TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.
A breath. Hollow whisper of wind across the exposed back of his neck. Shirt torn, ripped along ribs, bloodied. Teeth marks pulled through fabric.Pants damaged near the lower hems, shredded. Holes and tears, muddied. Dirty, smeared in dust and crushed woodland debris. No shoes, feet bare but not badly damaged. Probably lost somewhere between running for his life and here. Deposited, a lump of living flesh and bone cast across a bench at the back of the temple.
So typical, really, that Michael would end up in a most H A T E D place. The gods were false, powerful beings who believed they had the right to determine who gained fortune and who didn’t. Who died, who lived. Treated those ‘below them’ as play things, little toys to fiddle with when they became bored.
It can be said with great certainty that he didn’t favor any deities at all. Had no desire to think of them, to consider their power or their place in this world. His favorite quip in regards to anyone who pressed their importance generally always
Sometimes, though, he chose something more colorful, words spilled from snarled lips on his worst days. Savage, sarcasm-drenched syllables meant to hurt.
In this very moment in time, however, he hadn’t the energy for either. Felt the weight of exhausted limbs, muscles aching from being pushed too hard and too long. No current recollection of what had happened or why. He was there, he was in pain, he was alive (unfortunately). That was all he knew, which was more than he WANTED to know. Would much rather be 6 feet underground, buried and at peace where no one could fucking bother him again. ‘Bother’ meaning existing. Breathing. Thinking. Generally being alive in the same place as him.
Trust me, he’d slit his own throat and do himself the favor if he believed he deserved it. But, he didn’t. Couldn’t find any reasons why he had, or ever would, earn that kind of peace.
c l u n k
His shoulder shifted, sent a small rock and some pebbles to the floor. The sound jarred him into deeper awareness. He sat up, shifted a heel and sent more debris off the bench, reverberating through the space. Echoing within tall ceilings and ancient walls. The flutter of motion, a sound of skin moving in fabric within several feet of his position.
Michael became very, very still. Only listened, was acutely aware of his injured right forearm and the fresh bandages there. How deep the wound was, how he would have to compensate for it if he needed a way out. He’d avoid a fight if he could, as much as his pounding, aggression-filled heart would rather instigate one. And, as far as how he was there, why… that would come later if he managed to get out of here in one piece.
Either way, whoever was here with him knew of his presence; hiding would offer no advantage.
Go slow. Go easy. His head rang, ears humming. A sharp pinch at the front of his skull. The taste of blood when he lifted himself into a seated position; someone – or something – had cracked him good. A focus again on his arm, on the bandages. How new they were, confusion rolling like nausea. Not his doing, and the material was clean. Tidy. Not as dirty or as bloodied as the rest of him. The idea that someone might have brought him here purposefully to help him didn’t even whisper its possibility. Whoever had done this had a reason. They were playing with him, maybe it was the god’s way of twisting that proverbial knife in his heart deeper.
A picture of where he was began to come to him. Horns just ahead of him, someone there on a pew. A brief glance back showed him doors into what he could only discern as an infirmary. Somewhere Michael would never go on his own unless truly desperate.
“You gonna finish the job or play with me some more. Promise I’m a lot more fun when I’m awake.” Sassy, sarcastic snark, uncoordinated speech. Slightly slurred, a threat in there somewhere or maybe just an attempt to keep whoever was in here with him at bay.
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
So typical, really, that Michael would end up in a most H A T E D place. The gods were false, powerful beings who believed they had the right to determine who gained fortune and who didn’t. Who died, who lived. Treated those ‘below them’ as play things, little toys to fiddle with when they became bored.
It can be said with great certainty that he didn’t favor any deities at all. Had no desire to think of them, to consider their power or their place in this world. His favorite quip in regards to anyone who pressed their importance generally always
EAT MY A S S
Sometimes, though, he chose something more colorful, words spilled from snarled lips on his worst days. Savage, sarcasm-drenched syllables meant to hurt.
In this very moment in time, however, he hadn’t the energy for either. Felt the weight of exhausted limbs, muscles aching from being pushed too hard and too long. No current recollection of what had happened or why. He was there, he was in pain, he was alive (unfortunately). That was all he knew, which was more than he WANTED to know. Would much rather be 6 feet underground, buried and at peace where no one could fucking bother him again. ‘Bother’ meaning existing. Breathing. Thinking. Generally being alive in the same place as him.
Trust me, he’d slit his own throat and do himself the favor if he believed he deserved it. But, he didn’t. Couldn’t find any reasons why he had, or ever would, earn that kind of peace.
c l u n k
His shoulder shifted, sent a small rock and some pebbles to the floor. The sound jarred him into deeper awareness. He sat up, shifted a heel and sent more debris off the bench, reverberating through the space. Echoing within tall ceilings and ancient walls. The flutter of motion, a sound of skin moving in fabric within several feet of his position.
Michael became very, very still. Only listened, was acutely aware of his injured right forearm and the fresh bandages there. How deep the wound was, how he would have to compensate for it if he needed a way out. He’d avoid a fight if he could, as much as his pounding, aggression-filled heart would rather instigate one. And, as far as how he was there, why… that would come later if he managed to get out of here in one piece.
Either way, whoever was here with him knew of his presence; hiding would offer no advantage.
Go slow. Go easy. His head rang, ears humming. A sharp pinch at the front of his skull. The taste of blood when he lifted himself into a seated position; someone – or something – had cracked him good. A focus again on his arm, on the bandages. How new they were, confusion rolling like nausea. Not his doing, and the material was clean. Tidy. Not as dirty or as bloodied as the rest of him. The idea that someone might have brought him here purposefully to help him didn’t even whisper its possibility. Whoever had done this had a reason. They were playing with him, maybe it was the god’s way of twisting that proverbial knife in his heart deeper.
A picture of where he was began to come to him. Horns just ahead of him, someone there on a pew. A brief glance back showed him doors into what he could only discern as an infirmary. Somewhere Michael would never go on his own unless truly desperate.
“You gonna finish the job or play with me some more. Promise I’m a lot more fun when I’m awake.” Sassy, sarcastic snark, uncoordinated speech. Slightly slurred, a threat in there somewhere or maybe just an attempt to keep whoever was in here with him at bay.
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
