axel wilder, district two [cb, fin]
Jan 9, 2017 23:34:43 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Jan 9, 2017 23:34:43 GMT -5
[googlefont="Sanchez:400"]
(Blood. Blood in the lines of his knuckles, blood on the front of his shirt. Sore arms, bruised chest.)
“Oy! Wilder!”
Axel’s breath rushed from his lungs in a frustrated huff as he steadied his punching bag, turning toward the source of the voice. He could hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears as Jackson Young approached, his usual cocky smirk strangely absent. He had little patience for boys like Jackson - rich, graceful, arrogant. Then again, he had little patience for anything these days.
“I heard about your sister. I’m sorry.”
(Wash it off. It needs to be gone, gone, no one can know, wash it all off until there’s nothing left.)
He turned his back on Young, going back to the punching bag. He couldn’t risk his temper snapping again. The last time had cracked three ribs and nearly gotten him kicked out of the Training Center for good. Punching bags, knife throwing, hand-to-hand - they were the only way to keep himself under control.
“Don’t be,” he muttered. They had just started to put up the Missing posters, but they wouldn’t find her. His parents had been devastated when they found out - she’d always been their favorite, they never beat her like they did him and Alex - but Axel had only felt cold.
(What the hell happened that night? He remembered blood. Too much blood, sticky, hot, all over - )
“Don’t you want to find her?”
(No.)
In his mind he saw her wicked smile, heard her taunting voice. He didn’t answer. He didn’t dare say the words stuck on his tongue.
(I hated her.)
Young left, probably chalking his silence up to sorrow and mourning. Axel paused, stilling the bag and leaning his forehead against it.
(I think I killed her.)
A X E L . 1 7 . D I S T R I C T . 2
where do we go from here?
where do we go?
and is it real or just
something we think we know?
where do we go from here?
where do we go?
and is it real or just
something we think we know?
(Blood. Blood in the lines of his knuckles, blood on the front of his shirt. Sore arms, bruised chest.)
“Oy! Wilder!”
Axel’s breath rushed from his lungs in a frustrated huff as he steadied his punching bag, turning toward the source of the voice. He could hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears as Jackson Young approached, his usual cocky smirk strangely absent. He had little patience for boys like Jackson - rich, graceful, arrogant. Then again, he had little patience for anything these days.
“I heard about your sister. I’m sorry.”
(Wash it off. It needs to be gone, gone, no one can know, wash it all off until there’s nothing left.)
He turned his back on Young, going back to the punching bag. He couldn’t risk his temper snapping again. The last time had cracked three ribs and nearly gotten him kicked out of the Training Center for good. Punching bags, knife throwing, hand-to-hand - they were the only way to keep himself under control.
“Don’t be,” he muttered. They had just started to put up the Missing posters, but they wouldn’t find her. His parents had been devastated when they found out - she’d always been their favorite, they never beat her like they did him and Alex - but Axel had only felt cold.
(What the hell happened that night? He remembered blood. Too much blood, sticky, hot, all over - )
“Don’t you want to find her?”
(No.)
In his mind he saw her wicked smile, heard her taunting voice. He didn’t answer. He didn’t dare say the words stuck on his tongue.
(I hated her.)
Young left, probably chalking his silence up to sorrow and mourning. Axel paused, stilling the bag and leaning his forehead against it.
because, because
our paths, they cross
yesterday was hard
on all of us
our paths, they cross
yesterday was hard
on all of us
