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Post by MESSENGER on Jan 8, 2014 3:37:00 GMT
[attr="class","temps"]WRITING CONTEST By popular demand, we're having another contest. For this one, you have to write a character death. This is just for fun and is absolutely not required to happen in canon, so go wild. There's no minimum or maximum word count, just - as always - be reasonable. Contest deadline is Saturday January 18th at midnight. Instead of voting, we'll be going by likes, so please just like your favourites on one of your accounts - double votes won't be counted. Prizes will be announced on closing; and, again, you'll get two raffle tickets for entering. Post your entries below and have fun!
EDIT: Extended the deadline!
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Post by ASHTON HOLMES on Jan 15, 2014 18:13:17 GMT
A wet, red stain grew on his white shirt, which stuck uncomfortably to the wound. He had grown surprisingly numb of the pain in the past few hours since he’d been shot. The only thing on his mind was dragging his unconscious sister to safety. She was heavy and he had a hard time carrying her. But he had found surprising strength for the time being. It faded as quickly as it bloomed in his aching limbs however. His eyesight had even begun to lose focus the closer he got to the edge of the forest.
He was sure a little rest would replenish his stamina. He set his sister down carefully against the trunk of a tree and lowered himself down a little ways away. Though his eyes felt heavy, he forced them to stay open. Just a little longer. It was no good. He had already lost too much blood. Dipping his head back, he caught a glimpse of orange between the canopies of leafy greens. Night was coming faster than he had hoped. He sighed. Did it matter? They weren’t in anymore danger.
Sofia at least would be safe. He, on the other hand, would probably be dead before the night fell. Ash needed immediate medical attention when he had first been injured. “Ash! Sofia! Where are you?” The familiar voice of his assistant, Cain, rang out through the quiet forest. He had never been so happy to hear the idiot’s voice or even see his figure moving in the distance. “Ash!” Cain must have spotted him because he was running towards them now. Ash smiled—a rare event for the grumpy detective.
Closing his eyes, he let himself slip off into a sleep he would never wake from. Sofia would be fine now. Cain would make sure she made it home. She would tell him about the man she tracked down in the woods, who turned out to be more dangerous than she had anticipated. Ash had followed her and luckily he had his gun with him. He may have been shot first, but Ash managed to get him afterwards. She would show him where that man’s body was. “Keep her safe Cain.” And he was gone. |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 15, 2014 23:46:30 GMT
THE NIGHT SEA. —FANGYIN, MINZHE Her hair's uneven, large portion forcefully chopped close to the scalp and nearly drawing blood by the time she reaches brother's side. Her lips are dry, fear caking in the cracks, and it's not something she's relishing any more; that time sunk. For her fingers tremble, dropping the dirty knife in her hands, beside his defiled body. Blood oozes, and brother does not cry. Does not scream. For a second, she thinks she's glad she's late to his side for once. If she'd be seeing him in pain, the knife would be in her chest before she could register a fluid thought pattern. The wind is cold on her battered scalp, her clothes thin, limbs brittle like they'll give out come another gust, but she forces herself closer beside him, climbing on top of his near lifeless body panting evenly now. She's late. There are gaps where arms used to be. Bone and flesh. Bone and flesh. It's crude enough not to be a bad cartoon. She crawls and sits on his pelvis, moves in to kiss him, lap up the final thoughts that weren't words just yet, the moisture left in his mouth. She's never kissed anyone, but a meeting between mouths that speak is not a sensual thing to her. Salty tears are not met with a frown; a picture of confusion instead. All the energy is filtering out to the bottom, already. Leaning back, she watches him uneasily, knowing soon time will be up - shouting and running pulse through the streets, safety had always been an illusion - and their cold bodies will be thrown in some cold sea, to drift along and sink and rot. Together. The concrete under her toes only numb them more, blood is old under her nails, and skin long since broken, running far far away. Her trembling fingers pry open his shirt, and kisses the spot where the heart beats to mark it. His heart is hers, and hers, his. It's not about sharing; this is just the status quo. Her heart is already torn, see. She holds his cheekbones as if it'll piece him together, during the final hours of this sickly twilight. The knife cuts and she watches him wince, flinch without a word, and it's almost beautiful how; his eyes close without hesitation. Don't flutter - we were never romantic. But she loved him anyway; other options were never acknowledged. Opening her own cheap white shirt, her fingers find the beat, raises the knife from his chest, fresh with brother's blood, and cuts through the muscle, and it's as if she could feel the thrill of the mixing of blood. It's rough, but it's like she can feel herself dissolve into the salty night air. |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 1:50:02 GMT
nessa had always underestimated jamie, and that had been her first mistake.
