the trouble with wanting [qh vs. lc; day two]
Oct 25, 2019 2:39:03 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Oct 25, 2019 2:39:03 GMT -5
The sword glances the girl’s leg, and again I feel more form the backlash than I believe I should. It takes all of my effort and concentration to stay on my feet in the aftershock of my action, but I manage, albeit shakily. I’m beginning to be nervous being in such close proximity to Tommy, given his similar status as target, but the moment I begin to shy away, my body buckles, and I’m reminded that this is a privilege I am currently not privy to. So, by means of necessity, I stay still, clinging to Tommy and bracing myself for impact when one of the blows is aimed in our direction. She’s saying something, but the words glance off the hole in the side of my head and get muffled along the way.
The boy who took off my ear pulls back his axe to strike again, and I instinctively put my arms up to guard my left ear. The axe swings low and grazes my calf, and though it stings, it does not bring the same searing pain that was felt only moments ago. I’m thankful for this reprieve—the only one I seem to be allowed.
Tommy’s free hand brings back the axe, and I duck down to give him as much space as possible to swing forward without catching my neck in the process. Almost as if in response, he swings toward the girl I’ve been attempting to hit, and there the two of us are—a broken arm and foot with only soft cuts and wounds to account for it. We’d almost make a whole man, if you squinted your eyes or watched from a distance.
I’m reveling in this small movement—this way we step in sync with a music we cannot hear.
The song is interrupted by the sound of Bell’s taunting, of her remember me, pretty boy, as she shatters his femur. I know she is not trying to save me, but I want to believe she is waxing heroic, just this once. Thank you, I say, but I do not believe she is listening.
Regardless, I have no time to listen for a response, because the girl in front of us is starting a monologue for the ages. What begins as an attempt at motivational speech ends in a taunt, a request to aim for the neck. I have two left hands and no right ear—accuracy is not a demand she can make of me in good conscience. She offers an example before swinging toward Tommy, but the blade lands shallow in comparison to the threat offered.
The start of a chuckle begins to rise in my throat before being promptly cut off by searing pain at the back of my head. I want to whip around, but Tommy and I’s coordination suddenly crumbles and I find myself unable to see where the blade has come from or returned to. I’m not afforded the privilege of looking backward.
Instead, I pull down on Tommy’s arm to signal my need to move toward the ground, and gingerly I grasp the severed ear in my good hand. Small and easy to cup, I crank my arm back and send the ear flying toward the boy who took it off. It thuds against his body, and though it does no damage, the sound of contact is satisfying.
This self-pleasing gesture aside, I attempt to turn back toward the girl I’ve been aiming toward, and I point the tip of my sword toward the center of her neck while saying, If you’re set on giving a monologue, cut off my other ear so I don’t have to fucking listen to it.
The boy who took off my ear pulls back his axe to strike again, and I instinctively put my arms up to guard my left ear. The axe swings low and grazes my calf, and though it stings, it does not bring the same searing pain that was felt only moments ago. I’m thankful for this reprieve—the only one I seem to be allowed.
Tommy’s free hand brings back the axe, and I duck down to give him as much space as possible to swing forward without catching my neck in the process. Almost as if in response, he swings toward the girl I’ve been attempting to hit, and there the two of us are—a broken arm and foot with only soft cuts and wounds to account for it. We’d almost make a whole man, if you squinted your eyes or watched from a distance.
I’m reveling in this small movement—this way we step in sync with a music we cannot hear.
The song is interrupted by the sound of Bell’s taunting, of her remember me, pretty boy, as she shatters his femur. I know she is not trying to save me, but I want to believe she is waxing heroic, just this once. Thank you, I say, but I do not believe she is listening.
Regardless, I have no time to listen for a response, because the girl in front of us is starting a monologue for the ages. What begins as an attempt at motivational speech ends in a taunt, a request to aim for the neck. I have two left hands and no right ear—accuracy is not a demand she can make of me in good conscience. She offers an example before swinging toward Tommy, but the blade lands shallow in comparison to the threat offered.
The start of a chuckle begins to rise in my throat before being promptly cut off by searing pain at the back of my head. I want to whip around, but Tommy and I’s coordination suddenly crumbles and I find myself unable to see where the blade has come from or returned to. I’m not afforded the privilege of looking backward.
Instead, I pull down on Tommy’s arm to signal my need to move toward the ground, and gingerly I grasp the severed ear in my good hand. Small and easy to cup, I crank my arm back and send the ear flying toward the boy who took it off. It thuds against his body, and though it does no damage, the sound of contact is satisfying.
This self-pleasing gesture aside, I attempt to turn back toward the girl I’ve been aiming toward, and I point the tip of my sword toward the center of her neck while saying, If you’re set on giving a monologue, cut off my other ear so I don’t have to fucking listen to it.
[kirk bauer attacks charisma duke; sword]
ShHaMZ8I4asword
[deep gash on left thigh -- 8.0]
ShHaMZ8I4asword
[deep gash on left thigh -- 8.0]
sword