Post by Dane Hart on Sept 28, 2017 19:46:41 GMT -5
We’re still doing it because there are still things that matter.
It’s worth risking everything.
Alright, I get it, fuck off.
Alexia…?
Crack. The first shot, the first wound that began to bleed before the bullet even reached him. Unrivaled pain, as six more rounds ripped through his body. The precious metal inside infiltrated his blood, filling every crevice with an instant raging heat. He was falling, and she, nothing but a blur. Tears rolled down his cheeks, ice-cold, starkly contrasting the warmth he'd felt moments before. He crashed, swallowed by the chilling bay. He disappeared, breathless, unable to resist beneath black waters. His last thoughts were haunted, a cruel play starring someone he could no longer see, someone he had never said goodbye to.
Miss me?
A sudden shock overwhelmed his nascent senses. Sapphire eyes snapped open, unveiling a gray sheet above his head, which slowly bled into shades of brown. The slab of wood beneath his bare back felt like a bed of icicles. He could not move, could not even open his mouth to gasp as his lungs began to cry for air. Every bit of air was polluted by dust, dust that hung on everything in sight. All he could do was observe his dilapidated surroundings. Every time his focus changed, a new wave of nausea came with it.
Fear invaded his mind, as his deadened limbs failed to respond once more. How long had he been like this, had it been days, or weeks? What had happened to the city, that he had been left in such a sorry state. It was torture, imagining himself stuck like that, nailed to the table’s surface and trapped within his own consciousness. He struggled to move something, anything, to flex his fingers or wiggle his toes. Seconds turned to agonizing minutes as his gaze burned a hole into his own toe, willing it to move.
I’ve been surviving, at least. That’s more than some.
He looked around, frantically seeking the source of the voice. “H..elp,” Dane rasped, his dry lips finally tearing apart. He choked on those few syllables, starting a coughing fit that racked the rest of his body. As the spasm began, a thick burning sensation filled every part of him, but it also seemed to free the hold on his body. As the attack continued, he found himself released and rolled off the table, falling in a heap upon the cold stone floor.
Concrete walls towered above him on any side, splotched with dark stains. Old crates were stacked to his right, some of them lay smashed into pieces upon the floor, scattered at the foot of a small piano against the wall. To his left, he could see a small alcove. The light was dim, practically non-existent, yet somehow he could make out the fixtures of an ancient looking stove and the large gap where a refrigerator might have stood. In this small kitchen space, strung from a makeshift clothesline was a ruined suit.
I’ve quit before, but I always end up coming back. I don’t know what it is.
Dane growled, the sound mutating into a roar as he clutched at his chest, ensnared when the burning sensation spreading from within did not subside. He could feel thick raised knots on his skin, six mutated lumps the size of golf balls that surrounded his heart. His black hair cascaded around his shoulders now, and he could feel long wiry matching hairs pouring from his chin untamed. His skin was ghostly, and every inch of it felt covered in grit. It was maddening, and for a time he sat upon the floor just scrubbing at his body, willing the feeling to subside.
The whole basement stunk horribly. He’d never remembered smelling anything so powerful in his life. Blood was everywhere, he could smell it on the walls, on the tattered suit, polka dotting the floor. Most powerful was the scent of an herb, something familiar yet impossible for him to name. It reminded him of someone, a person he had never met properly but who had played a large part in his life. It was as he thought of this that he recognized the shape painted on the wall of the kitchen: a huge dripping white paw print.
The suit was battered, torn, and stained beyond repair. Holes riddled the white shirt beneath the blazer, and broad copper patches surrounded them. It felt like a cruel joke yet, oddly, they suited him as he was now. Dane clawed across the floor toward them, making slow progress. He used the boxes and furniture in the tight space to propel himself, eventually regaining the ability to stand with some assistance. It felt like if he could just get there, he could regain something he had lost.
He reached the kitchen, climbing the counter as though it were a mountain. His heart pounded, his muscles burned. Every pulse of his heart sent fresh fire running through his veins. He was desperate to understand, on the verge of tears hoping for a friendly face, anyone who could tell him what was going on. It was there, just outside his reach. Memories that tasted of salt, the voice of someone he'd been looking for. It felt like if he followed that dream any deeper, he might not wake. He wouldn't allow himself to stop, not when he was so close.
You’re forgetting something.