her back is on the shiny wood floor, light from a chandelier above blocked by his figure. there isn’t one small thing about him right then, in contrast to the boy she’d first met when they were kids. she can see the memory reflected in his eyes. observing from the stair step above her brother, scrutinizing the scrawny, dark haired intruder like a new toy.
she always broke her toys.
now well into their adult years, and there wasn’t even a scratch on him. she can’t even see the raw anger in his eyes anymore, unlike the expression that had briefly ripped across his face when she’d said something that, after all these years, finally hit a nerve. all she sees is a mind gone mad, cut loose the strings of indifference and watched them float away without so much as a wave.
maybe she’s gone as mad as him, because when he looms ever closer and unveils a clean, shiny weapon, pride ripples through her person like an adrenaline rush, because she’s done it, she’s finally done it. after poking and prodding at his heart and his brain, digging around and searching for the perfect spot to paralyze him, she’s found it.
how ironic that she was the one to die.
he doesn’t give her the luxury of asking for any last words, but he pauses for a moment, and a moment is all she needs. she coughs up a bloody string of vowels that almost sounds like wait, raises her index finger the tiniest bit. his eyes flick back and forth between her hand and her face, too fast to catch.
religion has never been a part of her life, but she finds what little prayer she knows and breathes them in a hoarse rush. his lips tighten and his eyes are steely. it’s in italian and she’s butchered it, but she can see that he knows it. he’s better at the language than her. he always was.
she stops the prayer abruptly, doesn’t dare speak the last word because even in her last moments she’s arrogant enough to make him say it. she can barely speak without blood clogging her lungs, so she turns up the corners of her mouth just slightly and gives him a tired look. humor me.
he takes a knee and leans down, clutches a fistful of her shirt and yanks her up to an almost sitting position. never mind the awkwardness of her position, pain racks up her spine and she can feel her insides being pushed where they shouldn’t be. she can’t help but to utter something akin to a whimper, shuts her eyes because she refuses to give him that satisfaction. he doesn’t do anything for a long while, longer than she assumed, and only when she peel back her eyelids does she realize that she’s underestimated him a second time.
their faces are so close that she can feel his breath stir on her lips. she considers spitting in his face, but she doesn’t want to ruin the intimacy and the only kind of mercy he’ll give her. he presses the weapon to her chest, right above her heart that thudded a sluggish, wet beat.
"amen." he speaks it softly, like a blessing.
and even when her heart is stopping, she grins.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 2:32:09 GMT
It's another normal morning, Mi tells herself. Get through classes, eat lunch, and head out to recess. Sit on a swing and read. That's she does every day, and seems to not get that boring. So, when it was time to head for lunch, Midori rushes to the front of the line to get her lunch first. Unfortunately, this is the worst spot to be.
Her heels clicking on the tile floor of the hallway, she leads the line down towards the cafeteria. Around the corner and.... bang. At the top of the stairwell is a man with a mask covering his face, holding a gun.
Bang.
The second round enters the wall not 2 feet from Mi's head. She's running like the rest of her class towards the nearest classroom.
Bang.
The next round hits the boy to who was behind her in line in the leg. He falls, and another round enters his stomach. There's nothing she can do to save him, so to try to live Mi runs with the rest of the group towards the classroom.
