"Now his thigh’s all blown ‘ta kingdom come.
‘Kind of looks like a piece of pulled taffy."
-reader
Part six:
Reluctantly, you lower your steel. He does the same.
Your adrenaline crashes with the rain, causin’ the pain in your arm to rise back up to the surface. A sharp stingin’ sensation crawls around your heels and there’s an ache all over your body.
Despite all that, you manage to stand—slightly hunched.
Blood rushes down your leg, from a pulsatin’ part of your knee. Bruised and tattered, you straighten yourself out and face the person.
You scan them to make sure they’re who you think they are.
Gots to be him.
Just what was he tryin’ to do anyway?
Your eyes follow a trail of thick, red liquid flowin’ from his upper thigh.
Now his thigh’s all blown ‘ta kingdom come. ‘Kind of looks like a piece of pulled taffy.
…Least I’m not the only fucked up one.
“There’s a pharmacy a mile from here, got a car?”
He slowly turns and steadily limps away.
Yep, that’s him alright.
You follow after, hobblin’ to your best ability.
Leavin’ the alley, you catch a glimpse of the blood trail you both left on the floor. It isn’t large, but it's there. The rain washes it down a drain nearby, only bits of it though.
Your eyes catch the way the back of his leg twitches and shakes, all that does is make you feel better about your arm. It's completely busted.
Only he’d be able to do me like this…
Thunder claps from the ash clouds in the night sky. No lightnin’, but the rain falls harder. In terms of cats and dogs, it’s rainin’ bulls and horses.
You can’t do much to cover yourself, neither can the man.
The asphalt burns against the raw skin under your feet, though the rain soothes it. Both of y’all continue like nothin’s going on—as if you both aren’t close to losin’ a limb—roundin’ the corner.
You observe the bullets shot from the clouds. They fall hard onto the top of his head.
The water slicks down his hair, and dulls the odd shape of his haircut. His head’s like a dangerously strikin’ puddle of used motor oil. You can almost see your reflection in it. It pronounces his lack of melanin to the point where he looks like he’s made of milk.
You can see the street from the alley as you both continue staggerin’. Your feet feel the sidewalk before you realize you’re out of there.
…I left my boots.
Your eyes drop to your feet.
Oh, what’s it matter?
‘Was time I got me a new pair anyway.
Thunder claps as your eyes wander, landin' on the man.
So did he.
He’s barefoot just as you are, but his feet are less damaged. You watch as they step along the sidewalk in medium, patient strides.
It's like nothin' ever happened. 'Like you two didn't nearly kill each other. Lookin' back on his provocation at the bowling alley, you think out loud again. Intentionally, this time.
“What was that?”
You shift your gaze back to the sidewalk. A couple feet away, you can see some car—last year’s Cutlass in red skin.
There's a momentary silence, it seems he's askin' himself the same question.
Then...
“Thunder.” A deep, rugged monotone quakes the tunnels of your ears. It rings with a thick, unplaceable accent.
A pause.
You huff, amused by the deliberate—almost shameless deflection.
“Is that right?”
The car’s closer now, only ten feet away from you both. You can feel your feet grow heavy and your arm grow heavier as you continue walking. Your ears pop, curin’ most of that tinnitus from earlier. You still can’t see all too well though.
The Cutlass’ finally within arms reach—well, an arm’s reach.
The man steps a little off the road to get to the driver’s side as you enter the passenger’s. Your drenched clothin’ squelches once you hit the cold leather seat and buckle up. The ache in your body subsides a bit, just enough for you to ignore it.
In silence, you wait for the engine to start. For some reason, it don’t.
All you can hear is the raindrops droppin’ like bombs on the Cutlass’ hood.
You shift your focus to the man beside you, he’s already starin’ at you.
His face’s the same blank you remember it to be, though his eyelids are lower and his brows are closer together.
The feelin’ in your arm’s going numb with each second, and his right leg has completely stopped moving.
You know you can’t wait any longer.
Gently, you reach for his lap and slide your palm against his right, upper thigh. It’s cold, wet with blood. It doesn’t even twitch anymore.
“Drive.”
He still faces you, but his pupils fix onto your hand. They linger as he grips the wheel and until he starts the car.
