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Wed Dec 28, 2016 3:18 am by Sentinel

Hi all,

We're aware of a peculiar forum glitch that's causing some subforums to be locked.

Due to the lateness at this time, it might be a while before the glitch can be remedied, because despite my best efforts and as far as I can tell, everything seems to be working fine admin-side. It may have …

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*wipes sweat from brow* Whew, political correctness is a lot of hard work. But it has to be done.

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Anaphora: The Undying

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Anaphora: The Undying

Post by Captain Whitehawk on Sat Mar 25, 2017 5:20 pm

After having joined this roleplay, I got a smack to the face of how thorough and awesome everyone was, nevermind the characters -- THE CHARACTERS.  Anaphora is an amazing story and I feel blessed to be a part of it.  I know I'm something of an overly ambitious upstart but shhh ... bear with me.  Having said all that, allow me to present to thee:

i. apathy
word count: little over 2k

The worn sheets are supple beneath the weight of her body.  Underneath the whorl of her thumb she can feel the threads and the stitching.  It’s a cheap blanket made of short, knotted lengths of cotton, dyed with a color quick fading.  There are clumps in the beat mattress beneath her, pressing into her body in varying locations.  The room is dark except for the weak light coming from her open door.  She stares up at the ceiling, still and heavy.

A creak falls into the air as her door opens wider.  A tall, lean figure has stepped into the threshold, shoulders leaning up against the frame, white-blond hair iced with light.  His breath hums quietly in the air, joining the subtle noise of her’s.  Neither move.

“Cei,” he says slowly, the syllable drawn out and husky.  “This is the second day now.  Time for you to get up and eat something.”

The idea lazily turns over in her head.  But she isn’t hungry, and doesn’t care enough to move.  She shakes her head at him and closes her eyes.  Her heartbeat is a quiet thum … thum … thum under her sternum, the only sign that she is alive.  

Footsteps scuff against the floor.  A heavy weight settles on the edge of the bed to her left.  Gravity slides her down to him and her side presses against his hip.  She can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, “Would you look at that, some movement.  Skies, I thought there was a corpse lying here.”  Very funny, she thinks, drifting.  No jokes, they don’t make sense.

“Mam’s been worried sick ‘bout you,” he says, twisting to settle his leg further onto the bed. “She been asking all of us if we know something to get you moving, but we all keep saying no and her?  She goes back to turning her pretty hair gray.”

She has nothing for that.  Breathing is a chore, dragging air in and out her lungs.  And laying all that time … Mostly when she lay there she thought of nothing but maybe she remembers: turning over disappointed faces and her failures over and over again, feeling the choke in her throat as she knows just how worthless and useless she is.  They’d said it all good and clear, and she’d been watching the signs too.  Probably they could’ve said nothing and still she would’ve saw obvious like death that they’d seen good and she wasn’t it, wasn’t close.

”I’m sorry, Wynne.  We don’t want you.  Your testing is over now.”

It feels overwhelming, mainly.  Who knew how it was supposed to be but to her it feels like somebody is near stapled to her chest, dipping her ribs into her lungs so bad she can’t stretch them, numbing up her arms and legs till she can barely feel them and breathing is hard so she doesn’t try to do much.  Isn’t a need anymore either.  Maybe a couple years ago she would jump up and keep going but nowadays things don’t matter.  Talking, even to her favorites, is hard and tiring and most times she look at someone she chatting with and know real fast talking isn’t something she can do, maybe just then but probably after then, and always.  They aren’t interesting anymore, which she knows is wrong because she know she used to like them, but it's the way she thinking, way she feels, and she can’t come up with any reasons to try so she doesn’t.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get up so I could cook up some trouble,” he tells her, and his face turns back to look at her.  His lips have his grin but it’s weak and she knows he’s sad.  “Lots of plans I’ve been thinking over see, but I don’t think I can do it by myself.  Need another troublemaker to be a distraction.”

Probably hasn’t made any plans at all.  He’s got all that Inquisitor know-how he’s gotta worry about, got no time for playing like a kid.  She tilts her head to stare him in the eyes, hoping he can sense her arguments.  It’s bait and she know it, not that she minds.  In its own way it sounds interesting.  Had been a while since she and Selvyn had gotten up to some trouble.  But ever since he’d been called an official Inquisitor, he didn’t have much time for being at home, too much to do and learn.  Most times when he came home they didn’t wrestle or argue or fight, but he’d sit on the bed with her and she’d ask him questions and he’d tell her all about it, ending all the sessions with his chiding, “No telling or I’ll string you up,” and then she’d stick her tongue out and tell him no way he could catch her.  But he could now.  Makes her sad, thinking about that.  But then the care dies, and even those moments with him turn grayish.  

