Henry Goodsir (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
naturalmisery) wrote2020-02-20 01:31 pm
naturalmisery) wrote2020-02-20 01:31 pm
[march]
Harry Goodsir feels as if he's floating.
There is ice around him, creaking and snapping under tremendous pressure, and a cold wind whips across a wide open plain of rock and snow. Behind him, the thick fabric of his tent pulls taut, then snaps loose, and he knows none of this is possible. He's in Darrow, just inside the front entrance of his building, a row of mailboxes to his left, but the wind whistles in his ear as he stares down at the bloody canvas bag at his feet.
It leaks red across the snowy ground (the tile floor) and pools around the toes of his wrecked, threadbare boots (his shoes) and Harry doesn't have the ability to step away. Everything doubles, here and there, Darrow and the Arctic, and in the distance comes the echoing growl of a monster nature has never before seen the likes of. Harry lifts his gaze from the remains of William Gibson and looks for Tuunbaq, but instead finds himself looking through the glass window of the front door.
Outside, the cement is bare. The snow has begun to melt. Inside, it's blown across jagged rocks on a sharp wind, the crystals of it like glass against his bare cheeks.
A gold ring glitters on the floor (in the snow) and Harry bends to pluck it from the blood. He had been meant to return that ring to someone, but now he can't seem to remember who. His fingers are wet when he rises again, but Harry has never been bothered by a little blood. He's a surgeon, after all, he's worked on dozens of cadavers, first in his training and then in his duties. This isn't his first body. It's only the first he'd butchered.
A voice comes in on the wind, whistling through the fabric of the tent (the crack in the door) to tickle his ear. "For what should I prepare?"
"To die, Mister Gibson," Harry whispers down at the bag on the floor before he lifts one hand to his face and wipes at the damp streaks on his skin. When had he begun crying? The blood smears on his cheek and he looks down at his hand, at the ring held there, and another blast of wind rocks him.
This one, though, is real. Harry looks at the door and finds it open, an out of focus figure standing there. He had a plan once, he thinks. A bellyful of poison and a shard of glass to his wrists.
"There is beauty here," he whispers, barely a voice at all. "Even now."
There is ice around him, creaking and snapping under tremendous pressure, and a cold wind whips across a wide open plain of rock and snow. Behind him, the thick fabric of his tent pulls taut, then snaps loose, and he knows none of this is possible. He's in Darrow, just inside the front entrance of his building, a row of mailboxes to his left, but the wind whistles in his ear as he stares down at the bloody canvas bag at his feet.
It leaks red across the snowy ground (the tile floor) and pools around the toes of his wrecked, threadbare boots (his shoes) and Harry doesn't have the ability to step away. Everything doubles, here and there, Darrow and the Arctic, and in the distance comes the echoing growl of a monster nature has never before seen the likes of. Harry lifts his gaze from the remains of William Gibson and looks for Tuunbaq, but instead finds himself looking through the glass window of the front door.
Outside, the cement is bare. The snow has begun to melt. Inside, it's blown across jagged rocks on a sharp wind, the crystals of it like glass against his bare cheeks.
A gold ring glitters on the floor (in the snow) and Harry bends to pluck it from the blood. He had been meant to return that ring to someone, but now he can't seem to remember who. His fingers are wet when he rises again, but Harry has never been bothered by a little blood. He's a surgeon, after all, he's worked on dozens of cadavers, first in his training and then in his duties. This isn't his first body. It's only the first he'd butchered.
A voice comes in on the wind, whistling through the fabric of the tent (the crack in the door) to tickle his ear. "For what should I prepare?"
"To die, Mister Gibson," Harry whispers down at the bag on the floor before he lifts one hand to his face and wipes at the damp streaks on his skin. When had he begun crying? The blood smears on his cheek and he looks down at his hand, at the ring held there, and another blast of wind rocks him.
This one, though, is real. Harry looks at the door and finds it open, an out of focus figure standing there. He had a plan once, he thinks. A bellyful of poison and a shard of glass to his wrists.
"There is beauty here," he whispers, barely a voice at all. "Even now."