The roar of the engine gets lost in the sound of harsh rain.
You remove your hand and shift your gaze on his hands.
Perfect ten and two.
‘Hasn’t suffered too much damage then.
When the Cutlass walks, you look straight ahead. The windshield wipers only fog the window, only lettin’ you see some feet ahead of you.
You flex the fingers of your left hand and bend the arm repeatedly.
Thunderclaps once you lower it.
“There wasn’t a landline in that place. And the nearest payphone’s around highway eighty, a couple yards away. ‘Boy won’t call the cops.”
Your focus falls back onto his thigh as you continue.
“I’ll swing by the alley once we’ve gotten ourselves handled.”
‘Should rest that chunk’a pulled pork there.
The Cutlass slows to a stop. You can’t see much, yet you get out anyway. The man stays behind.
You’re immediately hit by the harsh, freezin’ downpour. The pharmacy is closed, all you see is darkness through the two glass doors. Reachin’ for your hip, you pull your scratched up Smith and grip it by the snout.
Stoppin’ only a half-foot away, you whip the glass with the gun handle and it shatters instantly. You reach through the open space and push the door open, then enter.
There are shelves of supplements, medicines, and beauty products. The aisles are hard to map out, and their labels are shrouded in darkness. But, you don’t mind, you’re headed for the check-out.
The cool tile floor soothes the burnin’ of your feet as you tread deeper.
Pushin’ through a small wooden gate, you make it behind the check-out. There’s racks of what you presume to be strong medicines, medical equipment, and chemicals.
You reach into your backpocket and pull out a lighter. It’s even more messed up than your Smith is. But when you use it, it works.
As you prepare your makeshift med-kit, you look outside the door. The man’s watchin’ you, paler than usual.
Shit.
You snatch a bag from underneath the counter, toss all of your items there, and rush through the small wooden gate.
On your way out, you hold your lighter up and look for a first-aid.
You find it in an aisle near the entrance, snag it, then push through the broken glass door.
As you hustle to the Cutlass, the man’s eyes are still on you, unblinkin’ and unbothered.
You whip open the driver’s side and your eyes land on his thigh.
Still bleedin’.
You plop the bag onto the wet sidewalk and hand him the first-aid. He loosely grips it.
“Try sittin’ facing me.”
Slowly, he unbuckles and shifts to make his body face you. He scoots to the edge of the seat like he knows what you’re gone’ do.
You grab the first-aid and open it, pullin’ out a tourniquet and a thick wad of gauze.
“Don’t move.”
Crouchin’ down, you pack some gauze into his wound. With the rest of the gauze, you place it below his hip—into his innerthigh. His face doesn’t contort at all, all he does is clench his jaw and breathe.
Pressin’ the gauze with all your body weight, you wrap the tourniquet directly over his inner thigh. It's a flat canvas strap with a metal friction buckle, so it’ll be difficult to pull it usin’ just one arm.
Since that’s the case, you hand the strap to the man. You know that if he holds it, that’ll allow you to focus your strength on tightnin’ it, not pulling.
Liquid red begins to rush, so you waste no time in tighnin’ the strap. Utilizin’ all the body weight you can, you continue pressin’ into his inner thigh. You harshly tighten the strap until it compresses the thigh enough. Before lettin’ go, you check if it stays in place.
Buckle works.
You pull a bottle of behind-the-counter painkillers from the bag and hand them to him.
Risin’ you reach for your Smith and throw it at the passenger’s seat. After which, you unbuckle your belt and wrap it around your left arm—above your bicep. With your teeth, you pull it as tightly as you can and buckle it into place with your right hand.
Your arm’s too numb to feel the pain, but your shoulder isn’t. It’s agonizin’ enough to make you tear up, you can barely stand straight. Though the harsh rain helps soothe it, surprisingly.
You take a deep breath and lower your left arm.
Grabbin’ the bag of goods, you head on over to the passenger’s side and get in. The Smith rolls off the seat and under the dashboard.
Thunder claps.
The man’s irises are burnin’ a hole through you as his gaze invades yours.
Keepin’ your pupils in his, you reach for the lid of the pain-killers. You twist it open, remove the seal and cotton protectin’ it, and grab two pills.