She hates how much of that gray is there.  Even the sweetest, most important things to her are washed in it, and she stops loving them.  Looking up into his face, she searches for the gray, looking over his features and checking for blur.  Blur is a bad sign too.  Something gray and blurry … isn’t much to look at, even harder to notice.  But his features still look crisp, if off.  He is sweet and familiar.  She feels better.

“You been lazy,” he scolds, eyebrows lowering, nose wrinkling.  “No sister of mine lays in bed all day, means she no good.”

“Damn right,” she says, coughing to make herself understandable.  “I’m shit.”

He cuffs her head, tousling her hair and throwing her short bangs over her forehead the way she doesn’t like.  “Shit talking maybe.  You just sad and tired.  Time you felt better and started doing stuff.  Can’t sleep forever, you gotta wake up.”

“Nothing to wake up to.”  Her thumb slides over the threads beneath it, feeling the make, feeling the poverty and sweat in it.  “Ever feel everything as gray?”

“No, don’t think so.”  His lips purse.  “Everything gray, little sis?  Don’t see any more color?”

“Not like that.  I know it’s there, but it doesn’t seem like it.  Everything’s …” She gestures weakly.  “Shit.  All of it.  Nothing’s good, all the same.  

“You calling me shit?” He growls, twisting over to plant a hand on either side of her, going nose to nose.  “You talk, but you no fighter.  You like sleeping all day and being useless”  A pain shoots through her, bright and hard in her chest.  She closes her eyes.  She hates his words and she hates the feel of their shared breath but she won’t move.  Moving takes effort and she has none.

“No sleeping in, Cei.”  His breath is hot and he shakes the bed with thrusts from his hands, but she doesn’t care.  He can do what he wants, but she isn’t gonna give him something to yell at.  Even you not dumb enough to yell at rocks, she thinks at him from inside her head.

He slaps her.  The sting is hot and biting.  She doesn’t move her head back after he’s moved it.  Don’t care what you do.  I’m not moving.  I’m done.  “Cei,” he drawls slowly, almost like he’d heard.  “That was a warning.  Now you got no warning.”  His hands dig into her shoulders and he throws them both off the bed.  Her shoulder hits the floor hard, and her head is wrenched back as he grabs her hair, his other hand wrench one of her arms behind her back.  But her skull is as good as numb and she can’t feel it, making it easy to twist towards the same direction he’s forcing her, and knee him in the gut.  

A slap, a punch, his shin pressing down onto her torso, bringing his full weight down on top of her.  She coughs, growls, feeling pain and tiredness and too done for this assholery.  Shoving him off, she tries to rise and escape to the quiet bed, only to feel his hands grip her hips and throw her to the floor again.

“Selvyn!  What are you doing?!” Their mam yells at them from the door.

“No sleeping anymore!”  Her arms he’s tangled backwards up into his grip, his knee pressing down into her shoulder blades, her sternum caught against the edge of the floor.  She can’t breathe, only listen to him as he yells back at mam.  “I’ll leave her alone when she fights me --” Her feet line up beneath her chest, and she pushes off to the left, digging her nails into his forearms to bring him with her.  They crash into the wall and the frame of the house shakes as they slide to the floor.  His grip is slack and she takes her nails out of him to elbow him in the throat.  Choked wheezing rings in her ears.  You started it, asshole.  Planting her heels in his belly, she pushes off him hard, sliding across the floor away from him.  She flips over to keep an eye on him, waiting for payback.

“Are you two done being five?” mam asks dryly, but her voice sounds high and whispery.

She waits for Selvyn.  He’s wincing, his eyes watching her.  One of his hands is tenderly massaging his throat, his entire body scrunched up on its side.  It comes to her now, that he could’ve done a lot more but he didn’t and she won.  That wasn’t a fight.  It was two babies trying to make some noise.  And he let it go because he wanted her to show some fight, some grit, bare her teeth and do something, anything, he just wanted her to get up, maybe get her ass kicked a little.  It makes it hurt a little more, that it was all part of his plan and not an accident, that he musta stayed up at night trying to figure out how to get her to talk back.  Days of just talking at most, now this.

“I’m six, mam,” he croaks, and mam snorts.

