artemis whitlock . d1 . fin
Mar 26, 2018 5:55:04 GMT -5
Post by arx. on Mar 26, 2018 5:55:04 GMT -5
a r t e m i s
I stand at attention, trying with all my might not to let my muscles twitch in agony. I swallow back a whimper as my ribs protest the awkward angle of my arm. My throat feels raw, swollen—and I was thankful for it. Not because I believed it built character the way my father did, but because it was stifling every fucking shitty, bitch-ass curse threatening to roll off my tongue.
I want to spit in the Sergeant's smug face as he walks by. He's clearly aware I'm in a battle with gravity, held up by nothing but locked knees, fiery rage, and a too tight military uniform. I imagine strangling him, the single thought keeping me from slipping into a coma. This piece of shit wants to wait me out? What a stupid little bitch.
"Alright, you useless bastards- at ease."
Sweat is collecting in my collar. Fucker itches something fierce, but I'm too nauseous to focus on anything but keeping from puking on his royal highness' perfectly polished boots. I'd let it happen if I wasn't the one who was always licking them clean.
"Something the matter-" he says, spinning on his heels so he can look at me again. "Girl?"
He's never called me by the rank that he fucking gave me, and I wonder if the point was to make my blood boil just enough to break me.
"Honestly, sir?"
He grins because he knows he's won. And I don't fucking care as long as my fist makes a nice, solid connection with his jaw.
He nods. I swing.
My knuckles clash hard against his face, my follow through nearly making me topple over. I wheeze when I straighten myself out, vision dark at the edges as I make a show of dusting myself off and fixing my jacket collar—I don't look at him when I raise my head. I look through him.
He laughs. The blood in his teeth makes him look- shit, it makes him look badass as hell. Well, fuck me, then, huh?
"Pathetic," he takes a step closer, his breath sticky against my face. "Entertaining though."
He pats the top of my head as if I were nothing more than a child playing dress up—adorable, fragile, and weak. But I'm a Whitlock, too. I haven't ever been any of those things. No matter how many times he's said it.
Just before he pulls his hand completely away, I latch onto it, pulling him back toward an elbow with his name on it.
But, of course—"Sweetheart."—he knew I'd fail today. He'd made it that way when he'd decided I didn't know what pain felt like, hadn't ever suffered the way a true soldier does, would never be strong enough to accomplish what a man could. Mostly I think he just wanted to be the winner, even if it meant beating the hell out of his own daughter.
But whatever. I'd still done exactly what he wanted me to do, hadn't I? I hate proving him right. I hate being the loser. And I fucking hate being weak.
"Fuck you."
He shakes his head and laughs before shoving me aside. I try as hard as I can to stay on my feet, but I buckle instantly under my own weight. It takes everything I have left to catch myself on one knee. I want to curse, I want to scream, and I want my stupid lungs to hurry up and breathe so I can force myself back to my feet—but mostly I'm losing consciousness and feeling like head-butting the marble floor is a better way to prove I'm stronger than him.
I mean, if I crack my skull open he'll have more of a mess to clean up, right?
I woke up with seven stitches in my forehead after a concussion kept me out for nearly three days. Plus a punctured lung and a few other things. Or something like that. I stopped listening as soon as I realized Lydia was the one at my bedside. She was touching my hand, thumb idly grazing across my bruised knuckles—I think I'd rather be yanking all the needles from my body and jabbing them in my eyes.
"Where's the Sergeant?" I growl when my voice comes out all broken and crackly. "Your Dad is-" She hesitates only for a moment, but I take the opportunity to lash out at her and tear my hand away from her gentle touch.
"Spit it out!"
"-busy."
She sighs, hands gliding gracefully to her lap. She looks worried—"Stop fucking looking at me like that."—as if I were a starving kitten kicked one too many times she'd just found shivering alone in the rain. Not that I don't feel like it. Or that I can't see my reflection in all the shiny surfaces. I just can't stand that she's here and my father isn't.
I can feel her eyes on me as I stare up at ceiling. Everyone always points out how we have the same eyes—my mother's eyes.
"Don't you have an etiquette class to teach or some shit?" I can tell the question doesn't phase her, she just sits silently with the same look—unmoving, not leaving. It's annoying.
And it stays that way until the moonlight kisses my eyelids and the DSPD kicks in. An owl screeches somewhere in the distance and I flinch. Fucking fuck-ity fuck! Lydia sits up just a bit straighter next to me for a moment and I feign sleep. Then she stands and leaves. The part where she kissed the top of my head just something I try to wipe immediately from my memory.
Because my father says only the weak fall prey to their emotions. But I taste tears on my lips.