|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Interesting Conversationalist
|
 Posted: Mon Apr 25, 2011 12:29 am
She’d had a music box in her room. It was only a tiny thing… small and round and perfectly smooth as it sat in your palm, small enough for a child to wrap their fingers around it. It hadn’t been anything special, the kind of thing you saw at an antique store, but paid no attention to. No one had cared for it in a long time – years of disuse had left the silver completely black, tarnished nearly to the point where you couldn’t see the little misted ivy that had been etched onto the silver. It had sat in the attic of the house, in a box that had seen better days, until a pair of girls had wandered up there one evening, looking for pixie dust. She’d thought it was beautiful. At six years old, she would rush home from school into her room, stand on her tiptoes and take it down from the shelf that was almost too tall for her to reach, scramble to her little hiding place, which was only the window seat in her room. Only then would she gently lift the little silver lid, and each time allow herself to be dazzled as the tiny ebony pony appeared beneath, and listen to the soft tinker of the song as it spun on the little pedestal beneath it, the box cupped in tiny palms like something precious. After a while, after she’d listened to it enough to satisfy her for a time, she’d wind it back up gently, careful not to overturn the spring, and set it back in its place on the shelf. Then, only then could she climb into bed, tucking the blanket up under her chin as she rested her head on the soft, down-feather pillow, unafraid of the shadows that whispered to her from under her bed.
You are my sunshine~ my only sunshine~
She’d opened it for the last time the night before she’d gone out. She’d wanted to opened it that night, for bravery – the little tinkling had always reassured her that nothing would hurt her in the dark – but at the last moment she’d turned away, leaving it untouched there on the shelf. She never opened it again. As years passed, it collected dust, first in her mother’s house, then again in her apartment she’d shared, until the police put it in the box with the rest of the possessions her parents might want to keep.
--- Fear ---
“Robbie.”
It was dark, save for the flicker of a flashlight they had stolen months ago from the cupboard above the stove when their mother hadn’t been looking. They’d set it up on the bedside table that separated their two beds, letting the light shine upwards onto the ceiling, like a makeshift campfire. It wasn’t the most efficient route – in fact, it barely helped at all, very little light spilling out of the cone it produced on the ceiling, leaving most of the room barely illuminated. Still, it had been the best way for two siblings who couldn’t agree on who was going to hold it, or where to shine it. Across the room, she could just barely make out the pale outline of her fraternal twin, sitting upright on her bed as she played with her stuffed pony, combing her fingers through its fuzzy fluff-mane. Despite the limited light, she knew Roberta had ignored her, opting instead to focus on the little world she was no doubt forming in her head. She could tell her sister had heard her – it was too quiet in the room for her to have not, even with how low she had whispered, not wanting to chance waking their parents. Not only that, every so often Roberta’s eyes would flick over to where her sister sat on her side of the room, looking over out of the corner of her eye to see if she was still watching her. She was.
“Robbie, c’mon.”
There was a few more seconds of silence, the air heavy with tension, before Roberta lifted her head with a little toss of her hair, turning completely to stare at her sister through the dark, her voice a thin little hiss.
“He doesn’t even LIKE you.”
That shut her up. The words died quickly in the air, not loud enough to be trapped within the dim, flower-printed walls for very long, but the sentiment lingered, two pairs of eyes locked together as the words sunk in. She could believe it. It didn’t even come as a surprise, either, only the slightest twinge of hurt welling up in her chest. She knew she wasn’t close to Robert like Roberta was – in fact, he hadn’t seemed all that interested in her at all. She didn’t even try to delude herself into thinking otherwise. Oh, they’d hung out a little – he was the only other kid around for miles, stretches of field and forest spreading in every direction as far as the eye could see. He’d come over to their house frequently enough, knocking on the wooden part of the screen door before popping his head in, peering around the kitchen. But it was always for Roberta. Every so often she’d go ‘fishing’ for mermaids with them in the little pond a ways behind their house, but his eyes would always drift back to Roberta, to her large gestures and little tugs at his sleeve, getting the attention she always demanded from him. She supposed it was because Robbie was more interesting… she was undoubtedly the more creative of them. Every deer became a unicorn, every bird became a dragon, every firefly became a fairy. The world became magical under her touch.
She left them alone, for the most part, watching after them from the wooden porch step as they ran off through the fields, off on their next adventure. She didn’t bring up that she saw things too. She knew the little flicker of darkness in the corner of her eye couldn’t compare to the wondrous tales Roberta spun. It didn’t surprise her Robert didn’t like her.
