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one point perspective [qh vs. tvv; day three]
Oct 27, 2019 10:21:39 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Oct 27, 2019 10:21:39 GMT -5
The memory of the girl falling dead at Tommy’s feet continues to repeat in my mind as we move away from the forest. I keep my head down, say nothing as I lean heavily against Tommy, who has also taken a beating. We are quite the pair, two boys with bruised bodies and broken limbs supporting each other as the sun starts to retreat from the sky, giving the chill of night the opportunity to creep into our bones as we walk. My body trembles with each step, and finally, I call out to Efram and Bell, the two a solid few paces ahead of me, Can we stop, please?
The voice that comes from my throat does not sound like my own.
I remember Franky’s like this, the way his voice lightened and shook when he was afraid. A few years ago, I had taken him to climb buildings and jump roofs in the middle of the night, and for the sake of protection we climbed the corners the streetlamps managed to miss. He had never been sure of the way his feet held his body, and here, with no ground to rely on, this fear had been amplified tenfold. From the top, I leaned over, feet hooked around a metal offshoot and swinging. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled, the rest of him scrambling frantically until we were both laid out on the smooth concrete of the roof, breathless and staring at the stars.
In the quiet, I could see the outline of his body as he laid on his back, his chest heaving up and down. I don’t ever want to die by falling, he says. I cannot blame him for this, but I have no space within which to empathize, so I simply scoot closer to him and sit us both up, wrapping him up while both of our bodies shook in the night’s cold.
I sound like him now, wanting. I do not wish to go home, but I long for a place other than here. I am trying to wedge myself into a middle ground that does not exist, that will always be just beyond the reach of my fingers.
At our campsite, I lie still in the dark and listen to the sound of my own breathing, heavy and afraid. My body burns like this, a fire contained. I reach out for Tommy in the dark, hoping he is nearby, What if I don’t make it through the night?
By some miraculous act of a god I do not believe in, I find myself jolted out of sleep in the early hours of morning. I’m still a part of this body, and the burning has slowed to a dull ache, one I feel most at the place where my ear was removed from my head. I gently wake the others, point to the sun and gesture that we should continue moving, no matter the cost.
The trees of the forest finally give way to the site of a town abandoned, the buildings dilapidated and the pathways strewn with snow. We move quietly, the crunch of snow underneath our feet the only discernible sound. Tommy and I have somehow moved to the front line, and as we turn the corner around a building, the site of another group of four reaches us. Fuck me running, I spit under my breath, and I want originally to retreat, to turn tail around this corner—for any other option than to be taken to the almost brink of death and brought back again.
This type of revival does not happen more than once.
The voice that comes from my throat does not sound like my own.
I remember Franky’s like this, the way his voice lightened and shook when he was afraid. A few years ago, I had taken him to climb buildings and jump roofs in the middle of the night, and for the sake of protection we climbed the corners the streetlamps managed to miss. He had never been sure of the way his feet held his body, and here, with no ground to rely on, this fear had been amplified tenfold. From the top, I leaned over, feet hooked around a metal offshoot and swinging. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled, the rest of him scrambling frantically until we were both laid out on the smooth concrete of the roof, breathless and staring at the stars.
In the quiet, I could see the outline of his body as he laid on his back, his chest heaving up and down. I don’t ever want to die by falling, he says. I cannot blame him for this, but I have no space within which to empathize, so I simply scoot closer to him and sit us both up, wrapping him up while both of our bodies shook in the night’s cold.
I sound like him now, wanting. I do not wish to go home, but I long for a place other than here. I am trying to wedge myself into a middle ground that does not exist, that will always be just beyond the reach of my fingers.
At our campsite, I lie still in the dark and listen to the sound of my own breathing, heavy and afraid. My body burns like this, a fire contained. I reach out for Tommy in the dark, hoping he is nearby, What if I don’t make it through the night?
*
By some miraculous act of a god I do not believe in, I find myself jolted out of sleep in the early hours of morning. I’m still a part of this body, and the burning has slowed to a dull ache, one I feel most at the place where my ear was removed from my head. I gently wake the others, point to the sun and gesture that we should continue moving, no matter the cost.
The trees of the forest finally give way to the site of a town abandoned, the buildings dilapidated and the pathways strewn with snow. We move quietly, the crunch of snow underneath our feet the only discernible sound. Tommy and I have somehow moved to the front line, and as we turn the corner around a building, the site of another group of four reaches us. Fuck me running, I spit under my breath, and I want originally to retreat, to turn tail around this corner—for any other option than to be taken to the almost brink of death and brought back again.
This type of revival does not happen more than once.
[kirk bauer attacks slate rothul; sword]
QPqU8FYN65sword
[shallow cut on neck -- 4.0]
QPqU8FYN65sword
[shallow cut on neck -- 4.0]
