he watches his open palm, the way it trembles insistently with thick lines of dirt tainting his fingernails and the dulled out stain of blood over the skin of his wrist. julian use to think they were pretty, but he couldn’t see truth in that anymore. slowly, he closed his palm into a fist. outside, the trees were a shade of green so alive and beautiful, that it almost took away the suspicion of the rusty, broken up cars that were stumped around the grey cottages. a few jagged up logs were littered about too, with the body of a moth spray painted on tilted stop signs. at the corner left was the house he had picked out to loot first, only, he had gotten side tracked along the way. sat over a child’s bed, a guitar on his lap, he opened his palm again and rubbed his thumb against his fingers. then he pressed them to the strings of the instrument, and with the softest brush created a sound too gentle, cracking at the end. with a grunt, he tunes it slowly and tries for a second sound; finding a rhythm, he reached back into his memory where he could just barely make out the print of a song. when he found it in himself to sing, it was just enough to make make the splatters of blood coating the side of his face, the ocean’s worth of weight of his lover’s necklace, the dead body a feet away from his feet, the knife he had lodged into the man’s throat, and the gun laid innocently to the bedside of a long gone child, go away. i walk, he started. through the valley of the shadow of death. notes of the guitar, now perfectly in tune, reverberated in his chest. the footsteps that were next to me, have gone their separate ways. carefully, he shifts his knee. the song stayed the same. i’ve seen enough now, to know that beautiful things ━━━ a sharp breath, and he felt his eyes flutter to a close. andrew’s footsteps were catching up now, just outside the main door with a gun in his hand. and the dead man by his feet, the blood puddled up in his open hand was drying now. ━━━ … don’t always stay that way. i’ve done enough now, but his voice grew raspy. had he forgotten? to know this beautiful place, isn’t everything they say. his fingers stop over the strings, a stray sound the ending note. andrew was at the door. he looked up at the lone window inside the room instead, the patches of leaves and greenery that had managed to grow around the wood. when he did look back at the door frame, the only person he had left in this world standing by it quietly, he felt himself stiffen again, by the shoulders and by the brows, the wink of gold in his right eye disappearing somewhere it couldn’t be found. ❛❛ end of the world, is it? ❜❜
god is dead and the world is a ruination -- at least that’s the sentiment ringing true among its remaining population. fool for them, to believe god existed in the first place. hell on earth, some people called it; the apocalypse. andrew just saw it as another speed bump in his menial, eternal existence. an existence whose years seemed to always extend beyond those he’d grown familiar with. all of these people, hanging on for the rapture, expecting god to save them when he had never shown up before. probably why all of those people were buried six feet under, or walking dead.
trust ken to find a guitar among the carnage and bloodshed. trust him to interrupt the deathly silence loaded like a gun, trigger spring a mere hair's breadth away from setting off. andrew doesn’t sigh -- doesn’t do much of anything, other than trail the bloody bludgeon of his shotgun hilt along the hallway wall. the sound must alert ken of his presence, because he doesn’t bother looking up or pausing. andrew brings the gun up, the blank expression on his face a startling contrast to murder-scene around them. ken speaks, of course. always has to say something theatrical in the moments of quiet, as if poetry spilled from his throat as some kind of poor attempt to bring a resurgence of beauty into a decaying world.
‘ bang. ’ -- is his only response, pretending to shoot his companion square between the eyes. mercy is funny like that. his deadpan is perfectly in place. ‘ if you’re done having a moment, johnny cash. up. ’
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
prguitarman
gummygunk
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