“Some Inquisitor you are,” she says curtly, then her shadow leaves the room.

Cei’s head rests against the floorboards, white hair falling into her eyes and she watches her brother and waits for him to talk.  And she knows that he knows, because his eyes are looking back at her’s and his neck massaging is getting slower.

“You need to be bitchier,” he says.  “You were so gentle I thought maybe you thought I was Amos.”

She snorts and sticks her tongue out at him.  There’s no way he doesn’t know she doesn’t care about him, even if they are married, he never mattered, not once.  “He a space filler,” she says.  “And you’re fake.”

“What?  What did I say that made you think that?”  He looks hurt, which makes her feel worse, but she said it so now she gotta own up to it.

“You started a fight just to make me fight back.”

“You weren’t gonna fight even if you wanted to.”  After sliding a hand under his head to hold it up, his eyes drop to the floorboards.  He sighs.  “I miss you.  No one around to annoy the hell outta me.”

“So that’s why you being a dick.”  But she’s melting inside.  What an ass.  What a sweet, wonderful brother.

A wide grin stretches across his face.  “What can I say?  Too much free time and it all builds up.”

“Need you a wife to keep you down, somebody who know she got a reject but stays for the sister-in-law.”

“Need me a sister to beat me down,” he retorts, eyebrows raising at her.  Then he sees the look on her face, stops, licks his lips.  He reaches a hand out to her across the floorboards, palm up and open.  “Hey, it’ll be okay.  You’ll figure this out.  Just gotta get up and keep going, yeah?”

She knows a request for a hand when she sees it so she stretches out her’s, grabbing his fingers and pulling herself closer so she can thread her fingers through his.  There’s that tight, muscular feel to his palm that she knows as he squeezes her hand, that bony leanness in his fingers as they drum over her knuckles. “You’ll get better,” he says again.

The thought hits her and takes over.  Weariness sinks back in and takes its seat next to where caring used to be.  There’s a thump that rings in her ears as she drops her head to the floor again, feeling the cold floor against her skin and thinking it must be just as dead and still as her.  “I don’t think so,” she tells him, knowing it.


Last edited by Captain Whitehawk on Fri Mar 31, 2017 8:15 pm; edited 5 times in total
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Captain Whitehawk
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Join date : 2016-12-04
Posts : 199
Age : 18
Location : Mentally in Nestea

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Re: Anaphora: The Undying

Post by Captain Whitehawk on Sat Mar 25, 2017 9:10 pm

ii. knives
word count: unknown

being written
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Join date : 2016-12-04
Posts : 199
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Location : Mentally in Nestea

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Re: Anaphora: The Undying

Post by Captain Whitehawk on Fri Mar 31, 2017 5:52 pm

iii. mishap
word count: 3.7k

It’s hot and sweat is sticky down my back, on my forehead, behind my ears, at my nape.  The roar of the water mill from the next room over and the growly whirr of the electrical generator next to it, form an ugly white noise with the gurgling boiler.  Steam goes up in plumes from the pipeline’s holes, and it just about burns me every time I’m not oh so careful.  I rip off another piece of scrap from the fabric scrap band on my arm, find the break again, and tie it off as tightly as I can before ripping off another scrap and doing it again.

Aw hell.  The next leaks are higher up the maze of pipes and I know it because I’ve burned myself there before but it’ll take higher water pressure before I can actually see it.  I scramble down to the gears, turn a stubborn wheel with a wrench, then dash back to the ladder.  The steps are greasy from my hands, and I don’t like the feel of it.  But if I can just keep a hand locked on one of them I think I’ll be okay.

I’m leaning off the ladder, tying down an annoying blip of a break when I hear Sven screaming from the other room, and a strained, gurgling groan that sounds strangely like wood breaking.  He’s pretty blank normally, so must mean he got himself killed this time.  I tug on the knot, make sure it’s tight, then slide down the ladder and run to the other room.

It’s louder in this room, a lot louder.  The factory sits fat and wide and ugly right next to the river, which makes it self-supplied because the water mill provides all the electricity but it also means that along with all the maintenance all the normal stuff, somebody has to take care of the water mill and the generator.  Normally, that would be Sven -- and me sometimes, but mostly he can take care of it himself.

This time there is no Sven.  Or at least, that’s what I think, till I hear him screaming again and I see him standing at the window to the water mill’s heavy, gunk-covered wooden fins, and the obstruction caught in them that’s captured his attention.

