04-23-2023, 01:12 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
What does it feel like.
He blinks slowly, laboriously, and grins that ink-black grin. How do you explain that the only thing that truly feels like living is dying? Because he had never been more alive than when he’d dragged himself through each day struggling to breathe, to exist, to understand what it meant to be a thing made of nothing at all. He had been a child and yet the joints (if they could have been called that) had ached and the lungs had felt filled with rot.
He studies her and understands now that she must be immune to her own poison. He wonders, briefly, if he might construct some new poison to push through her veins just to show her what it feels like. But he doesn’t try, not yet.
“It feels like living,” he tells her in that old raspy way, wishing now that he had held onto it long enough to let it take him to his knees.
(If he had let it make him so weak, he would not have been able to call upon the fog. He would not have been able to pull it around them, to shroud them, to protect them from things that neither of them needs any protection from.)
“And?” he asks then, probing. “Has it proven to be useful?” he tilts his strange head then, the edges blurred in all this fog. “What do you get in return? Something more than practice, I hope.”
He blinks slowly, laboriously, and grins that ink-black grin. How do you explain that the only thing that truly feels like living is dying? Because he had never been more alive than when he’d dragged himself through each day struggling to breathe, to exist, to understand what it meant to be a thing made of nothing at all. He had been a child and yet the joints (if they could have been called that) had ached and the lungs had felt filled with rot.
He studies her and understands now that she must be immune to her own poison. He wonders, briefly, if he might construct some new poison to push through her veins just to show her what it feels like. But he doesn’t try, not yet.
“It feels like living,” he tells her in that old raspy way, wishing now that he had held onto it long enough to let it take him to his knees.
(If he had let it make him so weak, he would not have been able to call upon the fog. He would not have been able to pull it around them, to shroud them, to protect them from things that neither of them needs any protection from.)
“And?” he asks then, probing. “Has it proven to be useful?” he tilts his strange head then, the edges blurred in all this fog. “What do you get in return? Something more than practice, I hope.”
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD
@
Iris