no pain, no gain
Dec 5, 2013 3:46:23 GMT -5
Post by k!ah on Dec 5, 2013 3:46:23 GMT -5
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"Speech."
Thoughts
Thoughts
The cat had soft fur, fur softer that the small curly hairs of my leg. I smile down at it, my fingers running through its rather greasy coat. But I didn’t mind the grease; I didn’t mind that the cat seemed to purr with joy as my long delicate fingers brushed the knots from its clumped fur. She was only a small cat-a kitten if you may- just big enough to fit into the palm of my hand. But there was something terribly wrong with her. She was as skinny as a branch swaying from a leafless tree. She was dying, dying from lack of food, dying from lack of attention, lack of love from her mother- where ever the adult she cat was.
I let my fingers for a moment longer on the kitten soft fur- fur which feel out with every brush of my fingers. I didn’t know how to feel- should I feel sad? Should I feel disgusted in the way the mother deserted her child? Or should I feel an urge to end the poor things life? With a sigh I let my hand fall to my side, still. The kitten stays in my lap, it pitiful meows filling me, filling my mind. It’s all I can hear, its screeches as death slowly takes it away. It was dying. That was that. Its mother had abandoned it, its father probably just got lucky and its brothers and sister probably couldn’t give a fuck. What is it that people say- the strongest are the ones who survive? That the weakest are the ones who don’t make it out alive?
I think of the games, the one that was now going on, the one that was filled with kids no older than 14 fighting each other to the death. They were too young, but just like the saying goes, those who are weak will be the ones who don’t survive. They will die, they have to die, and they will. Only the strongest will make it out, only the strongest will be the one breathing in the end, heart pounding. But suddenly I wasn’t seeing the children in the games but my sister, her eyes blazing, her throat slit. She didn’t say a word, just stood there her eyes speaking a thousand words. I felt my throat close up, my heart begin to pound faster in my chest.
But she couldn’t be here, she just couldn’t. I had killed her. I had taken away her life, she was dead. Malina, she is dead. Dead. Malina span out of it! Wake up! A voice in the back of my head urged me, making me pinch my arm gentle, before squishing the flesh between my fingers so hard that when I pulled my hand away it was sticky with blood, my own blood. Blinking a few times, I look down at my arm and the small splashes of blood that now made home on the pale skin of my arm.
With a sigh I pull down the sleeve of my knitted jumped and gently wipe away the splotches of scarlet away. It only takes a few moments, leaving my sleeve stained with the rose of a blood. I stare at the patch of blood for a moment longer before I push it out of my view, my hands finding the soft pelt of the kitty cat once again. But this time my fingers weren’t a gentle caresses, they were rough, prodding at the delicate kittens body as though I trying to rip away the skin. The cat, which had been purring a few moments ago, no longer purred, it screeched; its small claws burying into the delicate skin of my thigh.
I don’t feel the pain rush through me, no, I just feel my fingers press deeper into the small frame of the warm body that sat on my lap, its feeble attempts to escape going unnoticed by my wandering mind. I didn’t know why I was doing- I didn’t know what was driving me to do it, but I did know that it wasn’t me. I could hear me- my voice- screaming in the back of my mind telling me to stop, begging me to let the kitten go. But my body had a different idea, and with one strong and I picked the kitten up, its voice hoarse as it squealed to be let go. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but then- almost as though my fingers had their own mind- my hand began to tighten around the small kittens body.
What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Pain. That’s why. I had been through so much, and I felt the urge to let someone else know, anything else know, the pain that I had been though. That’s why. That’s why my fingers gradually closed tighter and tighter around the dying kitten’s body.
I let my fingers for a moment longer on the kitten soft fur- fur which feel out with every brush of my fingers. I didn’t know how to feel- should I feel sad? Should I feel disgusted in the way the mother deserted her child? Or should I feel an urge to end the poor things life? With a sigh I let my hand fall to my side, still. The kitten stays in my lap, it pitiful meows filling me, filling my mind. It’s all I can hear, its screeches as death slowly takes it away. It was dying. That was that. Its mother had abandoned it, its father probably just got lucky and its brothers and sister probably couldn’t give a fuck. What is it that people say- the strongest are the ones who survive? That the weakest are the ones who don’t make it out alive?
I think of the games, the one that was now going on, the one that was filled with kids no older than 14 fighting each other to the death. They were too young, but just like the saying goes, those who are weak will be the ones who don’t survive. They will die, they have to die, and they will. Only the strongest will make it out, only the strongest will be the one breathing in the end, heart pounding. But suddenly I wasn’t seeing the children in the games but my sister, her eyes blazing, her throat slit. She didn’t say a word, just stood there her eyes speaking a thousand words. I felt my throat close up, my heart begin to pound faster in my chest.
But she couldn’t be here, she just couldn’t. I had killed her. I had taken away her life, she was dead. Malina, she is dead. Dead. Malina span out of it! Wake up! A voice in the back of my head urged me, making me pinch my arm gentle, before squishing the flesh between my fingers so hard that when I pulled my hand away it was sticky with blood, my own blood. Blinking a few times, I look down at my arm and the small splashes of blood that now made home on the pale skin of my arm.
With a sigh I pull down the sleeve of my knitted jumped and gently wipe away the splotches of scarlet away. It only takes a few moments, leaving my sleeve stained with the rose of a blood. I stare at the patch of blood for a moment longer before I push it out of my view, my hands finding the soft pelt of the kitty cat once again. But this time my fingers weren’t a gentle caresses, they were rough, prodding at the delicate kittens body as though I trying to rip away the skin. The cat, which had been purring a few moments ago, no longer purred, it screeched; its small claws burying into the delicate skin of my thigh.
I don’t feel the pain rush through me, no, I just feel my fingers press deeper into the small frame of the warm body that sat on my lap, its feeble attempts to escape going unnoticed by my wandering mind. I didn’t know why I was doing- I didn’t know what was driving me to do it, but I did know that it wasn’t me. I could hear me- my voice- screaming in the back of my mind telling me to stop, begging me to let the kitten go. But my body had a different idea, and with one strong and I picked the kitten up, its voice hoarse as it squealed to be let go. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but then- almost as though my fingers had their own mind- my hand began to tighten around the small kittens body.
What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Pain. That’s why. I had been through so much, and I felt the urge to let someone else know, anything else know, the pain that I had been though. That’s why. That’s why my fingers gradually closed tighter and tighter around the dying kitten’s body.
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Malina Thyme
quote or lyric thing
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