Ave Versus Christus
02-06-08, 08:17 PM
It's a terrible thing. The man lays dying in front of me, that red stuff comes out of his mouth. It reminds me of candy, the warm melty kind you put on apples so the colorful things stay on them. His eyes roll back into his head like he's angry and I can't understand any of the sounds his saying. They're a gibberish mix of words. I hold onto his brown shirt tightly - my hands can't hold on well though, on account of the sweat that soaked the shirt through. I grab at his jacket that smells like a farm, I grab at his neck that has stubble like a dog; his folds of skin are too fat for my hands to hold well.
My eyes begin to water like his do, and I call out the question I've asked him so many times this day. "Where is it?!" He won't respond. My throat hurts like when I'm sick. The yelling makes me feel like little mice are running up and down, inside of my body. They're moving faster and faster, falling into my stomach and fighting. I feel my belly hurt.
Finally he stops breathing as a few more streams of red stuff form at his mouth. His face matches underneath his shirt. As I let go, I figure out he may have candy or cool stuff on him, so I fish through his pockets. My hands grow sticky and warm from the red stuff, and I know I'm going to have trouble washing it off. In his jacket's pocket, I feel the rough edges of paper. Pulling it out, I realize it's only smudged with red stuff. It's still readable.
If only I could read the funny marks on it.
Maybe I shouldn't of stabbed him so many times.
My eyes begin to water like his do, and I call out the question I've asked him so many times this day. "Where is it?!" He won't respond. My throat hurts like when I'm sick. The yelling makes me feel like little mice are running up and down, inside of my body. They're moving faster and faster, falling into my stomach and fighting. I feel my belly hurt.
Finally he stops breathing as a few more streams of red stuff form at his mouth. His face matches underneath his shirt. As I let go, I figure out he may have candy or cool stuff on him, so I fish through his pockets. My hands grow sticky and warm from the red stuff, and I know I'm going to have trouble washing it off. In his jacket's pocket, I feel the rough edges of paper. Pulling it out, I realize it's only smudged with red stuff. It's still readable.
If only I could read the funny marks on it.
Maybe I shouldn't of stabbed him so many times.