Bang.
The fourth round hits the girl who was behind the dead boy square in the forehead. She's dead too, better run and save yourself, Mi decides, scrambling across the floor.
Bang.
Round no. 5 enters Mi in her foot, causing her to fall face first on the hard tile. It was clear that the gunman would try to take out as many kids as he could and come to pick her off after. Now's her chance, and Mi takes it, pushing with her good foot and pulling with her hands towards the bathroom. Maybe she won't be seen.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
More shots enter Mi's classmates, and she hears them fall to the floor, and the creaking of the classroom door open quickly, kids running in, and then a slam. It looks like there's a few seconds left. Pulling across the ground, Mi pulls past the first boy who was shot, a groan as he clutches his stomach and dies, hands covered in blood.
Bang.
The next shot enters her shoulder, stopping her from pulling towards the bathroom. Now she's lying on the ground in a semi-fetus position, writhing in pain.
Bang.
The final round hits her in the gut, all chances of survival gone. Mi's losing blood too quickly for responders to do anything when they get there, and instead of trying to escape, the gunman pulls a knife from his hoodie and stabs himself in the forehead. She can hear the sound of the steel penetrating his skull with a crack, and he crumples to the floor too like the children.
Vision blurry, her eyes close, and instead of thinking of the gunman, her thoughts come to all the mistakes she's made, all the people she's let down. I wasn't a good girl, was I? Mi thinks to herself. Finally, her thoughts turn to her parents and her family, her life up until now. And just as she's about to pray for her life like most people, everything goes blank, and Midori Ipson is dead. |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 4:06:29 GMT
Natalia had been walking down main street in the east part of the island when her cellphone rang. She was surprised at a phone call so early in the day, but when she looked at the number, she couldn't recognize it; there was no ID or name, but she answered nonetheless. It was probably a business call, or a telemarketer, or something.
"Hello, Natalia here."
"Ms. Caito?"
"Yes, speaking?"
"This is Officer Martin. Are you the mother of Angelo Caito, and was his father Giovanni Martinelli?"
Was his father?
"...Yes, that's correct-"
"I'm very sorry to inform you in this manner, but we were unable to find an address for you on Nova Athenis. Angelo Caito... was found dead, last night, in-"
Natalia stopped still on the sidewalk, her brain flipping through emotions in order to try and find the right one - panic, desperation, hate, denial - it reeled as civilians continued to brush past her.
"-a house fire. We're unsure so far if this was arson, or some sort of suicide atte-"
She felt like she was bawling, but the tears never came. Some cruel voice deep down told her she didn't deserve to cry, that she'd never deserved Angelo, that she had never deserved to be his mother and now she had failed him for the last time. How could you be sad when you never tried for him, it hissed - how could you think you can cry about this when you never wanted him in the first place?
Maybe Natalia was too professional, too wrapped up in her career, to let herself cry on the sidewalk. Or was she just too shocked to do anything? Would the tears come later that night in a huge outpouring, would she become inconsolable, numb, would she do something reckless in response?
"mpt. So far we have no sign of arson but we aren't ruling it out, and we're still searching for the source of the fire, though it seems to have come from the boy's own lighter-"
Had they killed him? The freaks in that mafia, in that gang, was it something that he'd gotten involved in? Had he broken his promise? She deserved it, if that was the case. How could she have expected him to stay loyal to her after she had never been a proper mother? The only reason she was in Nova now was because she wanted to try harder, but it was too late. Her job had been her life, and in her mind obviously never more important than her only son, but now she was doubting herself. This is your fault, the voice said.
"which was next to his body. ...Ms. Caito, again, I'm incredibly sorry to have to tell you like this. If you need anything, there's a number-" click.
Her thumb had hit the button. She wasn't interested in hearing that man's apology. She felt nothing towards him, nothing towards anyone around her, the various people casting frustrated glances over their shoulders as they moved around the hopeless looking woman in the middle of the boulevard.
