11-06-2018, 12:11 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-07-2018, 05:27 PM by warlow.
Edit Reason: plague plague plague
)
She is old enough to know that when someone is coughing so hard it stains their lips in bitter red, it is bad. Old enough to know that when skin is hot and wet and stinks of rot, something must be wrong. There is so much wrong, all the wrong, and it is everywhere and so loud against a world dressed in white, a world that mocks them while they bleed and break. But the world is starting to have its own stains now, she’s seen them. Bloated bodies with mud and snow churned beneath them while they fought hard not to succumb. Rain drops of red against snow and bark and rock, spittle like liquid rubies.
She is old enough to know, that if the world cannot escape, then neither can she.
But she is too stubborn, too scared, too stupid to give in. So she runs because she knows how to do this too, knows how to run until the bottoms of her hooves aches with bruises from running over uneven ground. Until her sides have scrapes where all that soft, black fur has been rubbed away on the bark of the trees she passed too closely by, crashed against and went careening off in some new direction. Until she, a young child who should be so untouched in her newness, looks just exactly like all the other broken bodies she tries to leave behind.
Maybe, maybe if she looks like it, like this sickness that seems to slowly be claiming so many, maybe it won’t come to claim her, too. Maybe it will think she’s already sick. Already bleeding from hairless patches along her shoulders and her hips - and if she runs fast enough, the sickness won’t notice the bruises in the places. Won’t realize the only sickness she has is her own ruinous fear.
So she runs until her legs burn and her lungs wheeze, until the sun slips from the sky like a dropped coin and night comes to take her eyes from her. Until the only thing that finally, finally stops her is the immovable mass of a body much larger than hers. She collides with him, can feel the lethargy in her legs as she tries and fails to pull them beneath her, to catch herself before she stumbles and sprawls in the cold snow with an audible thud and dazed groan.
@[vulgaris] feel free to pretend she fell over a log near him if he would in fact have stepped aside :|
@[The Plague] can you make her sick pleeease?
She is old enough to know, that if the world cannot escape, then neither can she.
But she is too stubborn, too scared, too stupid to give in. So she runs because she knows how to do this too, knows how to run until the bottoms of her hooves aches with bruises from running over uneven ground. Until her sides have scrapes where all that soft, black fur has been rubbed away on the bark of the trees she passed too closely by, crashed against and went careening off in some new direction. Until she, a young child who should be so untouched in her newness, looks just exactly like all the other broken bodies she tries to leave behind.
Maybe, maybe if she looks like it, like this sickness that seems to slowly be claiming so many, maybe it won’t come to claim her, too. Maybe it will think she’s already sick. Already bleeding from hairless patches along her shoulders and her hips - and if she runs fast enough, the sickness won’t notice the bruises in the places. Won’t realize the only sickness she has is her own ruinous fear.
So she runs until her legs burn and her lungs wheeze, until the sun slips from the sky like a dropped coin and night comes to take her eyes from her. Until the only thing that finally, finally stops her is the immovable mass of a body much larger than hers. She collides with him, can feel the lethargy in her legs as she tries and fails to pull them beneath her, to catch herself before she stumbles and sprawls in the cold snow with an audible thud and dazed groan.
@[vulgaris] feel free to pretend she fell over a log near him if he would in fact have stepped aside :|
@[The Plague] can you make her sick pleeease?