do you run on gasoline? / felicityday1.

Sometimes, I hate my brain.

I get an idea, and it knocks me out. The bite of the cold rolls through me as I brace myself against the wind, keeping my head low, heading quietly towards the ring of light a couple hundred meters ahead. Never mind that those shrieks dancing on those heavy gusts are going to haunt my dreams tonight, populate my subconscious with ugly, hooked, crawling things that sprout wings and circle overhead like vultures. Somehow, that fate has nothing on the notion that all those bones would make the most wonderful breastplate.

The burst of golden warmth through the dark, I could just see the beam before it disappeared into the misty clouds overhead. I understood why Lucky came to find me in the cabin then. There’s something so seductive about the light.

At least the bones are picked clean. I don’t know if I’d have been able to stomach sticking my pike in their guts and emptying them. 

I can’t help running a finger over the top of the generator when I finally reach her. It’s covered in soot and grease, but my fingernails are already ruined from messing with the other ones insides. If anything, I wear the grime with pride.

“I wonder who fixed you up,” my mouth twists, looking it over. There’s track marks, scatterings of footprints that are easy enough to follow, a collection of animal spines and matted furs, but nothing that tells me who else felt like playing mechanic. “Stealing my image.”