☩ Ben Krohn Hawkins ☩ (taravata) wrote in carnaval_logs, @ 2013-09-04 00:45:00 |
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He was face down in the dust - and memories of his withered and now long lost farm gripped his mind in a tight vice (because it was his fault because he'd resurrected his cat because he'd been unable to let go because his momma said it wasn't right because the crops wouldn't grow but it had seemed so right) and somewhere in his mind, a little light flickered on with great difficult. He was supposed to be in a damn cornfield, laying on top of the Usher, not here. Wherever 'here' was didn't matter much - because here was wrong. And he was leaking (because his father's anointed dagger had gotten away from him because the Usher had stabbed him with it after all-) and pain flared up, taking on new life in a world he knew was not his own. But similar enough still, because the sounds were familiar enough. Just not the same. It felt like far too much effort to turn around to try face something else that wasn't dirt, but he managed anyway. His legs sprawled out on the ground and when he looked down, he found his shirt stained blue. Blood, his blood. Well, fuck. That didn't look good no matter how he spun it. But if things had a way of turning out okay, he wouldn't have been anywhere near them avatars, prophecies and anointed weapons. That was a nice, sober thought right there. Ben felt proud for coming up with it. |