becoming undone | {bb leisure day 5}
Jul 17, 2020 18:38:25 GMT -5
Post by hesper hart 🐺 d9f on Jul 17, 2020 18:38:25 GMT -5
The flowers were much more menacing at night. Painted in hues of grayscale by the waxing crescent moon, it would've been easy to mistake them for a swarm of insects. It seemed fitting, he thought. He remembered stories about plagues of insects being symbols of the end, and maybe the world would keep on spinning when it was his cannon that shook the ground and cracked like thunder throughout the skies of the arena, but that's what no one would really ever understand: it would still be the end for him.
He was leaning against the side of his tent, just at the mouth of the only safety and comfort he'd known within the arena, watching the petals and their ever-angry thorns. Every inch of him hurt, every piece of him broken and bruised and tired. He'd glimpsed his death that day, and though he'd been so prepared for it to come, he knew now that he was so long from being ready for it when it finally wrapped its scaled hands around his ankles and pulled him six feet below the earth.
He recognized the silhouette with ease at that point, no question of friend or foe which was something that he hated himself for. Will. But just as easily as he'd detected the body that was in movement, JJ could tell something was wrong. Off. He squinted to be sure, and he was. Will was walking differently, with his head down and his face hidden and his hands clenched into fists. He was all packed up.
JJ was hit with the sudden realization that he was right. Will was leaving. He wondered if everything he had bothered worrying about would happen before he died. Maybe that's what it took: breaking a man into so many pieces on the inside that the outside had no choice other than following suit. Breaking his promise, knowing Helle had died alone, walking along the shores of death knowing at any moment he'd be the next to take the plunge, and now this: Will's departure.
"Don't," he said; his voice sounded a bit more pitiful than he wished it would have.
"If this is about today," he explained, trying his hardest to stand without wincing, "about me being... weak, or broken, or whatever, I —"
His words failed him, each syllable sending shockwaves of pain across his face. His aching jaw begged him not to continue, but his aching heart won out. He raised a bandaged arm to show that he still could, waving it like it was proof of what he was trying to say.
"I'm all healed up now. And tomorrow I'll be even better, I swear!"
He stumbled toward the boy before ultimately falling to his knees, and tears filled his vision and Will's silhouette was temporarily swallowed into a watery mass of silver petals. He blinked it away.
"Please."
He didn't realize until that very moment how terrifying the idea of dying alone would be for him. He was sure Helle had fought whatever it was that had killed her for good valiantly and without fear. He was sure the rest of them would have been the same when their own time came. But JJ? The arena had taught him one thing: he was weak. Weaker than he'd ever thought; maybe everyone felt weak in some way? Maybe they were all just doing a better job at hiding it than he? He'd never made a single friend in his entire life, though. So why was he so afraid of dying alone?
Maybe, he thought, I'm just afraid of dying period, and this is my way of rationalizing it. But there were no rationalizing something as overloading as life and death. That was the stuff that drove people crazy. So he chose to remain in the moment, rather than in his head.
"Please," he repeated.
He was leaning against the side of his tent, just at the mouth of the only safety and comfort he'd known within the arena, watching the petals and their ever-angry thorns. Every inch of him hurt, every piece of him broken and bruised and tired. He'd glimpsed his death that day, and though he'd been so prepared for it to come, he knew now that he was so long from being ready for it when it finally wrapped its scaled hands around his ankles and pulled him six feet below the earth.
He recognized the silhouette with ease at that point, no question of friend or foe which was something that he hated himself for. Will. But just as easily as he'd detected the body that was in movement, JJ could tell something was wrong. Off. He squinted to be sure, and he was. Will was walking differently, with his head down and his face hidden and his hands clenched into fists. He was all packed up.
JJ was hit with the sudden realization that he was right. Will was leaving. He wondered if everything he had bothered worrying about would happen before he died. Maybe that's what it took: breaking a man into so many pieces on the inside that the outside had no choice other than following suit. Breaking his promise, knowing Helle had died alone, walking along the shores of death knowing at any moment he'd be the next to take the plunge, and now this: Will's departure.
"Don't," he said; his voice sounded a bit more pitiful than he wished it would have.
"If this is about today," he explained, trying his hardest to stand without wincing, "about me being... weak, or broken, or whatever, I —"
His words failed him, each syllable sending shockwaves of pain across his face. His aching jaw begged him not to continue, but his aching heart won out. He raised a bandaged arm to show that he still could, waving it like it was proof of what he was trying to say.
"I'm all healed up now. And tomorrow I'll be even better, I swear!"
He stumbled toward the boy before ultimately falling to his knees, and tears filled his vision and Will's silhouette was temporarily swallowed into a watery mass of silver petals. He blinked it away.
"Please."
He didn't realize until that very moment how terrifying the idea of dying alone would be for him. He was sure Helle had fought whatever it was that had killed her for good valiantly and without fear. He was sure the rest of them would have been the same when their own time came. But JJ? The arena had taught him one thing: he was weak. Weaker than he'd ever thought; maybe everyone felt weak in some way? Maybe they were all just doing a better job at hiding it than he? He'd never made a single friend in his entire life, though. So why was he so afraid of dying alone?
Maybe, he thought, I'm just afraid of dying period, and this is my way of rationalizing it. But there were no rationalizing something as overloading as life and death. That was the stuff that drove people crazy. So he chose to remain in the moment, rather than in his head.
"Please," he repeated.
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