eat us alive; gunner/noah [ day one ]
Jun 18, 2015 19:27:26 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 18, 2015 19:27:26 GMT -5
N O A H B O W E R S
Blinding, he bleeds. Eye full of sun and veins full of smoke to replace the lack of blood, he nearly believed that he was a corpse reanimated already. He was nothing but broken and bloodied - black eye, busted lip, ravine on his leg and two cuts on his chest like parallels, and a constant throbbing in his left hand "o'fuck me." Blood tasted like rust, and up until now he almost thought he was accustomed to it. When he heard the crack of a blunt and his hand shattering like the reality that "this'll be okay, inhale, exhale, break, inhale, exhale.
"This can be okay."
Of course, somewhere he wants to believe it. That limping across the dirt and sand and bleeding like a trail, that somehow he'll be okay for another eight days. This is what he wanted, right, a chance for a new- something. A new anything, a new breath a new heart, anything but Noah and smoke and factories, and somehow even again, that's all he has. Noah, and smoke and blood, and it's a new pain at the very least. Now it's not the same palindrome that is a boring life, now it's just breathing through new cuts and knowing that you're purely alone.
Noah bit the rust, drinking back blood and the pain - did he have anybody? People have people, that's how they survive, and part of him hoped that he had nobody. That he'd die without a sanity or a conscience, that he'd be able to die without the pain of leaving anybody, but he's never been content on being alone. He had factory boys and nuts and bolts, and Bailey, and at one point he had Maya, Sue and Kiena, and Lethe. Breaking for a crown or breaking for ashes, either way he was doomed days of rust.
Sue and Maya and "Wyatt- that was a new name, new letters sour on his tongue because before the day he had given him no thought, no name or title. Now he was one of three that didn't have Noah etched at the top of their hitlist, and now he took his place in a wealth of gold meant for kings. It was fitting, Noah was no king and he never was, gold fit around his hands only if he was the one crafting, and with axes in his hand he was only breaking.
"I'am no king," the axes in his hand made him retch. He was no king, he was a murderer. One of two, and only two, and it felt like he was on the wrong side of the axe. Blood and brain and a crack, it rang in his head like the one of his head but it wasn't as subtle, it was bolded. Emphasized, memorized, highlighted in the back of his mind a repeat of the sound of a person being ripped from their skull and released soul first into the world and his heart ticked to his veins, to his fist and cuts and it all hurt.
She was the 11, one of two, one of the only two, and somewhere was her people, because 11's don't just happen, people have people. 22 people, Noah included and somewhere in the mix 22 people wanted him dead, there was a Lyon and a Krigel and a Hammerfell, and he fucked with Orion once unarmed and there was no hope there. There was no hope, he held his hand to his mouth, clenching his other on an axe. Noah was an entity of chaos, and his heart screamed and his veins ached, with the pounding of his head and the seize of the word fuck repeating on his brain, nothing but screaming and blood and crack, that splitting of her forehead and he couldn't even say her name.
With the seize of his body, he fell to the ground - bleeding and screaming hysteria. Crying with knuckles in his mouth to contain as much as he could - ("Momma, Momma where 'm I, please tell me,") - Noah bit the rust, bit the edge of his mouth and the blood on his teeth and with the cracking of his hand, the cracking of a skull and the cracking of his heart he stayed as low to the sand as he could, head tilted to the sky and a beating in his throat.
"Momma, who'm I."
Sin, a body of chaos, mass hysteria of smoke and blood, tears and cracking and I'am no king. It's a new pain, breaking.