I run to him and -- skies that’s some bad shit right there.  The fins themselves, while in serious need of a cleaning because it looks disgusting, would be totally fine.  Or at least, it would be, had not nothing short of a small boulder got caught in it.

It’s broken and more long than tall, and its somehow managed to wedge its irregular, layered self into the one problem space that Sven and I had identified so far.  Yeah, sometimes things got caught there.  But usually they were little things that could be kicked out of place and then the mill got started right up again no problem.  There was that one time that a very dead body somehow got caught in the mill, but a few broken bones, a little elbow grease and a few bad jokes later our friend Rodger was gone and that was the end of it.  This however, is clearly a much bigger issue.

“HELP!  Cei, it’s stuck!”  He’s pointing at it, metal rod wedged under the rock, trying to pull down on it to push it out but -- I can see the strain in his body and the bend in the rod.  What he’s doing won’t be able to take care of it.  Not alone at least.

I walk towards it then, stutter and stop.  I don’t want to go near it, really.  Not if I don’t have to.  Maybe I can just tell him what to do?  The water mill has always sca--

NO.  YOU ARE NOT SCARED.  YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN SCARED ONCE IN YOUR LIFE.  THIS ROCK IS AN OBSTACLE YOU WILL OVERCOME.  YOU NEED NOTHING BUT YOURSELF.  SVEN DOES NOT MATTER.  THIS IS YOUR TASK.

“Sven!” I find myself barking at him, yelling at him, fists tight and I’m -- angry.  ANGRY.  I’m so angry right now.  Like I could murder the brunette moron in front of me if he didn’t do what I said right now. “BACK OFF!  I’ll handle it!”

He jerks, hands tensing on the rod, then shakily backs off from it.  The rod stays put, wobbling in place with its other end trapped with the rock.  I grab it, heave, and -- no, no, this won’t work, I take a tight hold of it and heave it out backwards instead.  It comes out with a metallic shudder, and the rock is caught temporarily off balance, then the force of the fins force it down and it skeeters to the side a little, its position switching before it traps itself again, and the same painful, screeching groan from before starts up again.

I toss the rod to the side and it clangs against the concrete.  There’s a crack forming along the side of this boulder, I can see it.  It’s started up along the sides, reaching for the rock’s middle.  If I can just shift it here and there a little, the pressure will continue, the stone will break, and it’ll all be sent down the river fast as Rodger.  I draw closer to the stalled fins, then drop to my knees and slide forward on my shins.  The bottom half of the rock is more of an indent, it reaches farther back into the rock than the top half, so there’s several inches of gap between the top and bottom half, I’d be reaching my forearm down into the rock to try and push it out, and as I picture it I see danger, the chances for getting hurt, pain, pain -- I don’t want to do this, it’s dangerous, I’m going to get hurt -- I’m choked with the possibility, I feel it stop my heart in my chest as I freeze up and all I can see is my mangled body getting thrown down into the fins and then down the --

I AM STRONG.  I AM DEATH.  I CANNOT BE HURT AND THERE IS NOTHING IN MY WAY.  I CAN DO ANYTHING, BE ANYTHING, SURVIVE ANYTHING.  My hand is pressed up under the lip of the rock, pressing against the hairline cracks with my fingertips, willing it to break, crack, and snap.  I can hear yelling in the background, the icy chill of the water swept floor beneath me, the humidity and mixed hot and cold in the air.  Murky river mud smells float into my nose, along with my sweat, Sven’s sweat, the boiler room fumes.

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED.  I WILL SURVIVE.  I WILL FIGHT.   WEAKNESS IS BEYOND ME.  THE WORLD SITS ON MY FINGERTIPS.  A shudder from the rock.  I could feel the cracks widening, chips of rock sputtering, splintering.  One of Sven’s hand is locked on my shoulder, his fingers digging into my muscles and pulling at me.  I shake him off.  Just one more little push --

There’s a vicious snap.  The world flares up in white and I am yanked forward.  Unspeakable pain lances up my wrist, my arm, my shoulder, my neck, my brain.  I am caught, trapped, snared.  There is yelling groaning screaming noise noise NOISE -- the taste of blood in my throat on my tongue burrowed in my nose filling my brain my throat feels so incredibly raw --

A pop, a snap, a scream.  I am tossed to the ground, I fall back, feel my shoulder blades, hips take the shock then my elbow hits and I see black and white, black and white --

I come back, but only to noise.  “... I’ll get … skies I’m … you’ll be … come back … be back …”  There is a thick cloud between me and the world, a black scream ringing through the air.  I hear static-like fuzz all around me, an inescapable noise.  No matter how much I try to feel, I don’t have my body.  I lay in oblivion.

