[identity profile] sisterkenna.livejournal.com
I rushed to his bed when I heard and there he lay, his pale body filling his bandages with blood. The hypnotic scent filled the air but I brusquely pushed it from my mind. His pulse was faint, his skin almost as cold as mine. I whirled to see the nurse behind me. Call his family, I told her, using the Sanguine voice that came so easily to me now. I gave her their address.

I gently pulled my fingers through his fringe, combing out the knots. He had been filled with promise, that grubby little boy so keen to save his mother. Death seemed to haunt him, this poor boy. As I began to clean the blood from his face, the nurses looking at me strangely, my resolve hardened. No, I could not let him slip away. I blinked away the need to cry, concentrating on my task. His breathing was very faint, his expression drawn with pain. “Archie, I am here. Do not worry, everything will be alright. Your family will be here soon to see you and you and I are going to take a journey together. Be brave, dear, it will not be long now.” Hearing is the last sense to leave someone when they are unconscious. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw the creases in his brow smooth a little.

I continued to tidy him up until his parents arrived, his mother’s face stricken with worry. I explained as well as I could to them, not really aware of what I was saying. I left them with him, mentally preparing myself for what was to come. His father tenderly folded the sheet over his head before they left, his mother near hysterical with tears. The father thanked me for my help. Some useless words of condolence passed both ways.

I pronounced him dead then.
[identity profile] akonken.livejournal.com
They say time passes (I know they say it, but don't remember who they are or why they say it or what they mean, and still I want to go back to them), but I am passing through time, more slowly than I passed through the floor, and it is like quicksand, which isn't quick unless it is the sands of time and what is time except what I am passing through.

Countless times I've tried this, countless times to GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT NEVER COME BACK OUT OUT OUT but I never get out, I always get tired and he always follows until he finds me and takes me back to the cool cave and puts me back inside until I am cool not like a cucumber or like a customer but like something else entirely because I am something else entirely and he is something else, all right. But not this time, I think like I always think and am always wrong but not this time, no sir, this time I will GET OUT even if passing through time is so much effort and I have been here for so long that when I GET OUT I will be so old I will crumble into dust like Rip van Winkle or Lot's wife or the sand that blows in my face to get me to turn around and give up but I won't give up, I won't ever give up until I GET OUT and if I crumble into dust when I GET OUT then I won't have to see him ever again won't have to be in the dark won't be kept and can blow in the wind that's not like this wind that whispers where I am and works in cahoots with him and won't let me go.

I will GET OUT if it's the last thing I do, and it may be the last thing I do because I have been here forever and I haven't had any food or water or sleep or love except the obsessive love of the tyrant (if someone ruling only one other person is a tyrant and I say they are) who trapped me and I don't like that kind, I want the kind they gave me, the people I need to GET OUT for, the them I don't remember but can't stop thinking about, the them who should hate me but won't, and I'll give it back to them, and they'll give me food and water and sleep and they will keep me safe even if I am dust because that's love and this is bullshit and I can't stand it any more, I don't care if I'm tired this time, I don't care if I push myself like a panicked horse until I collapse and die, I have to I have to I have to and this time you can't stop me.

The land is working against me, and it isn't even being subtle about it any more; the sand's in my eyes mouth nose and throat, the wind's in my hair, the scrub is scrubbing me and I bleed and I weep and I suffocate

and

I

GET

OUT.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
Mikhail's beginning, in a classic rock stylee.

Noise )
ext_20269: (character - Carrie)
[identity profile] annwfyn.livejournal.com
What the fuck do you put in a suicide note?
"I'm sorry"? Screw that. I am not
Sorry for any of the things that I have done.
I lived my life, for good or ill.
(OK, so it was mostly for ill, as it turned out)
Still, it was my life, my choices.
Too late for regret.

So this time there won't be a note. Just a needle.
That seems appropriate, somehow.
I'll die the way I've lived these last couple of years.
I spent the rent money on smack.
Guess the landlord will have to suck it up this time
Instead of me sucking him off
And that makes me smile.

But first, a fire. To burn every photo I own.
I won't leave anything behind.
And somehow that makes it all final; this one act.
Like it's me going up in smoke
Dead before the needle even hits my forearm.
Nothing left to remember me
All gone now, dearie.

The needle doesn't even sting when it goes in.
I don't feel a thing any more.
I'm just so fucking tired; this is like sleeping -
The sleep I've been denied so long.
And man, it feels good. I don't even listen to
The banging at the front door as
'Liza breaks it down.
[identity profile] lucifermourning.livejournal.com
She had to wait until Becky fell asleep. Properly asleep, so she wouldn't see. It took a while, listening to the rise and fall of her breathing, but eventually Scarlet could wake up.

She was meticulous. Her bag was packed, everything stolen piece by piece over the months and hidden under the porch. Food, clean underwear. She didn't both with spare clothes though. She'd need to get new ones anyway, quick, or people would notice her in her long skirts.

As she crept outside, the mud squelched under her feet. But the moon was full, and she could see the way. She liked the quiet of the yard as she moved through the shadows.

Carefully, she pulled the doors open. The cows were sleepy as she opened their pens. She made sure everything was unlocked before leading them, one by one, out through the yard and into the field, then went back for the horses. They looked around, sleepy-eyed, and started wandering off.

Quick and quiet, back through the yard, into the house. Scarlet wiped the mud off her feet before returning to her own room and shaking Jane awake.

"Jane...Jane..." she whispered.

"Hmm...?" her sister answered sleepily.

"I...I heard noises...and...when I looked outside...I think some of the animals have got out..." Scarlet let her lower lip tremble, her eyes wide with fear.

Jane's reaction was exactly as expected. Decisively, she ordered her little sister to wake the rest of their siblings, and their mother, but to make sure not to disturb Papa. Scarlet nodded and followed the instructions exactly.

By the time everyone was awake and rushing about, it wasn't hard to hide unnoticed in the kitchen cupboard.

The house was oddly quiet, with just the distant sounds of people giving orders and chasing animals in the field. The floorboards creaked as she moved down the hall, but she knew how to avoid the worst ones.

It was surprisingly easy. Papa was fast asleep, so when she climbed on top of him he only just woke up long enough to register her face before she got the knife into his throat. He looked like he was trying to speak, but blood kept spilling out as he gurgled. She stuck the knife in his chest a couple times too, just to be sure.

Then she climbed down from the bed, and took the cash from under the floorboard where he kept it, because you can't trust banks.

Back to her room, clean clothes (hiding the old ones - the longer they thought she was kidnapped, the better), then the bag from under the porch.

By the time everyone came back inside, exhausted after hours of rounding up the animals, Scarlet was buying her ticket for the northbound bus, humming to herself quietly as she watched the dawn break over the cornfields.

She was fourteen years old.

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