The sun came out from behind a cloud, and Natalia's deep hazel gaze slowly rose to greet it with an inconceivable emotion combining a burning hate and complete hopelessness. It felt out of place, like the sun had failed her, too, like it could never shine on a world without Angelo, a world without her child. The sun would never feel the same to Natalia, nor the warmth it brought nor any other real pleasures of the world. She couldn't be happy anymore now without ripping herself apart with guilt. This was her fault, and the healing process was not one that she could ever possibly deserve. She failed him, and he had been taken away from her, forever. There was no more trying now. She was broken. |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 6:25:00 GMT
Who shall I blame for this sweet and heavy trouble
This wasn't supposed to happen.
It was a joke, a sick joke. Mommy has to have a drink and she kissed him on the nose and the apples of his cheeks and he laughed and laughed and Callie laughed and Dominick laughed and this was her happy sham of a family.
It was only when Cedric ever came around that he pushed her nose up against the wall, the hypothetical grindstone, told her that her life was fake. Her cherry colored lipgloss rubbed off on his cheeks and the only time it'd made it to his lips he wiped it off with the back of his sleeve. He told her that fairy tales weren't true.
Children have impeccable grips and sometimes it makes her sad. He holds two of his fingers in all of her's with an eerie amount of determination that stirs her in her stomach. Then when she's sad she feels weak, and at first that's okay. There's nothing wrong with being weak. She's told herself that her whole life. Fairer, weaker. She's a damsel in distress, hold her dainty hand. But now when she's weak she sees his sneer and suddenly she's weaker and weaker and entirely loatheful. She wasn't aware she was capable of hate.
So this is a joke. It's a cry for help. She loves her son and she loves her friend and when she looks in the mirror her smile looks genuine. It's a joke. It shouldn't go this far, right?
The drink rolls on the floor, two olives on the ground. They're round and sad and Callie can't see them but her cheeks are wet. Two olives out of twelve. There's a bottle of pills that were prescribed for severe post-partem. You can't mix that kind of stuff but one couldn't hurt. Two, three, four, five couldn't hurt. It's a joke. It's a sick joke.
There's laughter in the other room and she can't discern who's it is. There's an overwhelming sense of sadness in her lungs and she chokes on whatever her body is trying to get out of her. Nothing will listen and this isn't glamourous and she's sadder and sadder and full of loathing until she's nothing at all.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2014 6:49:33 GMT
DUSK AT LAST.
The bandages are thick around his knuckles, taut and heavy. He cinches the tie by pulling with his teeth. One fight, it was just like any other. But he knew from the cheering on the other side of the wall that it wasn't the case this time. "Champion." He hears the word thrum through his skull and reverberate on the empty lockers that line the walls. The sounds are hollow. He taps his chest, once, twice, as if he were checking to see if his heart was still beating. It feels like poured cement.
He can feel the pulse of the club with every step he takes. He can taste it in his mouth. It is acrid and bloody and desperate. His hands underneath the wraps twitch to participate in the swan song. His veins flare copper hot. Fighting. It's a kind of madness and he knows it's whispering in his ear.
He waits in the back room for their match to finish. To placate his thirst he lets his hands bite into a sand bag. What they want is to scour the flesh. Or is that what he wants? It's savage but it speaks to him like nothing else. It is the vermilion in his vision when they say it's time.
He's blinded by the spotlight but he knows the crowd has gone quiet. He matters to them, if only because their money is on his name. Undefeated. Champion. Dusk.
He doesn't know his enemy's name. He doesn't know his face. All he knows is that he is the wolf. It is fury, it is a requiem. It is his nature. The rhythm surges into him, a cacophony of broken bones and split skin. He can feel his heart beat.
He's forced the other into a corner. It's over. It's over. But it never is for him. Years. Years. Pools of blood and makeshift stitches and wounds that never healed. But the sting that hurts the most is the one that touches his cheek. It nips at his knees and makes him weak. "Even if you win today."
