plastic pistols, paper hearts [Roger v Justice | Day 7]
Aug 10, 2016 18:09:20 GMT -5
Post by brad bradford ★ d5b [arx] on Aug 10, 2016 18:09:20 GMT -5
Justice Fray
i grew up witha lot of dreamsMy fingertips dance at the edges of her sketchbook. They are warped, the cover and binding are a bit tattered, but I can tell that the inside is filled with drawings. It's the weight of it, I think. It's as heavy as a thousand unfulfilled childhood dreams and somehow as light and pure as a child's laughter all at once. I’ve flipped up the corner of the first page dozens of times, but can never find the strength to look inside. I can’t risk letting the magic inside get snuffed out by the perpetual darkness of this place.
I held her hand until the thud of a cannon shook her fingers from my grasp. I tried to wipe a speck of dirt from her cheek; it had turned out to be a freckle. And I laughed as a fresh set of tears leapt into my eyes. I’m not in love with Scout Krigel the girl, but I am in love with Scout Krigel the idea. And I wish I could tell her just how grateful I am to have been given such a bold, brilliant, and beautiful dream.
She said I was gonna be okay. And I have to believe her. Because without the promise of “okay” at the end of all this, I’m not sure I can keep going. I can already feel the pressure of a thousand eyes, feel my parents and my family judging me from all the way back home, feel all the expectations they have of me beginning to shove me back into the shell of a man that Scout just ripped me free of. But I’m gonna be okay.
The anthem begins and I’m only half watching when Scout appears, running my hands through my hair when Lucy flashes by, and am reaching for my axe when Daniel disappears from sight. And Scout said I would be okay but I’m the only one left with a name so familiar. It’s just me—Fray.
Then I see Atlas’s face all lit up above me. And suddenly I don’t feel very okay.
I swing my axe into the jagged rocks along the shoreline until my arms turn to jelly. I barely make a dent in the solid stone, but it doesn’t matter. Because when I finally drop the axe and fall to the ground I’m so tired that I don’t have time to reflect on the events of the day. My eyes just fall closed and I drift away. And everything is okay.
I wake up when a mutt clamps down on my legs. Only it’s not a mutt, but a pair of cramps twisting their way through my calves. I suck air in through my teeth as I sit myself up, rubbing the muscles out until they quit screaming at me. My headaches when I stand, and as soon as I reach toward my water I topple over, the heat finally getting the better of me in this place.
I drink all the water I have left without a single thought of rationing. I gasp when I finally come up for air, breathing heavy as I look around me. The eerie lights that have been keeping the arena lit have begun to pulsate, like the heartbeat of the demon we fought a few days ago—slow and steady. And it’s then when my heart slows and my breathing becomes more shallow and the silence reminds me that I’m alone—it’s then that I think of them. It’s then that I feel Scout’s dried blood on my new bro tank and then that I remember Atlas and then that I remember that I’m so fucking sad that the idea of living another second in this place hurts.
I scramble to get the shirt off of me—to get her blood off of me. I throw the shirt into the lake and watch it dissolve into nothing. But I still feel like shit and I’m still thinking of Atlas and wondering if maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t been worrying over Scout I could’ve--
What? Saved him?
I blink and I see a silhouette in the distance, a dark figure momentarily lit up in the dark before disappearing again with the waning of the light. And I’m scrambling so fast for my knives and tar and flint that it takes me more than a few tries to get everything in order. But eventually I’m holding my knives between my fingers, holding my axe in the other hand, and sprinting as fast as I can toward the struggling figure down the shoreline.
The fire on my knives whooshes as I run and as I get closer I’m so sure it’s him. It must be him, it has to be him.
“Hey!” I shout, growing closer and closer with each step. “Hey, Machaon!”
And I hope he doesn’t recognize the tinge of excitement and relief in my voice because I don’t think he’ll ever let me live it down. But with a smile on my face I’m just too damn happy to care.
Rocks crunch beneath my boots as my feet begin to slow. And with the fire on my blades I’m sure that my face is illuminated for everyone back home to see the relief turn to disappointment and the disappointment shift into horror.
“Roger.”
His name is more of a whisper, my chest heaving and my head spinning because I’m not even the slightest bit sure how he’s alive. He barely even looks human with all that’s missing. No thanks in part to me. But with a sharpened horn duct taped to his forehead and the residual pizzazz only attained after an encounter with Scout, all I can think is: “You’re looking more and more like a unicorn every time we meet.”
I try to laugh but I don’t think my own joke is all that funny and looking at him now all I can think of is Scout. And I don’t mean to tell him, but it’s the only thought that I can come up with before I swing my axe.
“I killed Scout.”plans who to benone of them none were mine
[attacks Roger]
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[Deep Gash on Left Thigh -- 8.0 damage]