//the lone wolf {dies}// bran's goodbye
Nov 20, 2012 23:45:33 GMT -5
Post by Rosetta on Nov 20, 2012 23:45:33 GMT -5
(OOC: THIS IS NOT BRAN’S DEATH POST. Shocker, huh? When I originally planned out his death, I saw only one post necessary, but now that he’s died, I really feel like two posts can sum him up. This post is revelations made by him while he’s still alive and the death post will be revelations he makes after death. So, hang in there kiddies! I repeat, THIS IS NOT THE DEATH POST YET.)
[/img][/center]
[/img][/center]
[/color][/size]~Bran Wolfe
Bran Wolfe didn’t die slowly.
Whenever he imagined his death, he imagined it to be calm and kind. He imagined that darkness that had captured him when he’d had his first brush with death, but he imagined a shorter version of it, a brief passage before he was falling, but falling so peacefully, tumbling, arms splayed out, eyes open to the light, falling until he fell not onto hard concrete, but rather into the arms of his Father who he was just sure he’d meet in what lay beyond death.
His death, however, was nothing like that at all.
Racked by pain, Bran coughed and sputtered, curled up on the hard, black ground. Blood poured out of him so readily, like water trickling down a hill. He ached. He ached and shuddered as if someone had picked him up and thrown him far away and he skidded, bouncing and cracking, until finally dropping to a hard stop that bounded up and down, a sharp stab on his being. As if the pain on his head, his arm, his torso wasn't bad enough, the pain he couldn't feel left him nearly in hysterics.
His soul poured readily from him in the payment of blood, pouring from the legs he could never really feel anyway. That was the scariest part. How can you die if you don't feel what makes you, well, you depart?
Staring up at the blank sky that betrayed to him neither day nor night, Bran tried to resist the tears forming in his eyes. Hadn't it just been a few weeks ago that he was clutched in Mother's arms, telling her that it was a folly to believe that even for a second that the crippled boy from District Eight could ever come home? He should've died earlier. It was like with being comatose, lost in a dark, dream state for so long while he felt Mother tug and pull him from above and he'd stayed for oh-so-long, a terrible tease. Why couldn't he have just died at the Cornucopia? Why couldn't that first girl Ellea turned on him? Or Alaska? Why did he have to stay so long? Not only was he sure that he'd given his family hope, Bran had given himself hope.
It was his downfall. Maybe for a second he'd thought, an instant, barely a blink in time, he'd hoped, just hoped that his sister would find some love for him in her stone-cold heart and spare him. Of the all the Games Bran had witnessed, all the siblings, the relatives, they'd never...or perhaps he'd been blind, crippled, unable to fully recognize and see the lust behind every tribute's eyes. They gleamed with gold and rubies and mothers and fathers and crowns and beds and home. They gleamed with victory and it wasn't until now, as Bran moaned and shuddered, that he realized how evil victory truly was.
As another deep rumble of agony shot through his body, Bran crumbled over and he knew he was dying. Why didn’t death just come already? He longed it, wanted it. Anything, but this pain. He wanted to crumple up and fall asleep. He was tired, just so tired and Bran didn't fear the darkness. In fact, he welcomed it. Would Aria see him in the stars tonight? Would she weep or smile? Both were just as bad. How could you cry for the person you killed all on your own? And smiling...it would burn and his body, deadened, white would feel it, probably on some hovercraft to, and Bran realized with a terrible jolt in his hollow stomach, his family. His body would surely go back to his family and as Mother had cried over Father's remains in the black box, she would surely screech over his and suddenly, Bran felt very self-conscious about his looks.
His bloody hands tried to lift themselves to his face, to wipe away the dirt, Sarita said dirt caused acne and she said acne was bad and Bran with his little cheeks, wouldn't want that and he needed to flatten his hair down, Mother hated when it struck up and it was lank and matted too, she'd hate that. But, Bran's arms were failing him and he was crumpled over his half-dead body, breathing heavily for even the attempt had zapped away his last remaining seconds and his eyelids were heavier than ever. Now, his eyes were level with the empty space that used to be legs and Bran's eyes widened painfully for what was he supposed to do about that?!
Tears formed in his eyes and dribbled down his dirt-streaked face as Bran's hands filled with blood from the stumps. What would his family say? He was half of what he used to be-he'd always been-but now even more so and Bran's fingers tightened around what used to be and snot was wet and drippy in his nose as he swallowed and for the first time since he woke up from his coma following the initial fall, Bran wanted his lifeless, paralyzed legs back. He wanted them, itches for them, searched for them in vain, but they were gone. He'd spent years scorning them, beating at them, screaming at them, "Work! Work! Why can't you work?!" And now they were gone and all the anger that had been swirling and churning around inside of him was evaporating, replaced by the hollow loss and Bran felt the production of his tears double in speed and a hard knob had formed in his throat and each growing sob made his grimace him terrible pain, made his muscles ache for sleep, but he couldn't stop.
Bran just wanted his legs back.
It was like when he'd lost Curtis. At first, he'd been at loss, yes, but he'd taken the deep breath that said he'd known this was going to happen the second they all stood or, in Bran's case, sat on those metal plates and counted down the sixty seconds to death. But, as he slipped away, out of Bran's fingers like sand, the fear set in for he'd never said all he wanted to. Not until it was too late. And oh gosh, Bran was so sorry, he was so sorry.
Lost chances, opportunities, right out of his fingers and Bran's arms tried to take them in, but only hitting open air before skimming the bloody ground and his fingers clung to the slippery earth before it yanked him under for he'd never said, "I'm sorry," Bran heard himself whispering and he hadn't noticed until now, but his eyes were closed, a world of darkness, but he was speaking to his legs and he still felt his body, wet and torn, still there, thankfully still there. "I'm so sorry," Bran told his legs or rather the place that used to be in a weak, cracked voice, the voice of the dying. "Please, please," his hands closed around the stumps, trying to staunch the flow of blood before his words were cut short by Death's scythe, "please forgive me...I...I..." his voice broke as tears leaked out from in between the closed eyelids. "I," he began again with a breath that split his lungs, "I didn't mean it..." the blood was sticky and wet and his hands nearly slipped from the stumps that felt not a thin, "I don't hate you...I never did...I didn't mean it...oh please, forgive me...I...I..." he swallowed hard for something hot, either bile or blood was rising from his swollen stomach to his sore lips, "I didn't mean it...just...just..." Another sob made him cry out and he knew the next would shatter his body entirely.
"Just...just..." Bran choked out and his hands were glowing slack on the stumps, slipping away and he was sinking down to lie on his side as he muttered out, "just...come back...please...don't...d-don't...don't leave me. Please"
And suddenly, Bran felt no feeling at all, not just below the waist, but everywhere and somewhere far in his mind, Bran welcomed the womb of darkness he'd previously dwelled in and now, it felt so good.
And Bran Wolfe's soul departed this world.
(ooc: Again, this is not the death post!! Not yet! Thanks<3)