ballad of the bruised lung [wyatt/sue v. word; day 4]
Jul 9, 2015 22:45:02 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jul 9, 2015 22:45:02 GMT -5
W Y A T T O ' C O N N O R
No longer hidden behind the smoke screen I spring in silence until my chest cries for compassion and my body longs for mercy. None truly to be found I break pace to stuttered steps and the occasional outcry of rebellion from an aching bone or muscle left unattended.
I did not trust Sue Tate enough to stay behind and watch the wreckage leave him in mangled bits and pieces or to see him take my head off of the mechanical veins that held it in place. Instead I left him to trust and worry alone, advocating from the sideline like my part of the task had been completed—I had saved him from himself, had I not?
But gratefulness turned to true terror and as I watched him fall apart at my feet I realized that my hands, covered in my own blood thanks to no other living soul but his own, had been the one to tear him straight down the center of his spine.
I had been spineless to begin with, two broken halves of a boy who pretended to be whole for thirteen years until his parents discovered the marks on the wall—ninety-five and I’m still scrambling for the broken pocketknife left in the district square of six.
I didn’t know what it meant to remember a certain touch until I missed cool metal against my palm eleven days after it had been demolished under my heel, but in the pause my venture takes away from Sue Tate I hold an outstretched palm to a colorless sky dig the opposite nails from four fingers against it until neurons fire the word pain across my skin like my body was the definition. To paint it as the only word I knew was mediocrity, I knew Wyatt O’Connor and the ways to spell it too:
Worthless,
Disconsolate,
Invaded.
[wyatt o'connor attacks word; throwing axes]
IxRBZDelthrowing axe
[shallow cut on forearm -- 3.5]
throwing axeIxRBZDelthrowing axe
[shallow cut on forearm -- 3.5]