Slowly, my senses come back to me.  My hearing first, as I pick out the dull roar of water hitting the fins, the hiss of the boiler far away, the churning grind of the generator behind me.  Then smell, blood and water and boiler gas, and I’m tasting stale spit across my tongue.  My back is drenched through with icy water, I feel next, and then all my body returns to me with pain.  Not everywhere, just … my arm…  I can’t bring myself to move, not even a shift or twitch.  But my head is laying on its side and I … open my eyes…

I can’t see anything at first.  It’s black fuzz and obscure, unsure shapes that mean nothing to me.  Then I pick up light, sort out the dark, and color drips in to fill the blanks.  Shapes fill in and I see the floor, the dark shadows in the corners, the wheel churning and gushing water and … my arm.

Strips of red and pink muscle lie in tatters around splintered, cracked bone.  I can see my hand and its still fingers at the end of it, but my skin is hanging in tatters, barely hanging together but for the isolated hunks of muscle still clinging to me.  The water beneath it is tinged in blood, and what I still feel of my right arm is throbbing painfully in time with my heartbeat, slow and ponderous.  I stare at it and want to vomit, but I can’t move and I don’t dare trying.

Closing my eyes, I lay there on the ground.  My body starts to shiver, soon against my will because every quake jostles my arm and it hurts like a bitch.  I’m feeling hungry, really, really hungry, which sucks because I just destroyed my arm and I don’t want to get up.  But the mental fuzziness has left me.  Strangely, everything is feeling clearer and clearer by the second.

I lay there for perhaps … ten, fifteen minutes maybe.  My broken, mangled arm has been itching madly for the entirety of it and I’d been trying to ignore it for as best I can, trying to focus instead on how I would explain to Selvyn, to Glyn and my parents about this new problem that I’m the source of.  What could I do one-handed?  And then I realize … nothing.  No one would allow someone like me to work.  I’d be sent to a camp, and then --

A vicious stab of hunger interrupts me.  Skies, what the hell is wrong with my belly now?!  I’d eaten breakfast, was waiting on dinner later tonight, and it was too hungry to be this murderously hungry.  
Of course it takes me too long to figure it out.  Itching, hunger -- I look and … SHIT!

The bones of my arm that had been lopsided and smashed into tiny little bits have solidified and reformed into a straight white line, and the tangled muscle and flesh … they’ve all slowly collected themselves, adhering to the bone and reattaching themselves to each other.  My forearm was remaking itself.

I want to scream in horror.  Of course of course of COURSE I should have figured it out, should have realized that knife cuts and mangled arms aren’t that far away from each other.  Little cut, being maimed, it was all the same, right?  My stomach flops over itself then gets caught on its own hunger and the force of it shakes up my body like physical pain.

Not using my mangled -- bad -- being fixed arm, I rise to my feet.  I’m steadier on my feet than I should be.  Taking a step, then another, I sense the shakiness in my bones but now it’s just shock.  Walking will be fine.  Slowly, I walk out of the generator room then look back, on a whim.  There’s a puddle of watery blood where I’d been lying.  I think I even see pieces of myself lying there.

The world spins and swirls and I -- blink, vomit inside my mouth, swallow it down, then keep walking.  The boiler room … looks just like I left it.  Except I can see the pressure gauge and the needle is sitting between two and three which is too high.  I walk myself over to it, use my good hand and crank it to the left, leaning my weight into it.  The needle slowly starts falling back between one and two.  That’s better.

There’s the crash of footfalls and the burning scent of rubber soles against hard concrete, and I see Sven come running towards me and the boiler.  He sees me and stops short, face pale as death and eyes wide.  But the figure that’s clambering after him on the metal walkways, red robes swishing, does not.

I’m rooted where I stand, and when Selvyn’s hazel eyes rise from where he’s stepping to scan the boiler, and he sees me standing there, I lose my breath.  His eyes are locked on my bloodied, healing arm.  I don’t know who looks more shocked and mortified, Sven or Selvyn.  Me, I just stand there.  There’s not a part of me that knows what to do.  I want to die.

But I won’t.  And I never will.  Nothing can stop me.  Nobody can hurt me.  I am in control of my situations.  The itch in my arm is a relief, a blessing.  Its pains are just a reminder that I am a conqueror, destined to win.  I step forward towards them, one after the other.  The sound of my footfalls is too loud in my ears.  First I look towards Sven but -- he looks like he’s seen a ghost.  My eyes run to my brother instead, searching for help, love, an “it’s okay,” anything.