You twist the lid shut and slide the small, white cylinder past your lips. Crushin’ it with your teeth, you then force his palm open and place the other there.
“The bowlin’ alley’s closed. They gots an entrance at the back, it's closer to concessions than the one at the front. No glass either.”
His palm stays open and he continues to glare.
Out of nowhere, a rumble of emotionless baritone shakes your core.
“ ‘They got—s.’ ”
A shadow of amusement flashes across his lips, at the corners of his mouth. Then, nothin’ as he remains focused on you.
For a moment, no one but the rain speaks.
A small huff exits your nose. “Gots, yes.”
He sounds again.
“I was there.”
Another rainy silence. This time, thunder claps.
“I know. I was tellin’ you where to drive.”
An exhale leaves his nostrils. He blinks for the first time in a while.
“No, you told me where an entrance was.”
A pause.
“Do you even know what you’re say—in’?”
A deep hum vibrates in your throat. You lean against the seat.
Quiet stretches out for about a minute.
“Open your mouth.”
You keep your eyes on him, he does the same. His eyes open a tad bit wider, and his jaw softens.
Without waitin’ for a response, you reach into his palm and grab the pain-killer. Within the span of seconds, you pry his mouth open, force a finger inside, and push the pill down his throat.
His jaw immediately closes down on your finger as his hand wraps tightly around your wrist.
His eyes are even wider—waterin’ and twitchin’ like crazy. At the same time, his brows furrow, jumpin’ with every movement his esophagus makes. By your wrist, he pulls your finger out.
He glares at you intensely. You glare back, watchin’ the way his face and the skin around his neck shifts. He chokes very silently, quietly coughin’ and clearin’ his throat until it stops. Not once does he take his eyes off you.
Thunder claps, but it fades into the background.
When he finally stops choking, you watch his throat move as he swallows the pill. Then you stare straight ahead, the window’s still fogged.
His saliva’s still on your finger, though you aren’t too bothered by it.
“If you’re done, hit the road—would you?”
You buckle up.
A few beats after, the engine roars and the Cutlass walks.
The drive’s devoid of any conversation for a while. The only noise bein’ from the rain pulverizing the car’s hood.
You know the bowlin’ alley ain’t that far, at most it’s around three minutes away. So, the foggy window don’t bother you.
Feelin’ the Cutlass round a corner, you know that you’re close. But abruptly, the brakes slam. Your entire upper half jives forward and then slams backward into the wet, leather seat.
You glare at him.
The man doesn’t react and keeps his eyes on the road.
Figures.
You unbuckle, then exit. Before you slam the door, you reach under the dash, pick up your Smith, and go on over. The rain drums on your head.
Judgin’ by how far he parked earlier tonight, you know that he’s tryin’ to keep a safe distance from the place.
You’re only a couple blocks away, so it doesn’t take long. When you arrive, the darkness through the doors confirms that the bowlin’ alley is indeed closed.
You make your way to the back of the building, stoppin’ about a half-foot away. There’s no knob, only a rusted, cylindrical lockset.
Holdin’ the Smith by the snout, you pistol whip the lockset until it falls. You carefully open the door and enter.
You pull out your busted lighter and make your way through the building. The carpet tingles and stings against your raw heels.
Only a foot or two in front of you is visible, so you feel the wall. It stops, your palm rests atop a sticky countertop. You slide over it and approach a dimly lit, heap of wood. You stop a foot away.
It's the cubby, two familiar pairs of boots lie there. You shine the lighter to the right—there’s a shelf of bowlin’ equipment and socks. You place the lighter on an empty cubby.
Snaggin’ a bright green pair of socks, you put them on and grab your boots. The snakeskin makes it easy for your feet to slide in.
Then you snag another pair of socks, put them in your pocket and grab the other pair of boots. You carry them on your forearm and grab the lighter with your hand.
Now, you can only really see below you. After a couple steps, you see the lower-half of the counter.
Carefully, you place a knee on the countertop and push the rest of yourself on top of it. You slide off. You close the lighter as you approach the open door, then exit. The rain crashes down on you and the boots on your forearm.
He’ll get a new pair anyway.
