uncanny valley — vrm vs. lk | day 5, d8 suite
Dec 7, 2023 16:06:56 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Dec 7, 2023 16:06:56 GMT -5
“You look like shit.”
He does. I have seen Roe at his most rascal form before during our so-called brunch, and it’s nothing like him. He looks a boy haunted by himself, a body afraid of its own viciousness. He looks a second away from eating himself, or any of us, raw.
I take a cloth from a nearby stand, wet it with a splash of water from my canteen.
“Sit,” I say. The towel is cool in my hands. I press it gently against a wound on his face, remembering the way Ma would nurse our wounds whenever Alfer and I would play in the thorn bushes. We were both little boys, unafraid of brambles. We’d get sick from eating wild blackberries afterwards, too.
Childhood, to me, has always been a thing scented like raw berries and sycamores.
“Did you have someone who did this for you?” I ask, unbidden. The shock of my own words constricts my throat, so I clear it quickly. “Just wondering.” Fuck, it's out there, so: “Did you have someone to ice your wounds?”
I leave the suturing to Vin.
I sleep. It’s cold, peaceful.
Then I see Javier’s dying face and jolt awake. A shiver leaves me: my skin feels frosty, ice-bitten almost, and my bones rattle like train tracks.
Javier’s dead.
Javier’s dead, and I saw Elias’ face when it happened, and –
Something sounds from afar.
Back when I was young, whenever Alfer and I would play beyond the reaches of our home and within the blooming wild before it, Ma would stand on the porch come nightfall, switch on the light-bulb, and say,
“… Sweetheartsssss.”
“Sweethearts, come home.”
I tug myself onto my feet. “Vin,” I whisper, shaking the other awake softly. “Vin, do you hear that?”
“It’s my mother.”
The hallway curves before me with intent, red light from the alcoves illuminating the path before me as I start to walk, keeping a steady pace at first, then briskly, then even more, and then the wind is in my face, keening with equal rhythm to my heartbeats.
I race down the hallway and clamber up the stairs, careening towards that disembodied voice, drawing closer and closer until I reach the door it is coming from.
Eight floor. I push through the doors to the District Eight suite, barging in with no care for stealth.
A thousand blank faces stare back. The shadows here are darker and yet they have more form, more shape, almost as if they themselves are the true living beings amongst the lifeless mannequins.
I push through a figurine, knock another over, “Ma?!”
I take out my knife.
“Not her,” I sob. “Please, she’s not even an IZAR! Take me. I’m the Izar here.” I throw my knife at a mannequin’s face, then shakily remove another.
Amongst the blank visages, my eyes – keen and wild as a rabid cat – spot one with character, with life. “Antigone,” I say her name through gnashed teeth. “Where did you keep her – What did you do to her!” I slash the air. Then, as tears loosen down my cheeks, I tighten my hold on the knife and aim it at her. “Give her back, Antigone.”
“Sweetheart –”
Instinctively, I fling the knife. She has her. Antigone’s lost her fucking marbles and kidnapped Laurel. She has her.
ELEGANT
mateo attacks antigone | gunmetal throwing knives (1/4)
1OiY37rHfzthrowing knife