But… but maybe she could fix it.
“Why not?” her own voice cut through the silence again, relentlessly. She was sitting forward a little, now, her tiny hands splayed on the saffron bedspread, her knees bowed out on either side of her for support. From across the room, she could hear Roberta give an exasperated sigh, just barely making out the exaggerated motion of her bobbing her head again -- she couldn’t see it, but she knew her sister had rolled her eyes. “You wanna hang out with us so bad?”
She did. And Roberta knew she did. Still, she didn’t say anything, sitting there shock-still and holding her breath instead, knowing Roberta would tell her anyway. There was always an ultimatum – I’ll do this for you, if you do this for me. I’ll trade you my seashell for your smooth rock, your scarf for my hat, your pink jellybean for my white. No little kid wants to give something up for free. There was the faintest rustling of sheets as Roberta shifted on her own bed, wiggling right up to the edge so they were face to face, her sister’s face squinted as she readied her dare. “Spend the WHOLE night out in the field,” she whispered in a saucy tone, the beginnings of a grin spreading across her childish features, “We do. All the time. If you’re still there in the morning, then you can come along. If they haven’t gotten to you first.”
She sucked in a breath, a tiny little thrill of fear sliding like a cold ice cube along her spine, her eyes automatically flicking to the closed curtains that hid their bedroom window. For a second, she hesitated, contemplating whether it was worth it to go out by herself. The little sickening feeling sat in the pit of her stomach, rising slowly like bile up into the back of her throat – although the curtain was closed, her mind’s eye projected images of shadows moving beneath the brush, coaxing the memories of soft, sadistic voices whispered in her ears. But in the end, the call of the dare was stronger. The promise of the three of them, playing together with the fireflies, overshadowed her worry. Sliding her legs out from under her, she let her toes hover above the carpet before slipping completely off the bed, straightening to square her shoulders boldly, haughtily.
She’d show them.
“Ok fine, I’ll do it.”
~~~I’m coming for you darkness ................................................. chaos Fear me Panic You’re gonna fall ............ evil don’t look behind you You’d better run.She ran.
She didn’t have enough breath in her lungs to scream, but even if she could, she wouldn’t have dared. If she did, they would get her. She could feel it on the back of her neck, a husky, cackling panting of breath far more hot and sticky than even the humid summer air that plastered her hair to her skin. In the pitch blackness, small hands thrashed aimlessly for purchase, clawing at the fingers of branches reaching out to her, flailing at them as she scrambled in the dark. They clawed back, like the nails of dozens of midnight predators, grabbing at her as she tried to get away, scraping along her shoulders and legs. She had long since run off the beaten path -- there was no moonlight to guide her, her feet hitting the ground blindly as she fled. She couldn’t see where she was going couldn’t see them couldn’t get away they were gonna get her…
Each step brought them closer, snaking tendrils of darkness that licked at her feet. Each whimpered breath echoed the sounds of the voices in her ears, laughing as tears of hysteria streamed down her cheeks.
She didn’t scream even as they grabbed her ankle, forcing her to the ground.
It was like that hot, sticky breath had spread all over her body. She caught herself with her hands as she hit the dirt, her terrified sounds growing louder as she watched the darkness creep slowly in from the edges of her eyes. The sickly feeling of sweat and something crawling, slithering across her skin, until all she could see was black – it fed like it lusted for her fear, and she was more than happy to gorge it. Little hysterical sobs escaped her lips as she tore at her flesh, nails digging into her shoulders as she tried to tear at the shadows, whimpering and sucking in breath after breath, never exhaling, until she her lungs burned. Her eyes were stretched wide, pupils dialated until you couldn’t see the color of her irises, completely unseeing.
She couldn’t hear her own scream.
'Petra' darkness scream for me Why are you running? I’m gonna get you 'Petra' You can’t hide from me 'PETRA' The song she hadn’t known she’d been humming immediately stopped. Her eyes snapped open, stretched wide over blow-out pupils, focusing immediately on the silhouetted figure above her, her body shaking uncontrollably. When had she closed her eyes? Her body, too, had somehow been righted, so that she was sitting with her legs curled close to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them protectively. For a second, she thought it was them again, and she flinched away as the figure crouched next to her in the dirt, almost letting out another whimper of terror. Pleasedon’tletthemcomebackpleasedon’tletthemgetmepleasedon’tpleasedontpleaseplease… But as her eyes adjusted, and she looked back, she slowly recognized the well-built form, the warm hand vaguely familiar as it rested on her bleeding shoulder.
“I saw something moving.”