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. But he only sees midnight.
Somewhere a glass breaks, whether it is inside or out, he doesn't know, and that is all it takes. The shards litter his vision, cut sly into the fabric of his symphony. Her voice echoes through the coliseum. It sounds like tears. His guard falls. He's been hit hard before but maybe that's the problem. The wetness on his cheeks congeals and ripples red.
The cement swallows him whole. The world is monochrome but for a dash of pink.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 17, 2014 1:08:15 GMT
He spent weeks thinking about it, he decides to go for it. He sends the staff home early and his parents are out of town for a while, he figures he can’t have picked a better time. However he spends half an hour tying and untying the noose he spent a week trying to learn to tie without anyone finding out.
He climbs the his computer chair and hangs it on a hook that was installed when he was a little kid for something he doesn’t quite remember. He’s hesitant, so so hesitant but he doesn’t know if he wants to go to school another day. His father is nice, but he’d never let Harper change schools or drop out.
He takes a breath and stares at the noose hanging from his ceiling. It’ll be okay, if he decides he doesn’t want to do it he’ll just- he’ll just stop right? It’ll be fine.
It’s not like anyone will really miss him though.
He takes a breath and then he realises he has no idea what he’s doing. He freaks out for a second. He closes his eyes and takes another breath before exhaling. It’s fine, he can do this, and he does.
And then he can’t breath oh god, he can’t breath, he can’t breath he tells himself to calm down this is all part of it don’t worry. It’ll be over soon…
… but it’s not. He hangs there, not being able to breath, and he’s freaking out because his body has shut down. He doesn’t realise that he can’t go back, no no no, stop I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m sorry, no stop I can’t- I don’t want to- No this is such a bad idea I don’t want to do this-
His body has shut down, and he can’t breath, he’s scared the last few seconds he’s alive and he’s regretting everything. Tears stain his face, oh god why did he think this was a good idea.
A week later the newspaper prints an article titled Teenage Boy commits Suicide and there is a picture of his parents crying.
His mom doesn’t stop mourning, his father doesn’t stop blaming himself, the bullies - some of them at least - regret ever bullying him, ever pushing him to that point.
But it’s too late, sorrys don’t mean anything when the one they’re directed to is already dead. |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 17, 2014 4:40:56 GMT
MISTAKES WERE MADE.
It had been three days, eighteen hours, forty-three minutes, six seconds. Her limbs were too fatigued to tremble. Nineteen seconds. Even her eyelids refused to lift above her pupils. The world had been reduced to a murky bar of grey blurring at the periphery of her vision. Forty-four minutes. Pins and needles drained out of her veins like sand from an hour glass. She used to keep time by the cadence of her breath until the dried out contours of her trachea tripped it. Now, she had a more reliable metronome. Forty-four minutes, fifty-two seconds. Her spine uncurved, shoulders bracing. Forty-five minutes.
Her world flared to agonizing life. A noiseless cry ripped apart her lips. Electric convulsions wracked her body. She tasted copper, coughed it up over the metal like red velvet in her gilded cage. Leaning her skull against the bars, she arched and panted, sweat glazing her skin. Mon Dieu, how did it end up like this? Something wet stuck to her cheekbone and quivered on the precipice.
Niels…
She hadn’t wanted to believe Them. He was her friend, and They had ruined her life, had hunted her down and caged her like an animal. Things had been going so well, they’d been free…but here she was, and here he wasn’t.
“Nico! Merde, Nico, answer me chérie,” hissed a voice at her head.
The only noise to leave her was a strange and strangled moan. A foreign curse accompanied some tender caress in her hair. There might have been a promise, an apology, but she could not make it out over the throbbing in her ears. Something gave a metal complaint, and she was being scooped up into familiar arms. Niels’ hand smoothed over her hair and cradled her head under his chin.
