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Wishing Upon Your Own Grave It Wasn't So

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Wishing Upon Your Own Grave It Wasn't So

Post by Cassadriel on Fri Oct 04, 2013 4:06 am

March 11, 2012


What if you were to wake up surrounded by overturned dirt, covered in it, reeking of earth? Blond hair splayed across the moist soil, fingernails submerged beneath it, you lift your head if only to see that it all goes but lower. Holes. Everywhere. Some big enough to fit a body, others barely scratching the surface. He didn't recognize his hands. As he looked at them, dank lavender eyes drowned in confusion. The lines were filled with muck and calluses, drawing the smooth perfection into something he couldn't call his own. This wasn't him. But the more he moved--the more he squinted--the more he denied it, he knew it was true. His wings were gone. He was on Earth. Where were all the humans? Why was the sky so dark? Why were the heavens so shrouded?

Shrouded.

He carefully lifted himself up, brushing the dirt off, taking a few deep breaths filled with putrid air that didn't hurt. Humidity pushed against him, rearing its head like a mad beast slamming hooves into his core. The ravenous neigh. He swayed on his feet as if they would no longer hold him--as if he at any moment could tumble into the wrath of one of the many dug graves. One of them was his. Why he knew this, he could not comprehend. It was an inkling, for anywhere he stepped was one step closer to falling into one. There was no escape. He had surrounded himself by these many holes. Why? Did he want to fall? His vision blurred and focused--blurred and focused down to his feet. He swayed again, stumbling sideways almost into his own trap. But he didn't want to. Not anymore. When had he wanted this? He realized he was clutching his center, that it wasn't just dirt covering him. The metallic smell--the thick, sticky rivers of red spilling from the callus laughter of pain. Reveling through him, he found himself gasping for air to control the bewilderment that overtook him. He tripped and was on his knees, a clack of a weapon resounding in low ringing that deafened him. A weapon. But he was just a Watcher; for what need did he have of a weapon?

Memories.  

Sovay's scythe was at his feet. Blood littered the metal--had dripped down the handle. Fingerprints where hands had clutched it. They matched his own. Was he going to die here? From his own hands? It was one of the greatest sins. To take away this gift given by God was...was just unthinkable. But here he lay. What was he? What had he become--this wingless sinner. When had he fallen so low? Fallen...? He drearily looked up, trying to see that mishmash of sky, but there was only darkness.

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Cassadriel
戦わなきゃならないのだ

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Re: Wishing Upon Your Own Grave It Wasn't So

Post by Zeke on Fri Oct 04, 2013 10:17 am

Another nightmare. Zeke stirred some in his brief sleep. No one knew where he was or that he was even alive. The way the world looked at a deadbeat such as himself, was well.. accurate. His demonic eyes were closed and held only a show of evil faces and the memory that replayed. Her eyes. Her smile. They were smeared with blood and not just his wife's. She was long since gone. No. The person he truly cared for was the one he might never see again.

She had been so tiny then. Barely fit in his arms and there he was; just a demon painted on the picture with crimson. Just a figure that loomed there.

His breath shuddered even while asleep and such a violent motion pushed his conscious back into control. That' what he was right? Just a conscious that was barely aware of his surroundings? Bitter taste filled his mouth which slowly stirred the notion he had bitten his tongue in slumber.

Sweat on his brow was easily wiped off. The scent remained. God he felt terrible like he did everyday. Since when had he claimed that he was okay with what happened? That lie would remain a cover for the self-loathing he might never lose. It's what happen when someone lives in denial.

Softly, he let out a grunt and tugged his shirt back on. Once he had finished, he pressed his arms upward and let out something of a yawn. It felt good. The cracking of joints and the air rushing to areas that had once been still. It was then decided, that he needed to stretch out his legs.

His walk was uneventful as ever. Masquerading was easy for one monster to blend in with others. It wasn't even like he could see the world around him. He just moved in a sort of blur. Nothing really existed and the world was just as vague as pastel. Beautiful in some ways, yet at the same time it was just a blurry Hell.

His lack of attention slowly focused as things came into perspective. A man was lying on the ground and probably dead, but the strange oddity was not one to pass up. The dark-haired man crept closer, but not as quietly as he hoped. Once at the side of the creature, who looked very human to be honest, he knelt down. Those hues stared upon the form for a moment, not saying a word. Let time do the talking. It could always be a trap His mind was alert and yet showed nothing of it.

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