{ guide my blood home | and i was calm as a child || adder }
Aug 30, 2019 18:54:56 GMT -5
Post by aya on Aug 30, 2019 18:54:56 GMT -5
[attr="class","adderPostWidth"]
the night is young, i will not wait
we're thick as thieves in second grades
i'm wide awake with bare hands
tell your mother i'm coming home
we're thick as thieves in second grades
i'm wide awake with bare hands
tell your mother i'm coming home
House arrest is a bit of a misnomer when the house in question is missing half its roof and half its occupants, but after so long spent on the march, you are relieved to be home. The television is delivered the day after you are, met with the same stares of fear and suspicion that greeted you yesterday. Your sisters wrap their arms around you today, terror banishing the cool distance that separated you before. They explain the terms of the surrender to you, that they'll be taking kids every year to fight to the death, that all your names are ripe for harvest.
"I didn't surrender to anyone," you assure them, as though this exempts you from punishment. You don't feel much like a kid anymore, either.
The three of you stare at the black screen as though the television is under house arrest, too. Your brother is just glad to have a piece of furniture.
Through the broken picture window in the front of the house, the ruins of the neighborhood look more like the boulders and piles of gravel and scrub that sheltered you on that mountain. You watch for hours. Mouse lived up the hill, and Flintlock and Feldspar were your next door neighbors. You haven't seen anyone familiar. Someone set fire to the Johnwayne house down the street and you caught the butt of a rifle to the cheek when you stepped outside to get a closer look. Your first smile in months is red, and friend or foe, you thank the arsonist for their service. Before you're dragged back inside, you imagine a silhouette with a gas can ducking down an alley and pretend it belongs to Wild Will.
It's the movement in the backyard that tips you off, so when the names are drawn you already know that you'll be hearing yours.
(I, like god, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence. Even eight years old, the edge of Elijah's steel voice is honed sharp enough to cut through the centuries. Knees gripping the sturdy branch of the broad oak, dangling upside down she reads to you aloud from a comic book you just got from Steve. Sprawled out in the tall grass, sunlight blanket and eyes closed, you don't feel like you're missing the illustrations.)
They knock with boots, the door busting all the way off the hinges, and all you can think to do is roll your eyes. Chip-shouldered bullies all, of course peacekeepers feel biggest in moments of senseless destruction. Of course they revel in making their subjects repair the destruction in their wake.
They cuff your sister for the crime of being taller than you. "I'm Adder," you insist over her screaming. Pigs have never believed you about anything before, and tonight is no different. Framed between popsicle sticks and glitter your brother glued together, you hand the smuggest one your wanted poster for identification. "Says 'Shotgun,'" he mumbles, and they drag your wailing sister over the threshold.
You point at the smaller print. "A - D - D - E - R," you patronize. "That spells Adder. Since you pigs can't read."
You leave your house bound and bleeding.
"I didn't surrender to anyone," you assure them, as though this exempts you from punishment. You don't feel much like a kid anymore, either.
The three of you stare at the black screen as though the television is under house arrest, too. Your brother is just glad to have a piece of furniture.
Through the broken picture window in the front of the house, the ruins of the neighborhood look more like the boulders and piles of gravel and scrub that sheltered you on that mountain. You watch for hours. Mouse lived up the hill, and Flintlock and Feldspar were your next door neighbors. You haven't seen anyone familiar. Someone set fire to the Johnwayne house down the street and you caught the butt of a rifle to the cheek when you stepped outside to get a closer look. Your first smile in months is red, and friend or foe, you thank the arsonist for their service. Before you're dragged back inside, you imagine a silhouette with a gas can ducking down an alley and pretend it belongs to Wild Will.
It's the movement in the backyard that tips you off, so when the names are drawn you already know that you'll be hearing yours.
(I, like god, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence. Even eight years old, the edge of Elijah's steel voice is honed sharp enough to cut through the centuries. Knees gripping the sturdy branch of the broad oak, dangling upside down she reads to you aloud from a comic book you just got from Steve. Sprawled out in the tall grass, sunlight blanket and eyes closed, you don't feel like you're missing the illustrations.)
They knock with boots, the door busting all the way off the hinges, and all you can think to do is roll your eyes. Chip-shouldered bullies all, of course peacekeepers feel biggest in moments of senseless destruction. Of course they revel in making their subjects repair the destruction in their wake.
They cuff your sister for the crime of being taller than you. "I'm Adder," you insist over her screaming. Pigs have never believed you about anything before, and tonight is no different. Framed between popsicle sticks and glitter your brother glued together, you hand the smuggest one your wanted poster for identification. "Says 'Shotgun,'" he mumbles, and they drag your wailing sister over the threshold.
You point at the smaller print. "A - D - D - E - R," you patronize. "That spells Adder. Since you pigs can't read."
You leave your house bound and bleeding.
"I, like god, [...]" excerpt from v for vendetta
based on the graphic novel by alan moore and david lloyd
based on the graphic novel by alan moore and david lloyd
[newclass=".adderPostWidth"]width:460px;[/newclass]
