black suits & ties [ open+krigels ]
Aug 15, 2015 1:04:24 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Aug 15, 2015 1:04:24 GMT -5
F O R A T I M E
joel ngui
[newclass=.anziescroll]background:none;[/newclass][newclass=.anziescroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width:3px;[/newclass][newclass=.anziescroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]width:3px;background-color:rgba(124,124,124,0.5);[/newclass][newclass=.anziescroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-track]width:1px;background-color:rgba(120,120,120,0.5);[/newclass][newclass=.anzieside]position:relative;background-color:none!important;width:200px;height:400px;overflow:hidden;[/newclass][newclass=.anzieside .anziehover]position:absolute;overflow:auto;left: 0px;top:0;opacity:0; -webkit-transition:0.8s all ease-in-out; -moz-transition: 0.8s all ease-in-out; -o-transition: 0.8s all ease-in-out;-webkit-transition-delay:0.5s;-moz-transition-delay:0.5s;-o-transition-delay: 0.5s;[/newclass][newclass=.anzieside:hover .anziehover]opacity:1;[/newclass][googlefont="Carrois Gothic SC:400"]joel ngui
| i will mourn for you |
| [attr="class","anziescroll"] It's not raining, but the cloudless blue sky is as bleak as a day overcast. If anything, the sun is only an excuse to hide Leon's eyes behind dark shades, the manifestation of the barrier he holds like a great wall around his frame. Its purpose seems more, by the defined tremor in his hands, to keep his self in than others out. He's already raw for everyone else. The casket is closed, but Leon's still got the image of his brother headless on the floor, and he imagines - for a brief, morbid moment - that Nat's head is not firmly attached to his neck but rather seated in his own arms, or tucked against his shoulder, like the mortician decided it'd be funny for whoever took a peek. The thought of it sends a pulse through his good arm, and Leon pulls it close to his chest, false fingers curling with some difficulty over his shoulder. What irony it is that the Capitol's gift holds the rest of him together, when it feels as though his body is going to shake itself to nothing more than dust and water. Leon lowers his head, feeling the sunglasses slip a little. His vision is but a smudge of color. Somewhere behind him the ocean rushes for him, and Leon longs not to be here, to hear instead the whisper of sea-folk in the serenity of the water than the murmur of sympathy lowering his brother into the ground. There's an awful hollow feeling in his chest from the hours spent wishing his heart away so that Nat's might beat a moment more; Leon's spent, body heavy with immovable grief. Nat won't walk this district again, the thought a slow-moving flame through despair. Mother expects him to speak, but there are no words he can express to explain why his throat closes up the moment their eyes sit on him, or why he failed the brother he claimed to love beyond most. Leon's tongue darts over his lower lip, seeing nothing past his dimmed surroundings. Mother presses her hand on his arm, and someone mutters for him to take his shades off. With a trembling hand, swallowing down fear, Leon does. "Sorry," he whispers - if it was for having the sunglasses on, or looking like a wreck, Leon isn't sure. Leon clears his throat, gaze seeking Finn in the crowd. His face is a comfort for Leon to say, "I fucked up." His eyes slide shut, involuntarily dropping tears that Leon's good hand seeks to hide. The tracks burn when they cut through skin. "I couldn't... I didn't. Bring him home." The last word wavers, cracking - he covers it with a slight cough, and forces the words from his throat: "I didn't bring him home." He fucked up bad. | [attr="class","anzieside"] [attr="class","anziehover"] leon krigel victor of the 67th games with every ounce of my blood with every breath in my lungs |
