this here war in us {helter skelter vs vandals, day2}
Oct 17, 2015 10:16:35 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Oct 17, 2015 10:16:35 GMT -5
cody bowers-fox
First nightfall and second cannon sounding— sleep does not come easily to a restless mind.
My brother had been a boy of the two a.m.’s, wasting his time away like he had seconds to spare. He lived on an appetite of spare time and afterthoughts, developing a taste for the moments when the air would remain clear and he could see through the fog that clouded his mind.
I wonder if he had died in clear sight.
I am sure he had never found it in the mornings we spent together, when frustration was a side effect of imperfection and he was only to be overwhelmed by the same. He would press pencil to crumped paper and attempt to find straight lines among the creases, but perfection cannot be found through a process that involves anything less.
The night before Owen Bowers-Fox had died, I had tacked pieces of his artwork to the wall.
Duncan had walked into the room he had then found the audacity to call his own, taken the time to pause and give the room a full glance around before turning to me and whispering under a nervous breath, “You know you’re going to regret this when he’s—”
My fingers grasping the collar of his shirt; he does not find the words needed to complete the thought. My eyes looking up to meet his own I kept my hand bunched in the fabric as I pulled him through the small space that separated us, “You do not get the opportunity to criticize the victim of your crime.”
Owen Bower-Fox’s cannon had sounded in the time it took twenty-four hours to pass, and I could only bring myself to sleep on the couch.
And as I rested an aching spine against the cliffs where we had paused to rest, the second of the day had sounded. A question of identity lingering on my tongue fades out as Leticia fails to even bat an eye at the occurrence. Nightfall was to hold answers to the questions we did not dare to ask, and with it we would have the opportunity to tear down the sunset that painted itself across our skin.
My brother was a lover of art in its rawest form, yet I cannot forget my wish to see the world in black and white when I saw only red painting his skin.
The sunset is then a welcome sight, giving way to world void of color I so loved and longed for.
There was nothing to be questioned in the quiet, for silence is absolute and so am I. But the trust is broken as the anthem begins to blare, a song for the sinners and the damned giving way to the face of Draco Wellings. Seven plastered as a homage to the hidden undertone of desolation that rises in my throat at the sight.
His heart in my hand— I hear the sound of his cannon giving way as his face begins to fade. And though the thought of a second crosses my mind the two do not register until Paige Hope’s face illuminates the sky. A piece of home handed to me upon a silver platter— I had refused a conversation, unwilling to tie the roof that existed over my brother’s head to a girl who was so fallible.
Apparently, this was a correct strategy on my part.
My brother’s tombstone was more of a reminder of home than she could ever be. Besides, I am the heritage of his mediocracy, and as the anthem gives way to a night sky uncompliant to any form of light, I see his thoughts etched upon my mind— I wonder if he spent his first night in a fit of restlessness?
He must of, for his mind had always been much louder than mine.
And though my mind cycles through the death of one and the heart of another, sleep appeals if only to the sense of exhaustion, and though I am left with a sense of ache in my bones the next morning, the few moments passed in unconsciousness are a welcome afterthought.
Pulled to heavy feet by brittle bones I do not speak to Leticia or Dustyn as we silently head towards the tops of trees that sing their songs of sorrow and invite us to join their symphony.
My brother was the lover of the finer things— music, poetry, and philosophy; I wonder if he would be enamored at the sight that meets my eye. The world is not devoid of color here, not in the same manner as the space between the cliffs the night before, when I could see but the space that I occupied and that which was three inches beyond it.
This was the space that longed to be painted upon by the artist, but I am not my brother, only the heritage of his mediocracy, but he did not pass along a paintbrush, only the blade of an axe that should not be mine to yield.
My brother had been a boy of the two a.m.’s, wasting his time away like he had seconds to spare. He lived on an appetite of spare time and afterthoughts, developing a taste for the moments when the air would remain clear and he could see through the fog that clouded his mind.
I wonder if he had died in clear sight.
I am sure he had never found it in the mornings we spent together, when frustration was a side effect of imperfection and he was only to be overwhelmed by the same. He would press pencil to crumped paper and attempt to find straight lines among the creases, but perfection cannot be found through a process that involves anything less.
The night before Owen Bowers-Fox had died, I had tacked pieces of his artwork to the wall.
Duncan had walked into the room he had then found the audacity to call his own, taken the time to pause and give the room a full glance around before turning to me and whispering under a nervous breath, “You know you’re going to regret this when he’s—”
My fingers grasping the collar of his shirt; he does not find the words needed to complete the thought. My eyes looking up to meet his own I kept my hand bunched in the fabric as I pulled him through the small space that separated us, “You do not get the opportunity to criticize the victim of your crime.”
Owen Bower-Fox’s cannon had sounded in the time it took twenty-four hours to pass, and I could only bring myself to sleep on the couch.
And as I rested an aching spine against the cliffs where we had paused to rest, the second of the day had sounded. A question of identity lingering on my tongue fades out as Leticia fails to even bat an eye at the occurrence. Nightfall was to hold answers to the questions we did not dare to ask, and with it we would have the opportunity to tear down the sunset that painted itself across our skin.
My brother was a lover of art in its rawest form, yet I cannot forget my wish to see the world in black and white when I saw only red painting his skin.
The sunset is then a welcome sight, giving way to world void of color I so loved and longed for.
There was nothing to be questioned in the quiet, for silence is absolute and so am I. But the trust is broken as the anthem begins to blare, a song for the sinners and the damned giving way to the face of Draco Wellings. Seven plastered as a homage to the hidden undertone of desolation that rises in my throat at the sight.
His heart in my hand— I hear the sound of his cannon giving way as his face begins to fade. And though the thought of a second crosses my mind the two do not register until Paige Hope’s face illuminates the sky. A piece of home handed to me upon a silver platter— I had refused a conversation, unwilling to tie the roof that existed over my brother’s head to a girl who was so fallible.
Apparently, this was a correct strategy on my part.
My brother’s tombstone was more of a reminder of home than she could ever be. Besides, I am the heritage of his mediocracy, and as the anthem gives way to a night sky uncompliant to any form of light, I see his thoughts etched upon my mind— I wonder if he spent his first night in a fit of restlessness?
He must of, for his mind had always been much louder than mine.
And though my mind cycles through the death of one and the heart of another, sleep appeals if only to the sense of exhaustion, and though I am left with a sense of ache in my bones the next morning, the few moments passed in unconsciousness are a welcome afterthought.
Pulled to heavy feet by brittle bones I do not speak to Leticia or Dustyn as we silently head towards the tops of trees that sing their songs of sorrow and invite us to join their symphony.
My brother was the lover of the finer things— music, poetry, and philosophy; I wonder if he would be enamored at the sight that meets my eye. The world is not devoid of color here, not in the same manner as the space between the cliffs the night before, when I could see but the space that I occupied and that which was three inches beyond it.
This was the space that longed to be painted upon by the artist, but I am not my brother, only the heritage of his mediocracy, but he did not pass along a paintbrush, only the blade of an axe that should not be mine to yield.
[cody bowers-fox attacks Hannah O'Leary, axe]
pWIj|3ggaxe
[Deep Gash on Cheek -- 8.5 damage]
axe
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