heaven's only wishful { cade vs. zombie } day 3
Feb 26, 2018 22:52:55 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Feb 26, 2018 22:52:55 GMT -5
► ► ►
Like all solar orbits and godless planetary paths; cosmic and blinding, you trip over your ideals, fall back into old habits. You're a skipping record, stuck in a loop, with needles catching on vinyl grooves and watercolour skin - stardust shooting through your veins in time with a metronome beat.
Like all lost boys, you follow another's footsteps and hope that they're yours.
And you've always been self-sustaining, a creature of circumstance, recycling old pains and pretending that they didn't return seven fold. It floods your hollow bones, familiarity forming an old friend, and a rush of
something
and then,
nothing.
The come down - loss of purpose, and the violets in your chest wilt. You overflow, spill from the cracks and try to fix yourself; break and rebuild, but it's never quite right. Like dislocating a knee, propping up against a brick wall with some kind of worn off shot - aqueous fire and on the count of three.
Except,
it doesn't go quite right, a soft pop, bubblegum sounds, and the ligaments pull funny. And you know it's already fucked, a phantom feeling because you'd skipped to the end of a paperback and read the ending -
But self-preservation and broken windows; footsteps were coming down the alley like thunder clouds and you couldn't take the fall again.
You've weathered that storm before,
A sundial spins wistful under the haze, marking another day gone - another day survived. You walk with a fractured mind, a broken chest caving in on yourself and the shaking comes back.
You blink once, twice, with fingers pressed against your eyelids, follow the shapes of the people saving your life. And when you settle for the night, back in the forest where the wind blew crimson, you watch the sky shift in a paralleled silence. Caine's hands bleed, catching the warm light and he throws a rose to the fire, petals curling. A glow rises to mingle with the dead, and you know how this all ends -
You don't ask what he means,
you don't have to.
Maybe,
you'll settle for getting someone else there.
Sunrises used to be foreign to you; cyclic, unimportant things. A life of afternoon hazes and midnight hours, the colours seemed to blend together anyways, creating something synthetic, tasteless on your tongue.
Like a premonition, you rise to an empty sky.
The air is off, hollow sounding, and you realize - Maisie's gone.
You think of rose petals burning, a catch in your throat and are you really so surprised that they left you? But then Caine shows in your peripheral, chest rising steady, and there's some kind of chaos settling in your skull. With reflex waking your limbs, you're tempted to shake him, to break the heavy silence that curls around the branches overhead.
But then there's a crack in the woods, something that sets your teeth on edge - and you remember how to be silent. White knuckles and pounding heart, you seek out the familiar shape of your district partner. Head swimming, you're reminded of rooftop vertigo and poison words.
Is this what it feels like to just
You feel weightless; like you've swallowed the sky and crowned yourself with the stars. Polaris at home on your forehead and the steady beat of Aquila beating his wings against your temples. There are clouds in your lungs, water vapour hanging quietly, unobtrusively, and you ignore the way it makes it harder to breath. There's an exhalation crystalline, some kind of staggering breath and it lies heavy in your throat.
Trees turn as you edge your way past, swinging and creaking like a door on broken hinges. You catch movement and slow, squinting into dawn's shadows as the trees move on their own accord.
You stop - grind to a halt,
because whatever's making those limbs shift,
it's not you.
You stand your ground, remember where you are and - "Maisie?"
You step back, stagger, because the fog parts, haze lifting to reveal a walking corpse. Inhumane - it moves all wrong, a mockery of life that nags something in the back of your skull.
You grip your weapon, palm itching, and face a reflection of a broken man.
A reflection of yourself.
Like all lost boys, you follow another's footsteps and hope that they're yours.
Because the rebellious are only imitators,
echos of a broken idea.
echos of a broken idea.
And you've always been self-sustaining, a creature of circumstance, recycling old pains and pretending that they didn't return seven fold. It floods your hollow bones, familiarity forming an old friend, and a rush of
something
and then,
nothing.
The come down - loss of purpose, and the violets in your chest wilt. You overflow, spill from the cracks and try to fix yourself; break and rebuild, but it's never quite right. Like dislocating a knee, propping up against a brick wall with some kind of worn off shot - aqueous fire and on the count of three.
Except,
it doesn't go quite right, a soft pop, bubblegum sounds, and the ligaments pull funny. And you know it's already fucked, a phantom feeling because you'd skipped to the end of a paperback and read the ending -
( "cade,
don't leave me here
p l e a s e." )
don't leave me here
p l e a s e." )
But self-preservation and broken windows; footsteps were coming down the alley like thunder clouds and you couldn't take the fall again.
You've weathered that storm before,
and the cycle always repeats.
A sundial spins wistful under the haze, marking another day gone - another day survived. You walk with a fractured mind, a broken chest caving in on yourself and the shaking comes back.
Seven fold.
You blink once, twice, with fingers pressed against your eyelids, follow the shapes of the people saving your life. And when you settle for the night, back in the forest where the wind blew crimson, you watch the sky shift in a paralleled silence. Caine's hands bleed, catching the warm light and he throws a rose to the fire, petals curling. A glow rises to mingle with the dead, and you know how this all ends -
( "I think I killed one of them." )
You don't ask what he means,
you don't have to.
- only one gets to go home.
Maybe,
you'll settle for getting someone else there.
--
Sunrises used to be foreign to you; cyclic, unimportant things. A life of afternoon hazes and midnight hours, the colours seemed to blend together anyways, creating something synthetic, tasteless on your tongue.
Like a premonition, you rise to an empty sky.
The air is off, hollow sounding, and you realize - Maisie's gone.
You think of rose petals burning, a catch in your throat and are you really so surprised that they left you? But then Caine shows in your peripheral, chest rising steady, and there's some kind of chaos settling in your skull. With reflex waking your limbs, you're tempted to shake him, to break the heavy silence that curls around the branches overhead.
But then there's a crack in the woods, something that sets your teeth on edge - and you remember how to be silent. White knuckles and pounding heart, you seek out the familiar shape of your district partner. Head swimming, you're reminded of rooftop vertigo and poison words.
Is this what it feels like to just
drift away.
You feel weightless; like you've swallowed the sky and crowned yourself with the stars. Polaris at home on your forehead and the steady beat of Aquila beating his wings against your temples. There are clouds in your lungs, water vapour hanging quietly, unobtrusively, and you ignore the way it makes it harder to breath. There's an exhalation crystalline, some kind of staggering breath and it lies heavy in your throat.
Trees turn as you edge your way past, swinging and creaking like a door on broken hinges. You catch movement and slow, squinting into dawn's shadows as the trees move on their own accord.
You stop - grind to a halt,
because whatever's making those limbs shift,
it's not you.
You stand your ground, remember where you are and - "Maisie?"
- and it's not Maisie.
You step back, stagger, because the fog parts, haze lifting to reveal a walking corpse. Inhumane - it moves all wrong, a mockery of life that nags something in the back of your skull.
You grip your weapon, palm itching, and face a reflection of a broken man.
--
{ the less we know,
the less it drains us. }
{ the less we know,
the less it drains us. }
[ cade riene attacks drace vandel ; climbing peg (knife) ]
qcpG2phgknife
[ shallow cut on forehead -- 4.5 damage ]
qcpG2phgknife
[ shallow cut on forehead -- 4.5 damage ]
knife
