02-16-2020, 10:27 PM
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Perhaps it is the look on her face that he finds the most troubling.
His beautiful daughter.
A face just like her mother’s.
Kind.
And he wonders if the two of them might find comfort in knowing that they died together.
But her head is tilted at a funny angle. Unnatural, almost. And confusion passes across his brow, a brief distraction from the panic swelling dangerous inside him. He opens his mouth to say her name but no sound comes out.
He knows he will die. He can feel it in the marrow of his bones. Even before she collides with him, pushes him toward the edge, offers him absolutely no way out. And there are so many things that well up inside of him in that moment, as he shackles his helpless stare to his daughter’s face and wonders why. Why, after all this time, this is the end he will meet. He’d been living on borrowed time, he knows, a stolen immortality. But the thing he feels, most of all, is regret. Regret that he had not roused Plumeria, he had not kissed her head and told her where he’d gone. He had not murmured sweetly in their newest daughter’s ear. They will wonder, forever, where he’s gone and, as the days collaborate to make weeks and then months and then, ultimately years, maybe Plumeria will have to come to the conclusion that, this time, he’s really not coming back.
“<b>Kennice,</b>” he whispers. But the sound of it is drowned out by the roar of the river at his back.
He knows he will die. And yet, he reaches. Reaches for her, kisses her head just before he loses his footing and tumbles over the edge. He swallows one great, gasping breath before the cold of the water knocks all the air out of him. He paddles furiously for the surface, thinks that if he can reach the air there may still be some chance of survival. The river must run out somewhere, he thinks. But he knows that there is nowhere for it go but deeper into the earth.
Finally, he breaks the surface. Sucks in another sharp breath, coughs and sputters and turns just in time to see the splintered, uprooted glacier bearing down on him. He tries to duck under it, but it clips the skull and the water runs red with his blood. Still, he fights. Until it becomes clear that there is no hope left at all. Until there is not an ounce of fight left in him. The lungs scream and seize. The ribs and throat spasm. He closes his eyes tightly, thinks fiercely of Plumeria. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ he thinks it as hard as he can. As if the thought might break free of the confines of her mind and travel all those miles until it can sink its teeth into her psyche. And then he opens his mouth and he breathes in the water. It burns. How terribly it burns. The body recoils and then goes absolutely still. And, there in his head, the sweetest music. The sound of their laughter – all of them, every soul he has ever loved – and then absolutely nothing.
Until life kicks him swiftly in the chest and he wakes up sputtering, coughing, choking, lungs burning. He staggers to his feet, turns sharply in the direction of the voice. His daughter’s voice, but not. Not at all. She is coming for him, but it is not his daughter. The thing is dripping wet, the flesh coming off in great strips as if it is melting. It oozes and pulses and pools at the thing’s feet. But they’re not feet at all. The hooves have come apart, revealing the muscle and the sinew and the veins below. He stares, chest heaving as it continues chanting and continues advancing and he is too stunned to move.
The mane falls out in great clumps and, when the hair hits the floor of the chamber it dissolves into so many maggots. He feels some great defeat then, a defeat even greater than what he’d felt as they’d slipped over the edge and into the water. Everything in him burns and the muscles spasm with exhaustion.
But the thing is getting more grotesque as it advances. It flickers and pulses and the jaw comes unhinged and the lower half clatters to the chamber floor. Still, it tries to speak. An eye tumbles down the length of its melting face.
It is not his daughter, that much is clear. And yet. And yet, guilt still blossoms wild at the very center of him. Even as the thing bears down on him. It is harmless now, he thinks. It must be. Because the lower half of the jaw is gone and the hooves have dissolved, too. But there is so much suffering. And, over the thing’s head (which is quite rapidly falling apart now), he sees the light.
“<b>You’re not my daughter,</b>” he tells the thing, as if this might somehow absolve him of all that guilt. As if saying it out loud will fully convince the part of him that still clings to the notion that this is Kennice and not something else altogether. Not even a horse.
It has been so long since he last fought. But this thing will not put up much of a fight. He has never been a killer, Jarris, but he will do what he has to do now. It is all so improbable. Impossible, even. Because he’d resigned himself to death only moments ago and now there is hoping blooming in his chest.
It does not take much to crack the skull. A swift kick is all. But the thing keeps coming, the bone plainly visible beneath the flesh that continues to slip-slide down the face. So, he rears and he lashes out again. Punches a hole clean through the neck. Spins and kicks another hole clean through the chest. It is unclear if the things has a heart or a brain, but there is a terrible sucking noise coming from both wounds. He kicks the left knee next and the thing stumbles, sinks to the chamber floor.
“<b>You’re not my daughter!</b>” he yells it now. The thing stares up at him with its one remaining eye. He rears and comes down on the thing repeatedly. Until it breaks apart. Until the bones are scattered across the chamber floor. The bones, brittle, and the wet, melted flesh. And all the maggots. And the great swarm of flies that erupts from the things broken, swollen gut as he turns and runs as hard and as fast as he can toward the light. </div> <div class="jarris_name">jarris</div> <div class="jarris_quote">now I’ve been crazy, couldn’t you tell? I threw stones at the stars, but the whole sky fell</div> <img class="jarris_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/2y1t8pQH/jarris3.png"> </div> </center>
Perhaps it is the look on her face that he finds the most troubling.
