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... This was written when I was mad and needed to vent.
Some gore, and intended AlxKane, and lots of bad writing and the like. Read at your own risk.
XD;
~
The smell of ash, burning fibers, the sounds of ripping, tearing, screaming sirens, odd-sounding shrieks (all from bystanders watching their favorite store being burned down- she was so careful to make sure nobody was trapped in the building, a debt she could never hope to pay back), official sort of voices, her own desperate, creaky whispers, begging for help.
She was deaf to them all, all but her own heartbeat.
What a fighter it was, what a miracle, an old man bent on living so long he would become a burden on everyone, chugging on day after day, never letting up.
Through the burning, the pulsing, terrible blood (oh, how much more could she lose?), the numbness in her legs that were partially trapped under a collapsed wall, it chugged on, bent on keeping it's host alive, damnit. Fighting with every fiber in it’s being, screaming for her life.
She lay there for days, it seemed, lost in a world of blinding red and numbness and just plain noises.
She wondered what her funeral, if they’d even giver he one, would be like.
She hoped there would be no tears, she wanted to be forgotten, the memory of her to seep up sometime later, when they had kids around to share her stories with.
Would they ever visit her grave?
She hoped they'd put roses on it, commemorate it bitterly.
How fitting of death, a flower of love.
... And she wondered about him, too.
He wouldn't miss her, of course. They were only friends, at best, anyway.
... But still she wondered.
And when the numbness- the feeling of death, perhaps? - began to seep quietly into her limbs, she gave no complaint, and smiled, laying her head down quietly.
Hopefully she would never be found.
She'd be another casualty, disappearing into the night, perhaps a runaway, a victim of sexual frustration.
They wouldn't ask questions, and she didn’t want them to.
And then, voices. So close, the scent of tobacco, something familiar, like home, maybe.
Hands, rough on her in her delicate state, lifting her a little too quickly.
Voices, frantic this time, as they saw the true injury she suffered. Curses, shouting, being laid on a stretcher that still smelt of the previous victim, of death. She pressed her cheek to the surprisingly soft, cool fibers, enjoying for a moment the comforting voices of the paramedics.
Her angels, how glorious they were. Working quickly, their faces betraying no panic, mopping up blood like it was water, injecting something into her that made the pain dissipate like mist. They were so calm, in the face of the storm, it made her faintly jealous.
- -
The hospital smelled of cleaner and a mother’s worry, and sickness. She saw their faces as she was rushed into a room, how mothers took their children into their laps, how the sick, the old, the injured looked at her, no pity in their eyes.
We are one, they silently communicated, and she felt welcomed by them.
Hours later, an uncomfortable bed, the TV turned to a distasteful talk show, the volume so low she wouldn't have heard it anyway, the absence of something particularly important.
What was it? She twisted her head around, eyes taking in the orderly hospital room, the machines she was hooked up to, and the side of her little body that was smooth all the way down.
Smooth?
Was her arm tucked behind her back? She'd fallen asleep like that before, and it always ended up badly. She wondered how her dance instructor would scold her; she was probably missing class for this, the big show. And her side, so smooth.
It didn't register until hours later, when her head was level enough, when the painkillers were reduced to just enough to keep her from writing about in agony. They were the only things keeping her sanity, and she was grateful for them.
After all, what kind of person takes losing a limb in stride?
- -
Oz took it harder, she was told later. Pacing the lobby, mumbling like a crazy person, screaming in the face of anyone who dared interfere with her little personal breakdown.
How could she lose her friend like this?
Sure, she wasn't a saint, but did she really deserve this?
Did she do something terrible, or was it payback? She was pretty good dancer, her looks were heart-stopping (but only when she wanted them to be), her body and mind perfectly in tune with each other. Never before had Oz seen someone so flexible, so sure of herself.
She hadn't asked for those things...
How comforting it was, how the Rule of the World worked.
So fair, but so harsh.
- -
Healing is a delicate process, but she had help along the way.
- -
She can barely remember the red-headed man (he’s Axel to her, now) who was so nice to her, taking care to shove her through a hole of darkness, telling her assuredly that it'd help her get better.
Did the hold have her arm? Would it give it back? She doubted that.
She barely remembers the days before the surgery, the measuring, the building, the questions, idle conversations, the sounds of a wrench tightening a screw, a satisfied noise from the mechanic. It was comforting, hearing someone who was happy for once.
Who didn’t pity her, for once. Another angel, her saintly mechanic.
The surgery is a haze of silver and red and tan and yellow, mixed together and fuzzy and hazed, but she remembers the sweet unconsciousness following. Never before was it so welcoming, to be encased in the warm dark.
But in perfect detail, she remembers the recovery. The nights- remarkably few, really- as her body adjusted to the new appendage, trying bitterly to reject it. The nights when she lay awake fevering, crying out when she rolled over and happened to move her new arm - so delicate, for something metal - the memories swimming in her head. The nightmares, making her want to wake, only to find herself in the middle of another nightmare.
She remembers when he would take her up in his arms - unbidden, unasked, so willingly - as the sheets, soaked with her own sweat, were replaced with fresh ones. The way he would lay her down again, hands lingering just a teeny bit too long under her when he did so. She remembers the sheets, how they smelled like sunshine and fresh-cut grass, they must have been air-dried.
The way he would gently shake her awake when her new limb had to be checked and exercised- pleading to stop, please, her pitiful tears, when she was asked such simple tasks as gripping a cup, picking a coin up.
How he protested, she didn't want any more pain, were they at all merciful? They laughed at her for being dramatic, and when it was all over, she had to chuckle too.
What a bleak future it seemed, then, repeating that every five or so years until the day she died.
It was so, until she was finally well enough to stand and walk and not pass out, when it changed.
She remembers the smell of the grass, the evening dew brushing her cheek with moisture, the warm earth below her. The hairy stem of a wildflower brushed her toe, its pink petals waving in a specific direction.
She has to thank that particular flower, for pointing him out to her.
How reluctant she was, to leave her little heaven and trudge down the hill to him, who was still oblivious to her presence until it was too late. The comforting smells of the house he was sitting outside of, like coffee and something good for dinner.
He was comfortingly warm, surprisingly unmoving, when she hugged him from behind, hesitant at first to wrap her cold limb over him. It was mostly for gratitude, her own little personal thanks to him. She owed him so much...
She was never one for words, anyway.
And when she dragged him up the hill- her new arm was particularly strong, and she had no problem doing it - how he looked she plopped down and motioned for him to join her. She wanted to laugh so badly, but didn't, for his sake.
The way she felt when her feelings were words, the dizziness, the sudden lack of air.
How his hand fit so perfectly in hers, it was natural, like hers was born for his.
- -Her healing was a delicate process, but he was always at her side, step-for-step.
And she will never forget that.
 men getting pregnant · Thu Dec 11, 2008 @ 04:29am · 1 Comments |
