every heartbeat was a scream / throne room dais / day 5
Nov 14, 2024 12:16:21 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Nov 14, 2024 12:16:21 GMT -5
He touches the smudge on his arm absentmindedly. He holds then paper gingerly, it's so fragile. Very quiet as he looks at it. The sword rests on the floor by his knee. A disjointed pair of feet sprints past the table they're under. Lu's found the roast meat now.
Tick shakes the book out of his bag. If he cranes his head enough, he can see the throne from under the tabletop. He flips through pages of meaningless notes.
He wrote about the blue-dust mushrooms, and about the vines that tried to lift them up into the trees, about the glow in the water and about how Lu's finally stopped punching in his sleep. He prides himself on knowing what's going on. Blinds himself with it.
No goodbyes. The woman with the light, where did she go. There had been that statue out in the field, reaching, seemed like it was handing him those knives on purpose. The face was so twisted up in agony that it was almost grotesque.
There was just something in one of the fables. The tower. The sickness that surrounded it, how the village had to quarantine the people around it zone by zone. Were they grotesque too. Does that feel familiar. Are you still looking the other way.
There was a bouquet of flowers on the table. Next to the candles, in between the turkey legs and the rolls that Lu immediately went for. Tick touches the drawing on the page. What if the statue wasn't a statue. Terrible thought. Silly thought. But what's more realistic - a statue coming to life? Or something else.
He’s the stupid kind of scientist. Monster in his basement. Sent to the Detention Centre because the experimentation got a little too out of the box. It's story of the tower, it's the way they've been heading towards it every day and still haven't gotten there. No closer, no farther. Where did they get turned around. When.
All those papers that his father left behind. All those equations he doesn’t understand. The diagrams that he does. The afflicted.
He’s very good at misinterpretation. Blinds himself with it.
There had been so many tumours in the body. He died a very slow death. A strange one. No one could help him. And then the birth abnormalities. The way the atmosphere changed. How it got harder to breathe. Cancer like a relief. The burns on Tick's hands.
To those that I have harmed, forgive me.
Lu’s foot is grey through the straps of the sandal. Tick still can’t feel his leg. Can’t wedge a finger in between the stone armour and where it sits against the boot. It’s like it’s fused to his leg, the layer of leather did nothing to stop it. He's very quiet as Lu keeps chewing beside him, as he glances over and sees him curled up, watching the feet skitter by in front of them. Umber’s arm was completely grey. The words in the book. The stories. The monster. The statues.
What if it wasn't a statue.
Ridiculous. Ridiculous thought. Stupid thought. They’re not sick. He's already been through this, he's not sick. The mud baked onto his arm the day before yesterday. It's stubborn. His leg is just asleep.
The statue stomps by their table.
Tick looks at the paper again. It could be a trick.
Does it even have a mouth.
He has the water in his bag already. There's a chalice on the tabletop. The bouquet. Lu side-eyes him as he scrambles. It could be a trick. But there's something they could try first.
There's a guinea pig.
The table above them shudders, and there’s an awful cracking noise, and then a heave, then it’s splitting and collapsing, dishes sliding from either end to crash either onto them or onto the floor.
Tick slaps a hand over the top of the chalice. He slaps a sausage link away, shoulders covered in splinters now. He frantically shoves the bench into the statue's legs to stumble it and shimmies out from the mess as it rears back.
The careers are still grouped together over there. Infighting now. The statue tracks Baby’s blood as it paces the mess of the table.
The others are snarling at each other. None of them are looking, they're distracted. The statue is only focused on Tick and Lu, moving like it’s about to jump the broken pile of planks and food to get to them.
“Distract it.” Tick hisses.
Lu’s turn to be the bait now. And if his distraction technique involves the pike again, the stabbing again, getting too close to that sword again, Tick’s not in any position to complain. He has to get behind it. He sidles around the length of the long table, slow until he darts around the corner.
And to make it clear. Perfectly so. He’s not doing this with the intention of helping. Or healing. This is a test. Display of a hypothesis. Checking for poison. It might not work. It might make things worse.
You never test your first draft out on yourself. Sometimes, not even your second draft.
Tick makes sure Lu is still there.
If this works, there's still the rule of thirds.
Sometimes, even two times is a coincidence.
He grabs onto the statue’s back, close enough that when the sword swings back wildly, he’s clear. He bats at the helmet, trying to push it up, but it doesn't budge. Fused. Like the armour. Might be reassuring. Might make this worse. The chalice sloshes as he hangs onto the statue. He pours the contents into the helmet instead, straight through the eyes.