“Niels,” she whimpered.
“I’m sorry I took so long. Can you stand? I’m going to get you out of here, I promise.”
Nico shook her head. It had been three days and however long now that she hadn’t had food, and only a misting of water. Niels shifted her weight in his arms. I’ll carry you, he seemed to say before he took off running. For the first time since she’d been taken, she felt at peace. She should have been more wary, she knew. Should have been prepared when he set her down on her feet. Instead, she only swayed and stared at him.
“Go,” he said. “Nico, run.”
Among the sickening swirl of her own consciousnes, she heard the readied snap of pistol safeties coming undone. She searched for his face, tried to say something, tried to shake her head. He shook his back and held her close. His lips brushed her forehead, but then his hands struck her shoulders, and she went sprawling. He smiled; her eyes were drawn to his lips, that too-red streak at the corner of his mouth as it formed three words.
She was still trying to make sense of them when he shut the door and locked her out of the compound. The world rushed forward in a dizzying deluge of sound. Shots ricocheted against the door; she heard herself scream her partner’s name. It hit the door, useless as her fists. Sucking back a sob, she got to her feet, shut her eyes, and forced her muscles into a sprint, away from this place, away from those words.
Mercenaries don’t love.
So why did it hurt so much to know he had?
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Post by Deleted on Jan 17, 2014 20:09:02 GMT
The phone call left him emptier than he thought it would. It wasn't like this sort of thing didn't happen. People got old, people died. That was how life worked. No one ever said it was going to be fair, and right now, it just wasn't.
He hadn't even been there to say goodbye. Kieran wasn't a man who let himself cry that often, but when he hit the red "end call" button, the tears wouldn't stop falling from his eyes. Burying his head in his arms he wept. And it was like this that he sat for a good while, sitting alone in his barren apartment.
Things could go one of a few ways, right now. Kieran could go home. Not his Nova home, but home, to Tennessee, for the funeral. Maybe for ever. But that was almost out of the question. The man knew he should go to the funeral, at the very least, but seeing two caskets with the lifeless figures of his parents laying there with eyes and lips sewed shut like they'd open again...that would be next to impossible.
Most of his family hated him anyways. The scandal hadn't just wrecked his career, but wrecked his family life. His parents were the two people in this world that didn't despise him, and now they were gone. Really gone. It felt foreign and far away to him, as he was in a foreign and far away place.
Suddenly Nova Athenis seemed like a prison, rather than an escape.
Kieran could stay on Nova and pretend like nothing happened. That would work out well if he hadn't already messed up enough stuff on this forsaken island. The amount of people that he'd hurt and angered...he couldn't name them all. If it wasn't a nameless woman in his bed that he cut all ties with the next morning it was a man with delicate features that were now marred by scars and bad memories.
These people all hated him too. He had no one here. No one in the world, not anymore. What was the point of staying on the island if he clearly wasn't wanted?
That left the man in a bit of a catch 22. He couldn't go home and he couldn't stay here. Would he move somewhere else? Start a new life, take on a new name and just pretend his past didn't exist? That never really seemed to work out for anyone. Besides, the past always had a way of coming back to haunt people.
If only he could join his parents in death. Maybe it would be easier, being dead. As thrill-seeking and daring as Kieran was, however, the one thing he couldn't bring himself to do was murder. At least by his own hand. Killing was a terrifying thought, even if the person he wanted to kill was himself.
The easiest way to forget about this — right now, at least — was his vices. The addictions he couldn't quite kick, and a deeper part of him said he never wanted to. He was reckless tonight. He didn't care what happened. He left his apartment with no real idea of where he was going to go, just that he needed to forget about everything, just for tonight.
His pocket was full of pills. He'd taken one before he left and as he walked, the pain started to ebb away and the comfortable feeling of the drug entered his system. He would be okay. It didn't matter. He didn't need anyone but himself — other people just got in the way.
