go, she thinks, laughing to herself. It's all she can do, laugh quietly. Hurried whispers, faint huffs of breath, and she laughs quietly into the dirt until it bubbles out of her, fills the air, fuck if anyone hears her. They'd be doing her a favour killing her now.
Curled up in the leaves and the dirt and her own blood, Slate laughs and laughs and laughs until she cries. She falls asleep crying and wakes up crying and the sun sets slowly, the breeze picks up and kisses her goodnight.
By the time the canons stop firing and the forest turns a hazy shade of evening brown Slate sums up enough strength to sit up. Silently, because if she opens her mouth she's sure she'll start crying again, the tiny girl from Nine peels off her remaining sock and cuts it into strips.
Stop the bleeding, someone says in the back of her head. Sebastian - that fucker, if only he could see her now. She's cut open enough veins to know she's succumbing to blood loss and how to stop it. Slate doesn't need him telling her what to do. Not after her left her for dead.
Look what you've done, she seethes to herself. Some fucking fake-Dad you are you son of a bitch. Angry hands bind her leg up and every tiny movement stings, it stings so fucking bad that she has to let a cry slip out from pursed lips else she might combust.
When she's done she falls back to the ground and sprays her arms out wide, watching the leaves dance sporadically in the light above her.
"Not a terrible place to go..." Slate muses, hazy like a fever dream. "Not the worst place to die..."
She closes her eyes and waits.
slate rests for -3
title lyrics by coldplay
title lyrics by coldplay
