grahamfrost (grahamfrost) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-10-07 00:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2018 [10] october, graham frost, olivia jensen |
who: Graham, Olivia, and maybe Cal?
what: Graham's apparent death wish
when: 10/2, early morning
I remember, we were flying low,
And hit something in the air...
Laying here, looking at the ceiling,
Someone lays a sheet across my chest.
Something warm is flowing down my fingers
Pain is flowing all through my back.
I try to move my arm and there's no feeling
And when I look, I see there's nothing there.
The face beside me stopped it's holy bleeding
The girl I knew has such a distant stare
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I know we laughed about it over the holidays, but after the hassle it was to catch this flight only to be redirected to another airport to--HOPEFULLY catch another flight to the UK-- maybe I SHOULD look into getting a private jet.
Okay, alright, so I'd have to make a few more apps and games, but maybe I could start my own company in London. Especially since things seem to be falling apart in the States.
I could definitely see you more often. Which reminds me, once I get in, maybe we could grab a bite? Or a drink?
I think it's juuuust about time for curtain, there, so many a broken leg to you. Tell my mum hello. I told her I was trying to catch a flight home.
It's not been easy, but I think I'm finally on my way. I'll give you a proper hello when I see you.
Graham
Send.
Sighing, Graham reached up to loosen his tie more as he closed his laptop with the other hand. Frowning some, he gave a bit of a look around and then back over toward the gentleman in the seat beside him. Was he the only one that felt like it was burning up in the cabin? It was stuffy. The air was thick, almost like he couldn't breathe.
That's when he felt the sharp pain in his arm, and he brought the other up to hold at it. Fuck. What was that? wincing, the pain almost had him doubled over. Was it a heart attack? That was just what he needed. He was only 34. He went for morning runs! He ate healthy! Never mind that his dad had died of heart failure. It ran in the family didn't it? If he was going to die, that was the way that he was going to go. "Agh," he reached for the button to call the flight attendant.
His chest was fine. He just, you know, maybe felt like he couldn't breath. And his arm was in horrible pain. Nope. No, there it was, gasping, he reached to clutch at his chest-- and that was when he woke up.
The pain in his arm was not from a heart attack, but rather the man beside him, chewing on it.
And the burning debris and god knows what else was what was making the air thick and hard to breathe.
No, no, no... No, this wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to be in London. He was supposed to go home.
Reaching up to slug the man square in the nose, Graham pulled his arm away, "what the fuck, mate‽" he supposed it could have been worse-- the guy had had to chew through his jacket and dress shirt.. But still. Had Graham not been paying attention to the televisions all over the airport before he boarded the last plane, he wouldn't have even been aware of people eating other people. But Jesus, he thought he had escaped all of that!!
Glancing downward- or upward, rather, he scrunched up his nose, realizing that they were literally hanging upside down. "Fuck me," he pushed the guy off of his arm again, and reached for the buckle on his seat belt, undoing it and falling less than gracefully.
When he hit the ground, it knocked the air out of him, and he quickly sat up, gasping for air again.
Graham reached for his chest as he opened his eyes, fighting to get air back into his lungs as he attempted to raise up a little to look around. Where the fuck was he??
Was he dead? Did he die? Jesus, he was dead!
Pulling his hand away from his chest, he looked down at it, at the blood on his fingers. His breath was shaky, and he honestly didn't know what had happened. Not at the moment anyway. Setting his hand back to his chest, he felt around-- nothing. His brows furrowed and he glanced down as best as he could, his hand feeling it's way up to his shoulder. That's where it hurt. His arm. His shoulder.
"Fuck," he breathed and flopped back against whatever surface he was laying on. He lifted his eyes up toward the sky, and that was about the time that he heard the snarling and drooling in his ear.
His eyes fluttered shut and he turned enough to glance over his shoulder toward the sound, toward the brush of the decaying fingertips attempting to claw at his shirt.
Where was he? And was this another dream? Wincing again, he turned to lift his eyes back up toward the Orange-y grey clouds that covered the sky. He wasn't home. He was still in Austin. With the toxic clouds.
Maybe he should just let the zombie get him. Or had he already? Why was he bleeding? Why was he covered in blood? Was it his own blood? Letting his eyes close again, he made another noise of discomfort as he moved enough to pull his arm out of the zombie's reach.
Graham had managed to find his way on top of a dumpster. In an alley somewhere between the Capitol and the La Quinta, apparently. Was he shot? Yes, he'd been hit by a bullet or two. Was it like Bonnie and Clyde? No. There was a bullet in his shoulder. Or his clavicle to be more precise. It had missed all serious arteries, so he was lucky. And he hadn't even noticed the place where a bullet had gone clean through his thigh, yet.
Yes. He should just let that zombie get him. He'd get the job done much quicker. It was like he had a bloody death wish.
Who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to have a shoot out with a hail storm of bullets at 9:30 in the fucking morning anyway?? What was this? The old west??
No, it was the fucking apocalypse. That was like, a million times worse.