camxliia
His veins resonate blue hue, pallid arms and sunken eyes slipping with the tune. They’re pluck’d with nails of steel. He drags his hand down his face, and rolls his sleeves back. Black shirt, back of it, pressed to the soil. Soil, wet and clinging. He recalls having his arms wrapped around a stiff, neck of prismarine with a smile on his face. Memories flood him, flood him like the blood of the lamb. Does he remember the first dance? Would he look fondly upon our first kiss? Am I nothing but a pawn in his game? The answers aren’t clear. The only answer he has is through the flood. Shadows appear all around him, engulfing his flesh--eating him alive. Illusions of imminent end. One shadow, one singular shadow breaks them apart, and he can’t see it; he can’t hear, for a short moment. Life has been so bleak, filled with the lies of finely forged comfort. His mother’s bed felt so much nicer than his own, with her body shoved under the box springs. Carnage made the room smell like rot, but he pretended it was the smell of his bones. He thinks on it, thinks that, maybe, leaving home again was all for naught. All he can hear, for a moment, is the bells ringing in the back of his mind. He’d ring a bell for breakfast, lunch, dinner. To have his bath run. This traveling was a bad idea. Shadow’s clear now, his heart is throbbing. “Kano-hyung?”