Her mouth moved, but the words came out in silent breaths, barely audible, as if terrified that any word could bring it back. She wasn’t sure Robert even heard her, but it didn’t matter. His voice was already piercing through the blackness, coaxing her muscles to relax, a steady exhaustion already starting to seep in as the adrenaline faded.
“What do you think you’re doing out here, Petra? You know it’s scary. You shouldn’t-”
He sounded annoyed. In a fit of irrationality, her face automatically snapped to him, a different kind of fear clutching at her. Her eyes shifted between Roberta and Robert, him holding her on his hip, both of them staring down at her. No, no no, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way, she was supposed to be fixing it, proving herself so she could play with them, so he would like her.
“’m not scared!”
She couldn’t be scared. She couldn’t say what she was really thinking:
‘Don’t leave me alone.’
~~~~
She didn’t talk much, after that, and never about that night. While childhood fears faded for everyone else, the memory of being enveloped in darkness stayed sharp and clear in her mind. Years later, she would wake up to spatters of blood on her sheets from where she’d clawed herself in the middle of the night, long red lines where her nails tried to tear away the darkness. When she rode her horse down the trail along her house, she always knew just when to drift off the beaten path, avoiding a bush or a fallen tree.
They said the horses were easily spooked – she knew why.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Apr 25, 2011 12:30 am
She remembered the day she got her acceptance letter. It wasn’t from Cornell, but it was a decent accomplishment, and she had felt a little thrill of excitement surge up into her chest, her heart pumping a little faster as she’d grabbed for her bridle, running her horse all the way to his back yard. It was their senior year of high school, and she was seventeen, with all the ambition in the world. The letter had gotten crumpled as the wind tried to tear it from her, but she’d clung to it like a lifeline. With that letter, it didn’t matter that they were from a small town where the talk was slow and the class size was only twenty students throughout their entire high school years. She was going to be an architect, and he was going to be on Broadway. They’d only been dating for half a year, but her dreams had all evolved to have him in them.
He’d acted enthusiastic when she’d told him. She was so preoccupied by the arms wrapped around her waist as he spun her, she hadn’t noticed when he’d slipped his own letter from Juilliard silently into the trashcan behind her.
--- Love ---
Petra…
…Petra…
She didn’t open her eyes right away, although the light streaming in through the window was bright against her eyelids. Outside, she could hear the steady whoosh of cars as they drove past below the third-story window, the pad of feet against wood in the hallway outside their door, the rumble of the washing machine a few doors down. The sounds of morning, coupled with the whisper of the name against her ear, tried to coax her awake, but she ignored it, letting her eyes stay closed, feeling the slow rhythm as her chest rose and fell in steady, peaceful breaths. She could have stayed like this forever, under the sheets draped over them, nestled close to the large, firm planes of his chest. But the sounds were persistent – already they were creeping closer to the forefront of her mind, reminding her that she had to get up and leave the simple pleasures behind. Instead, she focused on the whispered breath against her skin, the low, sweet voice against her ear, rough from sleep.
“Pet, we’re gonna be late~”
At this, she gave a weakly petulant groan, feigning annoyance as she rolled over onto her side, trying to hide the smile that was starting to curl the corners of her lips. She knew he wouldn’t buy it – he knew her far too well to be put off. As if such a weak protest would have put him off at all, even if she had meant it. They both knew it was just an invitation. There was the soft squeak of the old mattress as he shifted beside her, his large, comforting arms snaking around her waist, his weight pressing against her back. His breath fanned gently against her neck as she felt soft, tender kisses trail downward past the dip and along her shoulder, accompanied by the faint sting of a fresh wound.
“Havin’ nightmares again, Sunshine?”
The tone was a little more serious than it had been before. Sympathetic, but hard in a way that she knew wasn’t directed at her. It coaxed her eyes open, the smile fading.
“No.”
Despite how she’d meant it to be firm, she heard her tone waver a bit, dipping just above a whisper. But even if it hadn’t he would have known. “’S it that one with the ghosts again?” he asked, as if she hadn’t said anything. She didn’t need to.
"If ghosts were real, they wouldn't actually be able to touch you or nothing, so they're useless. There's no point in being scared of something you could literally walk through and ignore."
Against her back, his body tightened a bit, his arms tensing around her middle, as if he was about to roll her over on top of him, just to accentuate his point. He could beat up a ghost. He’d beat up any ghost that came near. She could see it, in her mind’s eye, the exact smirk as he laughed in the face of the most terrifying of creatures, his fist connecting with the incorporeal shape, the spirit dissolving like a puff of smoke. And with his arms around her, his heartbeat against his chest, she actually believed it. Although his arms were already sliding out from beneath her, she felt her body relax where it had become tight with the mention of the nightmares, the sunshine chasing away the fear.
