lost & found [ solo ]
Jul 5, 2017 0:58:45 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Jul 5, 2017 0:58:45 GMT -5
a c h i l l e s .
It's becoming a vicious cycle. A growing disease that's manifested deep within my consciousness, whispering prayers of glory with a deceptively golden tongue. Adrenaline courses through my veins, an addictive poison that burns and eats away at my senses like acid. It's always the same. The same heavy feet following the same worn out path ever since I took my first steps. There's always someone waiting around the corner or in the back shadows of a street block, and I can still count out the number of fights I've lost on my hands.
Spiderweb cracks in the pavement and smudges of crimson scattered like flower petals, there's broken glass shimmering beneath my feet akin to diamonds. A rising symphony plays in the background. The rhythmic sound of feet hitting the ground and ivory coated bones splintering. It floats through the air, mingling with the muted encouragements and cheers of an appreciative audience. The sound bounces off of the concrete and soaks into the bodies of mortals playing gods.
It started like a blur, as they all do. An opportunity to raise yourself high enough that falling from your newly won pedestal would mean a quick and easy death. The easy way out, we call it, the coward's way out.
It's battle of sick pride. An exchange of brutalities that occur in a flurry of constant motion. A series of broken ribs given, a bloody nose received, bruises and cuts littered in between. It's full of kisses from aching fists and white knuckled grips on each other, but they're never lethal anymore. We all know how quickly matters can complicate if you leave behind a corpse instead of a broken puppet.
Victory tastes like the copper dripping into my mouth, but it feels disappointing when my opponent finally falls. He had claimed to be a worthy competitor, yet the whole ordeal is over just as quickly as it began. I don't give him much thought now, his injuries aren't severe enough to warrant concern. The crowd quickly disperses in what feels like hushed awe, retreating from the boy with the false halo and pretty words. It doesn't matter. Their brutal little show is over now, anyways.
There's a streak of bright red across my hand when I bring it to my face. My nose is still bleeding then, but it doesn't feel broken. It's a welcome consolation, a broken nose would be a pain in the ass to try to explain to Mother.
The sun sits low in the sky now, casting a dim light over low buildings and skirting its way across the alley entrance. A hand to my face, I ignore the long shadows and quicken my pace, knowing that I have to clean up before going home. I step out of the alley, turning to continue down the street. I've barely moved forward a step before I collide with something solid. The impact jars the hand on my face and pain blossoms across my nose again, sudden and invigorating, taking me by surprise. I wince slightly and take a step back from the figure in my way, trying to stem the blood flow.
"Shit."
