all the same take me away [WT and/or Tom]
Nov 14, 2018 4:38:47 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Nov 14, 2018 4:38:47 GMT -5
(tw: graphic depictions of dead body)
OOC: The dead body is that of Payne D'elia, Tom's character. Tom has given permission for his character to be killed.
lyrics: dead to the world - nightwish
galley prank
dead, silent, constant
yet always changing
my favorite view of this world
dead, silent, constant
yet always changing
my favorite view of this world
Autumn, in her opinion, is one of the loveliest times of the year.
The way half of her world changes to mottled red-and-gray-and-gold (while the other half remains evergreen), and the brittle fallen leaves flake with a satisfying crunch beneath her boots. The way the wind nips at her face and frost forms during the night - a reminder of something in-between, changing, something on the verge of dying but not yet dead.
Sometimes people forget that dying and dead are of two entirely different characters; one is stagnant, the other vibrant and changing, an ephemeral beauty to be savored until the end. It's why she usually stays away from the lumberjacking routes, that measure out the death of the forest until it's something clinical, sterile even, an ugly eyesore of flat space and corduroy roads.
The older, disused sections aren't so bad though, where nature has taken over between the cracks and mushrooms have begun eating away at the wooden logs. Occasionally she comes across a worker or two, but they're usually happy enough to go about their business and not give her too much trouble. And sometimes she finds other treasures along the way, like -
- oh?
The deep red blood stands out, against the light sandy soil and yellowing blades of grass - even darker than the red flecks on autumn leaves, were there any trees to be found in this section of the forest. As she gets closer, she can make out the form of a young man lying in the pool of crimson, wearing the standard flannels and with a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses framing his face.
She feels his skin - as cold as the air around them, with little blisters forming on the surface. Obviously, no heartbeat. A few stray flies buzzed around the body, held at bay by the cold. Near the man's stiff fingers lay a bloody axe just out of its grasp; the large wound across his torso, where his organs had begun to spill out, was the obvious cause of death.
She's seen plenty of dead squirrels, before. Quite a few dead birds, too, and once, an entire wolf, flesh half torn off by vultures and maggots swarming all over what remained. But never a dead human body, at least not up close in the District Seven wilderness, far from the cracked television in their little house that broadcasted the Games every year.
Her fingers reach for the wound on the man's body, and half of his liver falls from it, smooth and slippery, dangling from his abdomen as it oozes dark, clotted blood. The intestines, fortunately, are unbroken. She'd always imagined them all coiled up like a rope in a person's body, as though she could give them a tug, and they'd come out like a thick rope being held inside their belly, the way most other animals' organs came out of their bodies quite easily after they died.
This was proving difficult, however, with the strands of flesh connecting them along their sides and keeping them tied together, and before she can dig any further she hears the crunch of footsteps along the dirt road. She wipes her bloody hands against the man's flannel and turns towards the noise, but it's too late. Judging by the strange look they're giving, they've already spotted her.
The way half of her world changes to mottled red-and-gray-and-gold (while the other half remains evergreen), and the brittle fallen leaves flake with a satisfying crunch beneath her boots. The way the wind nips at her face and frost forms during the night - a reminder of something in-between, changing, something on the verge of dying but not yet dead.
Sometimes people forget that dying and dead are of two entirely different characters; one is stagnant, the other vibrant and changing, an ephemeral beauty to be savored until the end. It's why she usually stays away from the lumberjacking routes, that measure out the death of the forest until it's something clinical, sterile even, an ugly eyesore of flat space and corduroy roads.
The older, disused sections aren't so bad though, where nature has taken over between the cracks and mushrooms have begun eating away at the wooden logs. Occasionally she comes across a worker or two, but they're usually happy enough to go about their business and not give her too much trouble. And sometimes she finds other treasures along the way, like -
- oh?
The deep red blood stands out, against the light sandy soil and yellowing blades of grass - even darker than the red flecks on autumn leaves, were there any trees to be found in this section of the forest. As she gets closer, she can make out the form of a young man lying in the pool of crimson, wearing the standard flannels and with a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses framing his face.
She feels his skin - as cold as the air around them, with little blisters forming on the surface. Obviously, no heartbeat. A few stray flies buzzed around the body, held at bay by the cold. Near the man's stiff fingers lay a bloody axe just out of its grasp; the large wound across his torso, where his organs had begun to spill out, was the obvious cause of death.
She's seen plenty of dead squirrels, before. Quite a few dead birds, too, and once, an entire wolf, flesh half torn off by vultures and maggots swarming all over what remained. But never a dead human body, at least not up close in the District Seven wilderness, far from the cracked television in their little house that broadcasted the Games every year.
Her fingers reach for the wound on the man's body, and half of his liver falls from it, smooth and slippery, dangling from his abdomen as it oozes dark, clotted blood. The intestines, fortunately, are unbroken. She'd always imagined them all coiled up like a rope in a person's body, as though she could give them a tug, and they'd come out like a thick rope being held inside their belly, the way most other animals' organs came out of their bodies quite easily after they died.
This was proving difficult, however, with the strands of flesh connecting them along their sides and keeping them tied together, and before she can dig any further she hears the crunch of footsteps along the dirt road. She wipes her bloody hands against the man's flannel and turns towards the noise, but it's too late. Judging by the strange look they're giving, they've already spotted her.
OOC: The dead body is that of Payne D'elia, Tom's character. Tom has given permission for his character to be killed.
lyrics: dead to the world - nightwish