And in his eyes I only find resolve and disgust.

My intention had just been to pass between them and walk out, but Selvyn storms towards me, goes to grab my right arm, the mangled one, then recoils from the bloodied, damaged skin and muscle and seizes my left wrist instead.  I’m yanked towards him, lurched onto the tip of my toes as he holds my wrist farther and farther up.  A yelp bursts from my lips as my other arm is jostled and I gasp, trying to keep my balance so as not to hurt anymore.

Selvyn is looking down his nose at me, our faces mere inches from each other.  His lips are a thin tight line, his eyes dark, his jaw clenched.  The grip he has on my wrist is tight, unrelenting. “Selvyn,” I say, trying to break through that stare and to the person behind them.  “Selvyn, I --”

“Thank you, Sven,” he barks over me, looking past me to the man standing there.  “You’ve been very helpful.  I know this wasn’t your original intention, but she’s clearly too much an aberration to leave here.  I’m sure the Inquisition will be very interested in her …”  He looks down at me.  I’m gaping at him, unable to understand what’s coming out of his mouth.  “Condition.”

He drags me away.  I am forced up the stairs, across the walkways and through the hallways and out of the textile factory.  Screams, sobs, and pleas all escape me at one time or another.  I am so hurt and stunned at this strange monster that crept out of him.  The itching in my arm, the gnawing hunger in my belly, the throbbing in my forearm were miserable enough without him to add to my agony.  I beg him to take me home, to let me go, to do anything, just -- “P-Please Selvyn, please help me!”

This was not the first of my many tries, but this one is different, it would seem.  He’d been dragging me through allies to the tiny little office I know he kept with another, more senior officer, and hearing this, stopped completely, shoulders stiff.  Finally, a chance, he’s listening to me, he’s listening to me --  “It was an accident!” I’m trying to explain as fast as I can.  “A boulder got caught in the f-fins and I was trying to --”

White wracks my vision as he backhands me.  Staggered, I sway, trying to find my feet through the swirling sense of gravity in my brain.  Gray-green, weedy grass crunches beneath my shoes, I feel the steadiness of the earth, and start to straighten.  Tears have begun to slide down my cheeks.  I look my brother firmly in the eye.

“What the hell is this?” There’s a foot between us, and he is glaring death into me before looking at my arm, one of his long fingers pointing at it.  “You think this some kinda game?  You cook up bullshit while I’m gone, I come back and you a damn freak!” His fists are clenched, and I wait for a hit.  Looks like he was planning one too, because he shifts forward to make one and then … stops.  His hands drop to his side.  “But as an Inquisitor …” Standing taller, he relaxes, hands loosening, shoulders unwinding.  “It’s my duty to turn dangerous deviants like you in.  Provided you comply with their requests, your torture will be …” His mouth twists.  “Minimal.  Come with me now, m’am.”  From the ends of his sleeves reaches out a long hand for my wrist.

As hard as I can, I kick the bastard in the groin.  There’s a fire seething in me, and as he slowly crumples down, I think I hate him.  Just to prove something to myself and to him I kick him in the ribs once, twice, three times.  I can hear his shaken breath as it rattles out of his lungs, the way he grunts as my kicks land, and know I’ve done well.  With the back of my foot I hit his chin up so he’ll stop eating dirt and look up at me, see my face and know my wrath.  I lower the edge of my foot up against his throat, pressing back his jaw and pushing his head back into the dirt.  He’s not fighting back.  Only a moron would be ignorant of the damage a foot going through a neck could do.

I glare down at him.  “Track me?  You die.  Hurt me again, I make it slow.  You a shitty backstabber, Sel.  I hope a whore rips your dick off.”  Shifting some of my weight forward, I press down on his throat, just a bit, just to let him feel death.  Because that’s exactly what I am.  Death.

Then I run.  I run from him and I run because I have to and soon I’m running because the pushing off of my feet against the earth feels like power, and though every footstep jars my arm, I can feel it healing, and I know just how much strength I have in me.  I can’t be killed.  The promise feels like peace.

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| Anaphora: O, Absalom ... | Anaphora: The Undying | Anaphora: Mischief Managed |
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Captain Whitehawk
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Join date : 2016-12-04
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Age : 18
Location : Mentally in Nestea

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