Imagery Attempt
Ehn. Trying to work on imagery. Lots of run-on sentences, but that was partly intentional. Kinda. I dunno. o_O I mean, run-on sentences are bad, but without them my imagery kinda just fails. ;-;
Dying Like the Crimson In the Sky
Her hair flows, long and silky, a flaming red like the blood that bubbles and dribbles out of her mouth and down his legs, mingling with the blue fabric and staining it a deep purple that he knows will never able to be cleansed out.
Her breath hitches and she begins to cough once more, chest heaving in such a jerky fashion he's not sure if she's actually struggling to breath or if he's just imagining it, like he imagines dark splotches in his vision every night as invisible razor-sharp teeth tear into his neck with the reminder that he will never ever recover from the memories of the war; this war which scarred every single one of them with a sadistic smile, this war which colored everything with light burning so bright that the world turned blind and dark, this war which manages to rape them one last time, lancing through her fluttering heart with the noiseless deadly swoosh like the utter efficiency of a rapier.
Her head lolls from his left leg to his right leg, and he caresses her halo of red hair worriedly, absently. In his mind he is reaching his hand into a ring of fire, and the fire is licking at his hand, then devouring him with a hungriness he has never had to experience. He is reaching for something, but it is gone already, ashes mingled into the cackling flames that scream at him, too late, too late, and there are salty ice tears that leak from frozen ice eyes.
He doesn't know when he began to imagine so vividly.
His fingers which once used to be delicate flute-player fingers but are now thick and calleoused from fighting trail down her neck and tap the individual bones on her spine. They seem so small squished between his fingers - he could snap her neck so easily, and before he knows it she's whimpering in agony and an electric jolt courses through him as he realizes that he's enjoying it. It sounds like music to his ears.
Her body seems illuminated through his blurred vision and he can see nothing else, not the fading red in the sky that matches her brilliant hair, not the wind that howls like wolves being torn asunder, not the earth that drinks greedily at the rich substance that continues pooling out of her. He sees none of this even though he's seen so much, and his eyes rivet on her neck where a dark purple bruise is forming, unwashable like the stains on his breeches, another mark to complement all the other ones that dot her body in a spidery map that comes more easy to his mind than the lullaby his father sang to him, played incessantly on his mahogany flute when he thought his father had died. His father is dead now.
A fond smile that is unseemly on his face and yet hauntingly beautiful all the same touches his face as he thinks of the happy memories associated with the flame-haired girl dying in his lap. Fiery, spunky, emotional, insane, happy-go-lucky... he's almost astonished to find the word fragile among there, for he'd never once thought of her as fragile before.
But the word lies before him, as his tears splash over her pointed face and continue down her tear tracks, and it looks like she is crying. Perhaps she is.
Mia told him there was no way to heal wounds so deep, not even with the healing waters of Imil, (as if they had time) and she wasn't just talking about the gaping hole in her stomach that funneled out her lifeblood either.
He still can't believe that she could be so easily killed by an angry Proxian; it was simply not possible, but the word fragile surfaces to his mind again, mocking him with the savagery that he feels within him now. Or would, if his emotions hadn't turned to stone, like the dull immovable earth that he serves.
This is Jenna, he thinks, who fought so fiercly for a cause that wasn't hers and was admired so widely; this is Jenna, who was his friend before he had any other friends; this is Jenna, who sparkled so much and was so alive that there was no possible way she could die before the world had ended.
In this moment there is no Isaac the leader, there is no Jenna the loyal friend-who-was-much-more, there is no alchemy, no Weyard, no life, no death. There is simply Jenna, and Isaac.
This is Jenna who is dying.
Isaac can't remember how to breath.
I am quite proud that I did not use the word love a single time in there. I guess it turned out alright - at least I'm not disappointed with it, anyway.
Dying Like the Crimson In the Sky
Her hair flows, long and silky, a flaming red like the blood that bubbles and dribbles out of her mouth and down his legs, mingling with the blue fabric and staining it a deep purple that he knows will never able to be cleansed out.
Her breath hitches and she begins to cough once more, chest heaving in such a jerky fashion he's not sure if she's actually struggling to breath or if he's just imagining it, like he imagines dark splotches in his vision every night as invisible razor-sharp teeth tear into his neck with the reminder that he will never ever recover from the memories of the war; this war which scarred every single one of them with a sadistic smile, this war which colored everything with light burning so bright that the world turned blind and dark, this war which manages to rape them one last time, lancing through her fluttering heart with the noiseless deadly swoosh like the utter efficiency of a rapier.
Her head lolls from his left leg to his right leg, and he caresses her halo of red hair worriedly, absently. In his mind he is reaching his hand into a ring of fire, and the fire is licking at his hand, then devouring him with a hungriness he has never had to experience. He is reaching for something, but it is gone already, ashes mingled into the cackling flames that scream at him, too late, too late, and there are salty ice tears that leak from frozen ice eyes.
He doesn't know when he began to imagine so vividly.
His fingers which once used to be delicate flute-player fingers but are now thick and calleoused from fighting trail down her neck and tap the individual bones on her spine. They seem so small squished between his fingers - he could snap her neck so easily, and before he knows it she's whimpering in agony and an electric jolt courses through him as he realizes that he's enjoying it. It sounds like music to his ears.
Her body seems illuminated through his blurred vision and he can see nothing else, not the fading red in the sky that matches her brilliant hair, not the wind that howls like wolves being torn asunder, not the earth that drinks greedily at the rich substance that continues pooling out of her. He sees none of this even though he's seen so much, and his eyes rivet on her neck where a dark purple bruise is forming, unwashable like the stains on his breeches, another mark to complement all the other ones that dot her body in a spidery map that comes more easy to his mind than the lullaby his father sang to him, played incessantly on his mahogany flute when he thought his father had died. His father is dead now.
A fond smile that is unseemly on his face and yet hauntingly beautiful all the same touches his face as he thinks of the happy memories associated with the flame-haired girl dying in his lap. Fiery, spunky, emotional, insane, happy-go-lucky... he's almost astonished to find the word fragile among there, for he'd never once thought of her as fragile before.
But the word lies before him, as his tears splash over her pointed face and continue down her tear tracks, and it looks like she is crying. Perhaps she is.
Mia told him there was no way to heal wounds so deep, not even with the healing waters of Imil, (as if they had time) and she wasn't just talking about the gaping hole in her stomach that funneled out her lifeblood either.
He still can't believe that she could be so easily killed by an angry Proxian; it was simply not possible, but the word fragile surfaces to his mind again, mocking him with the savagery that he feels within him now. Or would, if his emotions hadn't turned to stone, like the dull immovable earth that he serves.
This is Jenna, he thinks, who fought so fiercly for a cause that wasn't hers and was admired so widely; this is Jenna, who was his friend before he had any other friends; this is Jenna, who sparkled so much and was so alive that there was no possible way she could die before the world had ended.
In this moment there is no Isaac the leader, there is no Jenna the loyal friend-who-was-much-more, there is no alchemy, no Weyard, no life, no death. There is simply Jenna, and Isaac.
This is Jenna who is dying.
Isaac can't remember how to breath.
I am quite proud that I did not use the word love a single time in there. I guess it turned out alright - at least I'm not disappointed with it, anyway.