03-19-2014, 07:37 PM
Blood. Blood. The body splayed on the ground was not of spirit nor demon. It was a man. With blood.
Blood that soaked through the woman's pants. Aria. She said her name was Aria.
Blood that chugged out of a fleshy red disc that was once a neck.
Jensen watched the blood pool around the body. The head rolled some distance away and came to stop with the eyes turned toward Jensen, laying with his cheek to the pavement much as Jensen himself did.
Conversation ensued. Jensen was able to sit up, but only to put his head to his knees and wrap his hands around the back of his hair. The taste of rot wet the back of his throat. His stomach heaved, and every drop of blood poured from his face. He was locked in place yet the world tilted and tossed. They were asking questions above him. Who were they? Names? His mind raced to keep up, to focus on something besides -
A gust of wind rustled sweaty hair and the sensation was too much to handle. He threw himself aside and vomited in the gutter.
So much blood; blood on his hands.
It was a wet, disgusting sound that left in a man in complete and utter vulnerability, a prisoner in an unresponsive body. Every muscle seized, his back arched, his fingers gripped, all to expel juices of half digested food, thinned by coffee and warmed by a body cavity ripped open like those children had been beneath the vulturous claws of the Old Woman.
When it was done, he wiped his chin on his sleeve and slumped back, defeated. Tony was right. 'I won't kill anyone though. Even if it means my life.' It had been mere days since their conversation, and he was already doing it.
He put his eyes to his palms, shaking.
Blood that soaked through the woman's pants. Aria. She said her name was Aria.
Blood that chugged out of a fleshy red disc that was once a neck.
Jensen watched the blood pool around the body. The head rolled some distance away and came to stop with the eyes turned toward Jensen, laying with his cheek to the pavement much as Jensen himself did.
Conversation ensued. Jensen was able to sit up, but only to put his head to his knees and wrap his hands around the back of his hair. The taste of rot wet the back of his throat. His stomach heaved, and every drop of blood poured from his face. He was locked in place yet the world tilted and tossed. They were asking questions above him. Who were they? Names? His mind raced to keep up, to focus on something besides -
A gust of wind rustled sweaty hair and the sensation was too much to handle. He threw himself aside and vomited in the gutter.
So much blood; blood on his hands.
It was a wet, disgusting sound that left in a man in complete and utter vulnerability, a prisoner in an unresponsive body. Every muscle seized, his back arched, his fingers gripped, all to expel juices of half digested food, thinned by coffee and warmed by a body cavity ripped open like those children had been beneath the vulturous claws of the Old Woman.
When it was done, he wiped his chin on his sleeve and slumped back, defeated. Tony was right. 'I won't kill anyone though. Even if it means my life.' It had been mere days since their conversation, and he was already doing it.
He put his eyes to his palms, shaking.