so take a chance; raquel & ree [day 2]
Jul 21, 2017 13:24:14 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Jul 21, 2017 13:24:14 GMT -5
ree fer.
Countless steps from the scene of slaughter and the cannon of Rhetoric Anadiplosis only seems to reverberate throughout my mind continuous loop, any thoughts of the hours spent in her bedroom fading to broken background noise like shattered static. Now, with our backs turned from her bloodstains staining the once golden sand, we're left to lick our wounds and pray her group don't make an appearance on the horizon with death in their eyes and retribution sewn to their chests. Daring to close my eyes, I'm only left with the sight of her body riddles with gashes and broken bones without so much as a head in sight.
Red crevice sunken into her chest; I did that.
I did not detach her mind and ideas from her body, that fault lays on the shoulder of Clem. Steel strokes must come naturally to her because we're barely 48 hours into this game and she's killed for our sake twice; once to spare a waste of space and once to save herself from the threat of a thousand bullet holes. Breaking beneath the weight of 48 hours, I find myself treading carefully to avoid pieces of myself left with every drop of blood into the sand.
The contrast of three deaths crammed within 48 hours is not lost on me. One man's skull left in two, another man reduce to a blood trail mirrored by the sky and a girl left in pieces.
People shouldn't be left in pieces.
It's better not to shut my eyes imagine funeral concessions; weak threads and stitches holding the phantom of her thoughts to the dead memory of her movements. Sobbing parents demanding retribution for the uncontrollable impulses buried beneath our veins -- survival reduced to the severing of spine and the bleeding of arteries. I almost open my mouth to question why we spill the lives of others in the sand while steel licks our skin for the reverse to come into play.
One glance at Raquel, hair matted with crimson and slightly labored breathing, and the question answers itself before it can be anymore than a passing thought. I cringe with every step she takes, the phantom holding the skin on my back together feeling evermore prominent. Teddy's spear, Chester's knife -- they flash and open those wounds all over again. "Okay," but my words tumble from my lips more as an exhale into the night, pushing insecurities and disgust from my lungs when we finally stop.
Noticing my mood she rubs her forehead and shuts her eyes. "Please don't throw up on me." She says, clearly jokingly despite the tangible agony in atmosphere poisoned with the threat of cannon fire.
I manage laughter, clearly impressed. "No guarantees," it's strange to see how only 24 hours ago I was in a similar position to her, emptying my disgust and anxieties onto the ground and fighting back tears from two wounds and two deaths kindling my fear. Now, the roles are reversed but she holds a composure I never even considered this time yesterday. "I need to be able to see, y'know, underneath." I manage, gesturing to her torso while trying to bury the awkward nature of the question in necessity.
She sighs, moving her hands to unbutton her shirt and it doesn't take me long to notice her fingers are shaking. Two attempts later and the buttons continuously slip through her fingers.
"Do you need help?" I ask and she snaps back, ignition of independence at my words.
"No I'm fine." Two new attempts later and more buttons only manage to lace through her shaking fingers.
"Doesn't look like it," I say, moving my hands to her shirt and unbuttoning each button despite her protests.
"I said I was fine!" I only roll my eyes at this. "Didn't take you for the caring type."
I feel my cheeks running red but I turn my attention to her bag, rummaging through her medical supplies before it can get too obvious. "Well there's a lot of things you don't know about me," I pull out her bandages. "Or that I know about myself." I add with a mutter, eyes running back to the blood on my spear in the sand.
"Oh? Like what?" Her words bring my eyes back to her.
"I guess that two weeks ago I never saw myself running someone through with a spear. Especially to, well, help someone else," a waste and a space stoner -- not once did I ever leave bruises on someone skin though. Not in the name of satisfying my addiction or other means. But power comes to the polarized and I left scars on Chester's skin and I don't regret a single spear stroke, not along Rhetoric's skin and certainly not on Chester's. I start wrapping bandages around her torso. "But I'm glad I helped you though." I add quickly, just so she doesn't think I'm complaining.
She winces before speaking. "Awh, don't start going all sentimental on me," I find my eyes rolling again -- for fuck's sake. "I don't know why you'd help though. You barely know me."
I stare at her, almost shocked for a second, wondering if she expected me to abandon everyone the moment we ran into someone. Is that how I'm really seen? Wasn't getting sentimental, just telling it how it is," I pause, thinking on how to explain how I don't abandon people when they need me. "And I dunno, just felt right," I stop, her torso now in a bind and her chest wound hopefully not bleeding anymore. I did not bury my spear in Rhetoric's chest and open Chester's skin because in the name of necessity. I buried my spear in Rhetoric's chest and opened Rhetoric's skin in the name of defiance. Defiance of the bitter reality that at any moment any of us could be snatched with one stroke of the reaper's scythe and the ones left behind are left to pick up the pieces. "And, you didn't ditch me yesterday."
"That's what allies are supposed to do, I think. Help each other out." The mild sarcasm in her tone glaring obvious. That's what allies are supposed to do, despite spending most of my time blinding by colored clouds I can still recall times when allies have broken the trust that tethers tributes together and severed the ties with their own humanity, sending their allies spiraling into the dirt and their cannons sounding into the sky; Atticus is a holder of such sin and that's why he breathes.
"Thanks Ree."
I'd like to think I ain't no Atticus Manor.
"It was nothing, just try not to get stabbed like that again. There ain't a damn thing in this arena that'll get me high enough to forget you if you go and get killed."
I find myself questioning if I can tear my wings and decay my lungs to the point that Raquel, Emberly and Clem become nothing more than background noise to hallucinations and moments of intense euphoria. If I can find a colored smokescreen thick enough to drown out the sounds of their cannons in my moments of tranquility if my cannon were to never bless the atmosphere of the arena and I can remember nothing more than their sins running through my veins but never have to contain the weight of our memories.
I bite my lip and try to bury possibilities of Raquel's blood being the source of red streaks in the sky.
[attempts to catch a koala]
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