What is it? He asked himself, staring at the empty shadows surrounding him. What had he forgotten, and how long ago?
It’s worth risking everything.
Alright, I get it, fuck off.
Alexia…?
Crack. The first shot, the first wound that began to bleed before the bullet even reached him. Unrivaled pain, as six more rounds ripped through his body. The precious metal inside infiltrated his blood, filling every crevice with an instant raging heat. He was falling, and she, nothing but a blur. Tears rolled down his cheeks, ice-cold, starkly contrasting the warmth he'd felt moments before. He crashed, swallowed by the chilling bay. He disappeared, breathless, unable to resist beneath black waters. His last thoughts were haunted, a cruel play starring someone he could no longer see, someone he had never said goodbye to.
Miss me?
A sudden shock overwhelmed his nascent senses. Sapphire eyes snapped open, unveiling a gray sheet above his head, which slowly bled into shades of brown. The slab of wood beneath his bare back felt like a bed of icicles. He could not move, could not even open his mouth to gasp as his lungs began to cry for air. Every bit of air was polluted by dust, dust that hung on everything in sight. All he could do was observe his dilapidated surroundings. Every time his focus changed, a new wave of nausea came with it.
Fear invaded his mind, as his deadened limbs failed to respond once more. How long had he been like this, had it been days, or weeks? What had happened to the city, that he had been left in such a sorry state. It was torture, imagining himself stuck like that, nailed to the table’s surface and trapped within his own consciousness. He struggled to move something, anything, to flex his fingers or wiggle his toes. Seconds turned to agonizing minutes as his gaze burned a hole into his own toe, willing it to move.
I’ve been surviving, at least. That’s more than some.
He looked around, frantically seeking the source of the voice. “H..elp,” Dane rasped, his dry lips finally tearing apart. He choked on those few syllables, starting a coughing fit that racked the rest of his body. As the spasm began, a thick burning sensation filled every part of him, but it also seemed to free the hold on his body. As the attack continued, he found himself released and rolled off the table, falling in a heap upon the cold stone floor.
Concrete walls towered above him on any side, splotched with dark stains. Old crates were stacked to his right, some of them lay smashed into pieces upon the floor, scattered at the foot of a small piano against the wall. To his left, he could see a small alcove. The light was dim, practically non-existent, yet somehow he could make out the fixtures of an ancient looking stove and the large gap where a refrigerator might have stood. In this small kitchen space, strung from a makeshift clothesline was a ruined suit.
I’ve quit before, but I always end up coming back. I don’t know what it is.
Dane growled, the sound mutating into a roar as he clutched at his chest, ensnared when the burning sensation spreading from within did not subside. He could feel thick raised knots on his skin, six mutated lumps the size of golf balls that surrounded his heart. His black hair cascaded around his shoulders now, and he could feel long wiry matching hairs pouring from his chin untamed. His skin was ghostly, and every inch of it felt covered in grit. It was maddening, and for a time he sat upon the floor just scrubbing at his body, willing the feeling to subside.
The whole basement stunk horribly. He’d never remembered smelling anything so powerful in his life. Blood was everywhere, he could smell it on the walls, on the tattered suit, polka dotting the floor. Most powerful was the scent of an herb, something familiar yet impossible for him to name. It reminded him of someone, a person he had never met properly but who had played a large part in his life. It was as he thought of this that he recognized the shape painted on the wall of the kitchen: a huge dripping white paw print.
The suit was battered, torn, and stained beyond repair. Holes riddled the white shirt beneath the blazer, and broad copper patches surrounded them. It felt like a cruel joke yet, oddly, they suited him as he was now. Dane clawed across the floor toward them, making slow progress. He used the boxes and furniture in the tight space to propel himself, eventually regaining the ability to stand with some assistance. It felt like if he could just get there, he could regain something he had lost.
He reached the kitchen, climbing the counter as though it were a mountain. His heart pounded, his muscles burned. Every pulse of his heart sent fresh fire running through his veins. He was desperate to understand, on the verge of tears hoping for a friendly face, anyone who could tell him what was going on. It was there, just outside his reach. Memories that tasted of salt, the voice of someone he'd been looking for. It felt like if he followed that dream any deeper, he might not wake. He wouldn't allow himself to stop, not when he was so close.
You’re forgetting something.
What is it? He asked himself, staring at the empty shadows surrounding him. What had he forgotten, and how long ago?