little talks { margaret/marchello, day 6 }
Mar 29, 2015 12:19:01 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 29, 2015 12:19:01 GMT -5
margaret
And on the sixth day there was created,
A knife of words with edges serrated.
After turning my back to the pillar of ice, I had sprinted until my legs threatened to give out underneath my weight, and following the glance I toss over my shoulder to verify my solitude I sink to the snow, thankful for the cushion it gives.
No more than a minute or two at most could have passed before the sound of a cannon pierces the afternoon sky, and with a fleeting memory I attempt to remember who had still been lingering around when my feet had fled the scene. The boy and girl from six had left just prior, his weight leaning heavily upon her own, but other than them, it seemed to be only the boy from nine, the girl from eleven, and Pixie Ruined.
Don’t let it be Pixie Ruined.
But the thought is left to fester while the afternoon sun sinks slowly to the horizon, and as night begins to fall panic rises in my chest, for each previous evening had been spent with a chest against which to lay my head, and now I was left with nothing more than my own thoughts to keep it busy. I longed even for the company of Pixie, even if no words were spoken or glances exchanged.
She does visit me tonight.
But first the face of Lex sends a shiver down my spine, and though a tear falls—one, two—I refuse to let the sobs continue, and as the anthem continues to blare her face shimmers in the night sky alongside that of Wyatt Manderson, and for the second time I can hear a heart of stone attempting to crack and crumble with every intention of beating once again. I will it not to do so, for there would no longer be a hand to touch my shoulder or hold me steady; no metronome heart of Lex Rondhal to break the silence. I can feel a heart of flesh within my chest, and it aches for a company that can no longer stand beside me.
The silence doesn’t do them justice.
Instead it haunts me as I try to fall to fitful slumber, and though I am successful in achieving the former, the later comes only sporadically, and with each passing hour I wake unhappily to the slightest sounds and sights.
It’s just a sunrise away.
And when that sun (which seems to be but fabled at this point) crosses the horizon with every intention of rising higher I do the same, packing my bag and taking to my feet in the hopes of stalling the doubts of my mind for only a moment longer. But this does not take much, for the lack of sleep has already registered static creeping towards the edges of my mind with every step. There is no comprehension to be found in the simplest details, and even the noise that registers off to my right leaves a question mark in details that fall outside the realm of its existence.
There was no harm in investigation, for maybe the answers of deaths unsolved would lay in their wake, or perhaps the boy from nine would be standing behind the brush, and I could hurl at him yet again the egg which I took from Wyatt’s bag. Making statements was a grueling task, as he had taught, and now I did not doubt it, for to say what you meant and carry it out took such a grounded mind that it seemed impossible for any of the remaining six.
We were all flying on broken wings, descending at the rate at which we chose.
I wonder if I will plummet.
[margaret dubois attacks marchello; spear]
Uxl9mLG9spear
[3146 -- Shallow Cut on Left Forearm -- 3.5 damage]
A knife of words with edges serrated.
After turning my back to the pillar of ice, I had sprinted until my legs threatened to give out underneath my weight, and following the glance I toss over my shoulder to verify my solitude I sink to the snow, thankful for the cushion it gives.
No more than a minute or two at most could have passed before the sound of a cannon pierces the afternoon sky, and with a fleeting memory I attempt to remember who had still been lingering around when my feet had fled the scene. The boy and girl from six had left just prior, his weight leaning heavily upon her own, but other than them, it seemed to be only the boy from nine, the girl from eleven, and Pixie Ruined.
Don’t let it be Pixie Ruined.
But the thought is left to fester while the afternoon sun sinks slowly to the horizon, and as night begins to fall panic rises in my chest, for each previous evening had been spent with a chest against which to lay my head, and now I was left with nothing more than my own thoughts to keep it busy. I longed even for the company of Pixie, even if no words were spoken or glances exchanged.
She does visit me tonight.
But first the face of Lex sends a shiver down my spine, and though a tear falls—one, two—I refuse to let the sobs continue, and as the anthem continues to blare her face shimmers in the night sky alongside that of Wyatt Manderson, and for the second time I can hear a heart of stone attempting to crack and crumble with every intention of beating once again. I will it not to do so, for there would no longer be a hand to touch my shoulder or hold me steady; no metronome heart of Lex Rondhal to break the silence. I can feel a heart of flesh within my chest, and it aches for a company that can no longer stand beside me.
The silence doesn’t do them justice.
Instead it haunts me as I try to fall to fitful slumber, and though I am successful in achieving the former, the later comes only sporadically, and with each passing hour I wake unhappily to the slightest sounds and sights.
It’s just a sunrise away.
And when that sun (which seems to be but fabled at this point) crosses the horizon with every intention of rising higher I do the same, packing my bag and taking to my feet in the hopes of stalling the doubts of my mind for only a moment longer. But this does not take much, for the lack of sleep has already registered static creeping towards the edges of my mind with every step. There is no comprehension to be found in the simplest details, and even the noise that registers off to my right leaves a question mark in details that fall outside the realm of its existence.
There was no harm in investigation, for maybe the answers of deaths unsolved would lay in their wake, or perhaps the boy from nine would be standing behind the brush, and I could hurl at him yet again the egg which I took from Wyatt’s bag. Making statements was a grueling task, as he had taught, and now I did not doubt it, for to say what you meant and carry it out took such a grounded mind that it seemed impossible for any of the remaining six.
We were all flying on broken wings, descending at the rate at which we chose.
I wonder if I will plummet.
[margaret dubois attacks marchello; spear]
Uxl9mLG9spear
[3146 -- Shallow Cut on Left Forearm -- 3.5 damage]
table by anzie