His beautiful daughter.
A face just like her mother’s.
Kind.
And he wonders if the two of them might find comfort in knowing that they died together.
But her head is tilted at a funny angle. Unnatural, almost. And confusion passes across his brow, a brief distraction from the panic swelling dangerous inside him. He opens his mouth to say her name but no sound comes out.
He knows he will die. He can feel it in the marrow of his bones. Even before she collides with him, pushes him toward the edge, offers him absolutely no way out. And there are so many things that well up inside of him in that moment, as he shackles his helpless stare to his daughter’s face and wonders why. Why, after all this time, this is the end he will meet. He’d been living on borrowed time, he knows, a stolen immortality. But the thing he feels, most of all, is regret. Regret that he had not roused Plumeria, he had not kissed her head and told her where he’d gone. He had not murmured sweetly in their newest daughter’s ear. They will wonder, forever, where he’s gone and, as the days collaborate to make weeks and then months and then, ultimately years, maybe Plumeria will have to come to the conclusion that, this time, he’s really not coming back.
“<b>Kennice,</b>” he whispers. But the sound of it is drowned out by the roar of the river at his back.
He knows he will die. And yet, he reaches. Reaches for her, kisses her head just before he loses his footing and tumbles over the edge. He swallows one great, gasping breath before the cold of the water knocks all the air out of him. He paddles furiously for the surface, thinks that if he can reach the air there may still be some chance of survival. The river must run out somewhere, he thinks. But he knows that there is nowhere for it go but deeper into the earth.
Finally, he breaks the surface. Sucks in another sharp breath, coughs and sputters and turns just in time to see the splintered, uprooted glacier bearing down on him. He tries to duck under it, but it clips the skull and the water runs red with his blood. Still, he fights. Until it becomes clear that there is no hope left at all. Until there is not an ounce of fight left in him. The lungs scream and seize. The ribs and throat spasm. He closes his eyes tightly, thinks fiercely of Plumeria. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ he thinks it as hard as he can. As if the thought might break free of the confines of her mind and travel all those miles until it can sink its teeth into her psyche. And then he opens his mouth and he breathes in the water. It burns. How terribly it burns. The body recoils and then goes absolutely still. And, there in his head, the sweetest music. The sound of their laughter – all of them, every soul he has ever loved – and then absolutely nothing.
Until life kicks him swiftly in the chest and he wakes up sputtering, coughing, choking, lungs burning. He staggers to his feet, turns sharply in the direction of the voice. His daughter’s voice, but not. Not at all. She is coming for him, but it is not his daughter. The thing is dripping wet, the flesh coming off in great strips as if it is melting. It oozes and pulses and pools at the thing’s feet. But they’re not feet at all. The hooves have come apart, revealing the muscle and the sinew and the veins below. He stares, chest heaving as it continues chanting and continues advancing and he is too stunned to move.
The mane falls out in great clumps and, when the hair hits the floor of the chamber it dissolves into so many maggots. He feels some great defeat then, a defeat even greater than what he’d felt as they’d slipped over the edge and into the water. Everything in him burns and the muscles spasm with exhaustion.
But the thing is getting more grotesque as it advances. It flickers and pulses and the jaw comes unhinged and the lower half clatters to the chamber floor. Still, it tries to speak. An eye tumbles down the length of its melting face.
It is not his daughter, that much is clear. And yet. And yet, guilt still blossoms wild at the very center of him. Even as the thing bears down on him. It is harmless now, he thinks. It must be. Because the lower half of the jaw is gone and the hooves have dissolved, too. But there is so much suffering. And, over the thing’s head (which is quite rapidly falling apart now), he sees the light.
“<b>You’re not my daughter,</b>” he tells the thing, as if this might somehow absolve him of all that guilt. As if saying it out loud will fully convince the part of him that still clings to the notion that this is Kennice and not something else altogether. Not even a horse.
It has been so long since he last fought. But this thing will not put up much of a fight. He has never been a killer, Jarris, but he will do what he has to do now. It is all so improbable. Impossible, even. Because he’d resigned himself to death only moments ago and now there is hoping blooming in his chest.
It does not take much to crack the skull. A swift kick is all. But the thing keeps coming, the bone plainly visible beneath the flesh that continues to slip-slide down the face. So, he rears and he lashes out again. Punches a hole clean through the neck. Spins and kicks another hole clean through the chest. It is unclear if the things has a heart or a brain, but there is a terrible sucking noise coming from both wounds. He kicks the left knee next and the thing stumbles, sinks to the chamber floor.
“<b>You’re not my daughter!</b>” he yells it now. The thing stares up at him with its one remaining eye. He rears and comes down on the thing repeatedly. Until it breaks apart. Until the bones are scattered across the chamber floor. The bones, brittle, and the wet, melted flesh. And all the maggots. And the great swarm of flies that erupts from the things broken, swollen gut as he turns and runs as hard and as fast as he can toward the light. </div> <div class="jarris_name">jarris</div> <div class="jarris_quote">now I’ve been crazy, couldn’t you tell? I threw stones at the stars, but the whole sky fell</div> <img class="jarris_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/2y1t8pQH/jarris3.png"> </div> </center>