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07-10-2017, 04:02 AM
och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
[ "I'll wait for you there like a stone" IN YOUR WAY ]
His body did not approve of the slight decline of the path. Not only did it put all his meager weight onto a rock and the point of his shoulder—his skin tore just you looked at it, so he was sure he was leaving a nice smear of blood on the floor—but it seemed to pool most of his blood into his head. His body just wasn't equipped to handle it.
He managed to inch his head up a little, so it was more level with his heart. There. Good enough. Now, if he could just catch a few—a lot, like, thirty—minutes alone, he'd be able to get out of there. No big deal. He just had to pretend to be dead for a while. His breath didn't come as a white cloud. It was too warm by the Heart.
The owls looked from him and then away. They disappeared from sight, informing him curtly that they'd go hunt mice until he got back up again, and if he ate mice, they'd totally give him some, but he'd spent some seven years politely declining Irma's offers, so she didn't have very high hopes.
Thistles? he asked them hopefully, but owls were not a catering service, so they politely told him to eat mice or go home.
Steps began to ring in the cavern.
Fuck.
There was something low-key terrifying about lying on a sloping path with a stranger present. He was too tired to lift his head. Too tired to dig his shoulder in and roll over and get his legs facing down, so he could scramble up. Whoever they were, they could just take a quick, nice stab, or a couple of slow ones, and he'd be as dead as he could be for a while longer.
Please don't he thought. He waited. Nothing happened, but the presence loomed closer and closer. After a moment, a head hovered in the corner of his eye, and he convinced his body to crane his neck a little. A white, well-shaped head, with a long horn jutting from the forehead, and a shorter one below. The rest of her seemed black.
And she was not pleased with his attempts at re-decorating the Heart Caves with a new doormat. "Oh, shove it," he muttered, and tested flexing his legs. Not much happened. He'd only had about five of his thirty minutes, so he was still fucked. "I'm an unintentional roadblock. Have you ever tried to stand up when your legs are higher up than the rest of you? If you haven't, go on. Hop on over me and try on the path above me and see how fun it is," he finished acerbically. "And then when we're both stuck here like beetles and turtles, I'm sure we'll become best friends. And I'm the turtle. You'll be the beetle." He glared at her.
He glared at her, and then he felt bad, because she'd actually been polite.
"Sorry," he muttered.
His body did not approve of the slight decline of the path. Not only did it put all his meager weight onto a rock and the point of his shoulder—his skin tore just you looked at it, so he was sure he was leaving a nice smear of blood on the floor—but it seemed to pool most of his blood into his head. His body just wasn't equipped to handle it.
He managed to inch his head up a little, so it was more level with his heart. There. Good enough. Now, if he could just catch a few—a lot, like, thirty—minutes alone, he'd be able to get out of there. No big deal. He just had to pretend to be dead for a while. His breath didn't come as a white cloud. It was too warm by the Heart.
The owls looked from him and then away. They disappeared from sight, informing him curtly that they'd go hunt mice until he got back up again, and if he ate mice, they'd totally give him some, but he'd spent some seven years politely declining Irma's offers, so she didn't have very high hopes.
Thistles? he asked them hopefully, but owls were not a catering service, so they politely told him to eat mice or go home.
Steps began to ring in the cavern.
Fuck.
There was something low-key terrifying about lying on a sloping path with a stranger present. He was too tired to lift his head. Too tired to dig his shoulder in and roll over and get his legs facing down, so he could scramble up. Whoever they were, they could just take a quick, nice stab, or a couple of slow ones, and he'd be as dead as he could be for a while longer.
Please don't he thought. He waited. Nothing happened, but the presence loomed closer and closer. After a moment, a head hovered in the corner of his eye, and he convinced his body to crane his neck a little. A white, well-shaped head, with a long horn jutting from the forehead, and a shorter one below. The rest of her seemed black.
And she was not pleased with his attempts at re-decorating the Heart Caves with a new doormat. "Oh, shove it," he muttered, and tested flexing his legs. Not much happened. He'd only had about five of his thirty minutes, so he was still fucked. "I'm an unintentional roadblock. Have you ever tried to stand up when your legs are higher up than the rest of you? If you haven't, go on. Hop on over me and try on the path above me and see how fun it is," he finished acerbically. "And then when we're both stuck here like beetles and turtles, I'm sure we'll become best friends. And I'm the turtle. You'll be the beetle." He glared at her.
He glared at her, and then he felt bad, because she'd actually been polite.
"Sorry," he muttered.
du lät exakt som ismael.