By the time Kieran reached the bar, he had taken a few more pills and had started to trip hard. He could handle it, though. Finding his way to a seat he ordered a drink, not caring much that he knew speed and alcohol didn't mix very well. The drink came after a few moments. If the bartender noticed he was high, he just didn't care enough to say no. That was the good thing about bars on the south side of the island. Literally no one cared.
Drinks were downed and pills were popped. Kieran didn't even know what was going on now. He was in such a state of euphoria that nothing seemed to matter any more, and he had finally achieved peace. Damn, was this what nirvana was like? He could definitely get used to this. It wasn't like he hadn't taken a lot of drugs at one time before, but never this many. He might have to do this again—
He suddenly felt very warm. His lips and mouth were dry, unbelievably dry. Kieran tried to ask for a water but he couldn't form words, and he wasn't even sure if he was sitting on the barstool anymore. No one cared. This was normal. People got so drunk or messed up they passed out on the floor and no one batted an eye.
Reality was moving five paces faster than Kieran's consciousness and he could barely lift his arm to his neck, trying to clutch at his body as a searing pain ripped through his chest.
He was hurting all over. His stomach churned dangerously, and Kieran feared he was going to throw up. Everything was happening all at once and he barely, just barely, felt his body hit the floor as his skin made contact with the sticky tile.
And just as quickly as everything came on, his heart gave one final squeeze and a bead of sweat dripped from his forehead, and there was nothing.
Just the emptiness. A void, and he was falling, and it was then that he lost all consciousness. No one looked at him, no one called for help. Even the parents that he would finally be joining in death would never be able to look at him favorably, because they never wanted him to go. Not like this, not ever.
It was a reality he'd struggled to accept and now he was finally living — or rather, dying — it. No one cared. |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 17, 2014 21:27:48 GMT
The glass dropped, her only thought being that the liquid inside would leave a horrible stain.
It didn't break. No noise. A space with no noise, a vacuum, her brain managed to inform her ... leaving her with the lingering question as to how she'd managed to remember that as everything shut down. Not something useful; just the singular word. Vacuum.
She could feel her balance leaving her as she stumbled forward, a singular word now popping into her brain to replace the first. Breath. As long as she could keep breathing then she'd keep living, correct? Air in her lungs, the oxygen difussing into her blood and going to her cells, keeping her heart pumping.
Then there was nothing, nothing but tumbling, falling out of control. She barely registered someones hands grabbing her upright, slowing down the fall, resting her on his lap. Oh right, they were the hands of a murderer.
Specifically, hers.
She could hear his half hearted apologises: that he was sorry, this was just business, his boss had ... eventually she blanked him out. Turning his voice into a sea of white noise in the background, she let herself lie with her regrets, growing more and more aware of her convulsing form as her 'business associate' stroked her hair, as if it was to make the pain of dying easier.
She wanted to rip his filthy, blood stained hands off her. Tell him that no man had done that to her in years. That the last man that had was ten times the man he was; something she hadn't realized until she came lying face to face with that red stain, a stark contrast against her beautiful cream carpet. Seeping in. Red. It always seemed to be a colour that followed her. Little did she know that red would find her three days later. She'd missed a court date, something that they knew was out of character. After all ... it was always about the money with her, wasn't it?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She had too many regrets. Too many apologies. Too many reunions. Too many people relying on her. Too many things to fucking do, would anyone even cry over her? Mourn her? Miss her?
She could feel something run down the side of her face as she was lowered down onto the carpet, the fluffy texture the last thing she would feel against her skin as the man made his exit, no goodbyes. Not that she was expecting it. It was just her now. As the shaking subsided and as her eyes finally closed, she corrected herself.
And the almonds.
The sweet smell of almonds.
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head admin
with 187 posts
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Post by MESSENGER on Jan 19, 2014 21:21:54 GMT
[attr="class","temps"]CLOSED All participants have been awarded 2 raffle tickets.
Winners and prizes will be announced shortly.
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