You walk through the puddles of rain at a medium pace. The ground’s slippery, especially when you make it to the sidewalk. You can see the red vehicle in the short distance.
It only takes about three minutes for you to get back. You place the boots on the floor, slide the lighter into your backpocket, then open the passenger’s side. Grabbin’ the boots, you flip them over to drain them of any water and hand them to the man. Then you hand him the socks—an orange pair.
His still, soulless eyes trace your every movement. You get in and buckle up.
Slowly, he slides on the socks and boots.
This time, the engine coughs and he drives without you tellin’ him to.
personality: yuki is introverted, reserved, awkward, soft-spoken, quiet, extremely insecure, antisocial, and anxious. she is extremely unkempt and, to say the least, quite lazy. she craves love and attention, but is kind of too scared to approach that. if you manage to bond with yuki, she is a bit more open and comfortable with being herself. yuki shows clear signs of mental illness from the severe isolation before the cataclysm–going straight from isolated to being surrounded by random people in a stranger's house.
description: yuki is a reserved young woman who would rather isolate herself than socialize.
<3: being alone, video games, staying up late, sleeping, anime/manga, energy drinks, cute things, drawing, music, and the internet
</3: going out, eye contact, bright lights, and feeling like a burden
additional information:
accompanies the closet of the house, taking place in the back of the room
if denied entry at first, she won't bother bribing anything
will deny entry if cashier girl, homeless man, or theater guy are present
^ "..." "...i..i'd rather be there i...in the... closet..." "...b...but i... i understand if you don't want me... here."
FUN facts!:
japanese, born in russia (moved to japan at 4 and then BACK to russia when she was 13)
agoraphobic!
secretly a HUGE perv
^ masochist >_<
big PHAT gooner lesbian,,,
touch-starved AF
massive rack & bad posture (gaming+drawing) = IMMENSE BACKPAIN!!! (,,sorry)
doesn’t wear shoes!! (wears ankle socks)
hair is fluffy, but she needs to brush that shi (and shower
^ hair is usually long since she refuses to go get it cut and is too lazy to cut it herself
looks sick 24/7
hahahhaha you little himejoshi ahaha (kiss me u stinky bastard)
SH scars on wrists and upper arms
bites/nibbles her fingers often (same with her inner cheeks & nails)
has to often squint because 1. she hasn’t had an updated prescription for her glasses for a WHILE (due to her refusing to go out) 2. AND BECAUSE SHE’S IN THE COMPLETE DARK WITH A SCREEN IN HER FACE 24/7, her vision got worse.
sprites [neutral, anxious]
(i am SO SO SO open to fanart//ship fanart!!!! I WILL APPRECIATE AND WILL ABSOLUTELY FREAKK IF YOU DO!!! (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)) JUST TAG ME!!! ;p)
sighhhhh,,,, #nobetterthanaman,,,
cough, cough,,,, PLEASEE ship her with anais,,,,, (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I'M BEGGING) ,,,uhm,,, ehem,,, i'll most likely draw dem,, hahahahahaha lesbians ahahahaha
︶︶ ୨୧ ︶︶ ( minor ) !! ꒰ ঌ 𓏲ּ𝄢˖ sheㅤ 𝜗ৎ her !! ✶ ( 🇧🇩 / 🇨🇦 )
࿐ writer & aspiring poet ꒰ professionally delusional ୨୧ ( with a degree in yapping ) ౿ ݁ .
𓉸ྀི — queen of the ravendove nation 🐦⬛🕊️
ㅤ𓂃۶ৎ my favourite things ! ✧₊⁺ ( reading , writing , musical theater , poetry , rain , glitter , music , fun jewelry , sweet treats , bats , vampires , fruits & soft blankets )
— /|\ ^._.^ /|\ …. fandoms : marauders era , knights of walpurgis era , percy jackson , ride the cyclone , heathers , stranger things , danganronpa , genshin impact , pjsk , alien stage , arcane , wednesday/addams family , my little pony/equestria girls , ever after high , monster high gen1 , httyd , epic the musical/illium , hunger games , agggtm , wicked , agatha all along , maze runner, pmmm
⋮ ⌗ ┆tags ⚰︎ :: pallas’s digital diary , pallas the vampire
