wuthering heights — tumblehoes; day one.
Oct 29, 2018 14:22:43 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 29, 2018 14:22:43 GMT -5
We wouldn't be seen dead here in the day
I guess you're lucky that it's dark now
And if I like it then we'll stay
Impress the empress, take a shot now
I guess you're lucky that it's dark now
And if I like it then we'll stay
Impress the empress, take a shot now
polysyllabic heart doesn’t stop its loud drums, each coronary coursing in violent haste beneath a fragile rib-cage. i ran, until a bright horizon swallowed the cornucopia’s array of metal carts, and even then, it wasn’t safe, the agitated pulse inside whispering at me so.
tributes could have followed our ghostly trails, they could be right ahead of me and parson and the thought encroaches my wild heart, wrapping its thick vines of paranoia and dread around it.
i turn to the boy, disturbed and with trembling breaths, for the first time since we fled the pandemonium caused by white-teeth teens.
he’s there. right behind me.
tattered but there, nevertheless. tears sting my eyes and i’m breathing out heavy sobs out of the blue.
he did not leave, just like mother had, a distant face which my infant gaze could not etch to memory. like those who promised they’d stay, just to fuck me over, leave me shipwrecked in a vacant room. the resurgence of memories roars and drowns, causing a rattle inside bones that doesn’t halt.
sadness is the most embarrassing human condition. i loathe crying and waterworks, even though there’s a dam tucked beneath these sockets that is leaking all the goddamn time.
i swear i could hear mackenzie’s buried disappointment, as he tries to convince sponsors that i’m not the mosaicked human that i truly am. that i deserve survival. that i am lionhearted, and not stricken entirely with cowardice.
“you’re here.” from the pricking depths of throat, a gasp is torn out. i reach out for an embrace, and when i pull back, there’s blood. saturated crimson under a soft sun. “and, you’re fucking bleeding.” i force my hands to stop shaking and set him down, on the grassed soil and carpet weeds.
“oh fuck, i’m all moist. my tux is soiled.” he groans; i’m quick to retort. “dirty tuxes are truly our first priority right now.” sarcasm drips, the creation of an old nervous tic that never seems to fade.
the events resurface in bits and shards, a chain of broken images—i remember the silver pedestal. the cacophony of footsteps. the metal cart which parson pushed me in. the bloodbath, in which chaos came undone. endless, outstretched hands fished for weapons, supplies, as mine had. and, annie and hell were reduced to blurs by the disorder around them.
short moments of needed rest brings back clarity to our senses, eyes dancing about, eager to feast upon its surroundings, whilst ears pay close attention.
a distant chorus of strange sounds reveals itself through the morbid quietness. it’s an uproar of water, akin to what a watermill would generate.
“c’mon. i hear water ahead. we can dry off spend the night there.” a hand tenses around the spiked blunt, its jagged ends darkened with blood. the other free grasp assists parson, and we’re treading onward, again, watched by a lone sun and the capitol and other lurking creatures.
soon, we’re somewhere, overlooking a dark-blue horizon which stretches for miles. it’s the sea, which i’ve seen only inside the worn pages of a storybook, the expanse discolored with age or cheap pigments.
this sea, however, strays far from discoloration, with its earthed greens and aquatic teal. from the serrated mouths of uneven cliffs, come the sea—endless, its sounds of advance and withdrawal sonorous to ears. from here, i could trace the sandy beginnings of a beach.
“there’s no footpath or anything. they are seriously fucking with us, hah.” bones give rest to themselves on softened earth and i can’t avert my sight from the synthetic miracle ahead, but footsteps force me to.
it’s just parson. eyes glimpse at him, and i suspect he hasn’t stopped getting troubled by the drenched clothes. “if they’re too,” i force down a shudder as tongue articulates the next word. “moist, then you should just strip. here, i’ll help.” body rises to its feet again, as hands aid. i wouldn’t be joyous to wear blood-soaked fabric either.
our timing is fucked, because annie and hell stumbles in, and my cheeks flare up, before a gaze studies the two.
“annie—” i know she despises the cognomen but uses it anyways, not fearing a dagger to my spine. “your hand.” it’s gone, cut clean, red flesh bordered with blood.
a helpless disgust rise up throat, as palpable as nausea. this is what to be expected: ultra-violence, devoid of mercy. we’re here to rob each other’s lives.
after tending to her wounds, we don’t speak much, dead-marked teens as dead as they’re going to be. a chirp sounds beside us, from a bird.
“what’re they called again, delivery words?” head rises from its comforted site upon parson’s shoulder, tilting at the creature. “that’s such a dumb name.” a scoff unearths itself, but hands reach out at it, the flame of juvenile curiosity sparking a slow-burn desire to catch it.We got the glow in our mouths
White teeth teens are out
White teeth teens are up for it[ lyrics: white teeth teens - lorde ]
[ angel does f/a on anatalia (-3) ]
[ angel tries to catch delivery word ]
ltEHR72_1-4
