Post by Scotch on Jul 7, 2013 2:31:55 GMT -5
Drumming, a steady beat. Badoom. Badoom. Badoom. The sound of blood pulsing, rushing, gushing through his veins. A sharp, alternating sting. Wounds. A lot of them. The constant drip, splash, drip, splash as he tried to collect the falling blood in his hands. Ragged, painful breaths tore from his burning lungs as his tired, shaky legs pushed through thickets and low hanging branches and leaped ungainly over fallen logs and foxholes. Still, despite all the running, he didn’t feel any safer, or any further away.
Scotch was tugged to the ground without any time to register what had happened. His elbows collected the impact before his face could and he twisted, sucking in air that felt like it was on fire as he kicked and jerked his way onto his back. He’d heard a snap, but even as his eyes finally came to rest, although briefly, on the tangle of branches at his feet, he wasn’t sure if the noise had come from him, or the damaged foliage. It’s not like he was in any state to decide where it’d come from anyway. Torture without powers was far different than what the torture was like with them.
For half a second, Scotch wondered why he wasn’t able to kick off the branches at his feet. The more he moved, the more he felt like they were snaking their way around his ankles and his calves. Tightening. Pulling. His breath, still jagged, was becoming more erratic and terrified with each stuck second as his heart rate continued to increase. As several more dragging seconds of struggle passed, Scotch abandoned the collected pool of blood he’d been nesting close to his chest and tore at the branches with his fingers as he desperately scrambled backwards. The tightness in his chest was the only indication that he was probably having a heart attack.
All the while, Scotch’s eyes flickered and scoured and searched the mess of trees, straining to make out every unidentifiable shadow. Noises at the back of his head. Screaming. His screaming. A gurgle cut short. Memories too fresh to ignore. His eyes glazed over as he tried to physically shake the sound from his mind. Stained red. Shallow, dull, and missing the typically emotionless sheen they held.
Finally, freedom. Slippery, cut fingers tugged at the branch that had originally collected him and brought him to his knees. Scotch pushed himself away from the bloody mess of tree litter and into the trunk of a nearby tree where he pulled himself to his feet as pain raked through his body. A blinding wash of white covered his already hazy vision and he doubled over, holding one hand over the deepest gash in his stomach. Acid, blood and half-digested stuff seeped over and through his fingers; burning the flesh on his palm as well as it did his throat as he threw up.
He was caught off-guard in own thoughts, as he wondered on the state of his clothes. Torn and caked in blood. Blood. So much. Too much. Not enough. After a final heave of red and yellow bile, Scotch pushed off the tree, choking back whatever was left in his mouth and swallowing down the blinding pain as best he could. There was light pollution in the distance, warning of a town. Of safety… as temporary as it would be.
His next steps were shuddering, weak, as he collected the fast depleting energy and, not for the first time, Scotch considering just giving up. Laying down to bleed out and be found. A new wave of nausea swept over him and he clenched his teeth against the violent urge to stop and throw up again. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t, and so he pushed on. His feet, aching and bloody, picked over the decaying leaf litter and broken twigs. His vision, pained and bordered with a dark mist, continued to focus on the light. If he had one hope, it was to get to that town.
Scotch was tugged to the ground without any time to register what had happened. His elbows collected the impact before his face could and he twisted, sucking in air that felt like it was on fire as he kicked and jerked his way onto his back. He’d heard a snap, but even as his eyes finally came to rest, although briefly, on the tangle of branches at his feet, he wasn’t sure if the noise had come from him, or the damaged foliage. It’s not like he was in any state to decide where it’d come from anyway. Torture without powers was far different than what the torture was like with them.
For half a second, Scotch wondered why he wasn’t able to kick off the branches at his feet. The more he moved, the more he felt like they were snaking their way around his ankles and his calves. Tightening. Pulling. His breath, still jagged, was becoming more erratic and terrified with each stuck second as his heart rate continued to increase. As several more dragging seconds of struggle passed, Scotch abandoned the collected pool of blood he’d been nesting close to his chest and tore at the branches with his fingers as he desperately scrambled backwards. The tightness in his chest was the only indication that he was probably having a heart attack.
All the while, Scotch’s eyes flickered and scoured and searched the mess of trees, straining to make out every unidentifiable shadow. Noises at the back of his head. Screaming. His screaming. A gurgle cut short. Memories too fresh to ignore. His eyes glazed over as he tried to physically shake the sound from his mind. Stained red. Shallow, dull, and missing the typically emotionless sheen they held.
Finally, freedom. Slippery, cut fingers tugged at the branch that had originally collected him and brought him to his knees. Scotch pushed himself away from the bloody mess of tree litter and into the trunk of a nearby tree where he pulled himself to his feet as pain raked through his body. A blinding wash of white covered his already hazy vision and he doubled over, holding one hand over the deepest gash in his stomach. Acid, blood and half-digested stuff seeped over and through his fingers; burning the flesh on his palm as well as it did his throat as he threw up.
He was caught off-guard in own thoughts, as he wondered on the state of his clothes. Torn and caked in blood. Blood. So much. Too much. Not enough. After a final heave of red and yellow bile, Scotch pushed off the tree, choking back whatever was left in his mouth and swallowing down the blinding pain as best he could. There was light pollution in the distance, warning of a town. Of safety… as temporary as it would be.
His next steps were shuddering, weak, as he collected the fast depleting energy and, not for the first time, Scotch considering just giving up. Laying down to bleed out and be found. A new wave of nausea swept over him and he clenched his teeth against the violent urge to stop and throw up again. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t, and so he pushed on. His feet, aching and bloody, picked over the decaying leaf litter and broken twigs. His vision, pained and bordered with a dark mist, continued to focus on the light. If he had one hope, it was to get to that town.