"If demons were real, all they'd want from you is your fine hot body. And they can't have it. 'CAUSE IT'S MINE. ******** DEMONS, MAN."
Turning over onto her other side, she watched him roll up into a sitting position, already grabbing his pants from where he’d left them by the side of the ******** demons, man. ******** demons. Whatever, I’m starving, did we buy any bacon?”
She smiled.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Interesting Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Interesting Conversationalist
|
Posted: Mon Apr 25, 2011 12:31 am
The memories were fading fast, now. It was like she was running a race, trying desperately to speed through something, something she had tried so hard to forget.
--- Anger ---
“Petra!”
Her hand paused where it had been lingering on the straps of the backpack hoisted over one shoulder, taken by surprise by the familiar voice, her head turning automatically to glance back behind her. The mid-morning sun against the tall brick buildings of the college cast shadows over the winding sidewalks, her eyes automatically flicking away from them to the students branching off on their way to class. A gentle breeze had picked up, catching the well-trimmed grass and scattered brown leaves, kicking up the crisp smell of autumn into the air -- to her left, she heard a girl squeal as it blew off her hat. She didn’t need to look – she could recognize her sister’s voice anywhere – but she did regardless, blinking a little in surprise.
“Robbie.”
A few feet away, Roberta sprinted down the path towards her, panting a little as she caught up. She waited politely for her sister to catch her breath and smooth her wind-mussed hair out of her face, her head cocked curiously to the side as she did so. It was rare occurrence to see Robbie at all, she was gone so often. On adventures, she supposed – she always had been the flighty type, even as kids. After their parents had gotten divorced, and Robbie’d left for Arizona with their mom and she’d been sent to boarding school, she’d hardly seen much of her at all. Sometimes she’d visit… stop by for a hug and a laugh… but by the end of the day, she was gone, like a tornado – nothing would stop her. But even ignoring the unusual visit, she could already tell something was wrong – there was an awkwardness in the way Roberta was standing, her fingers wrapped a little too tightly around the strap of the book bag hoisted haphazardly over one shoulder, her eyes focused anywhere but on her. When Roberta finally looked up, she was greeted with a little laugh, as if she were trying to be flippant.
The smile did not reach her eyes.
“Hey sis, long time no see… how ya been?”
For half a second, she didn’t reply, her eyes moving calculatingly over her sister’s frame, growing a little more distant. There was something she wanted to say – she could feel it, see it as she let her eyes search her sister’s expression, finding nothing in the weak little smile, until she finally replied with a noncommittal ‘Good.’ They both could see through the fake attempt at small talk. “Good, good… how’s Dad?” she asked, twisting the strap of her pack a little.
“Fine. Hired someone new to help him with the horses…”
“Oh yeah? Awesome… Mom’s good too…”
The conversation faded quickly, leaving them to stand awkwardly together, the sound of the wind tugging at her skirt filling the breaching silence. It reminisced of when they were children, both of them waiting guiltily for a punishment, after doing something wrong – the sickening feeling of dread mounting with each passing second.
Roberta idly ran a hand through her hair.
“So… are you heading to swim team?”
“Yeah.”
The word came out slow, the sound already numb.
“Uh… think they’d miss you for a sec?”
~~~
It was raining. Pouring, really – the rain was coming down in sheets, but she hadn’t bothered with an umbrella. She could barely see the street lights, nor hear the rush of cars until they kicked up the water as they drove quickly past, the city blanketed by the downpour. A business man in a poncho and an umbrella battled against the shower, a hand on his hat as he kept his head tucked down; the sound of a slammed taxi door completely silenced as a couple made a dash for their apartment door. Even her own breathing was muffled, soft little hitched breaths getting lost as she continued to run alongside the street, and not only by the rain.
‘How could you?!’
‘I don’t know!’
She stopped as soon as she noticed the bars growing more and more frequent on the windows of the stores, the glass littering the streets from the scattered broken streetlamps. Only then did she slow, letting the ache of her lungs catch up with her as the sprint turned into a run, the run tempering off to a walk, until she had stopped completely on a street corner. Although she was soaked through to the bone, her hands automatically went to her eyes, trying to brush away the tears, tasting the salt on her lips. Lifting her head to the street sign, she peered at it through the rain, dropping her hands to her bare arms and tried to ignore the shivers that had begun to overtake her, teeth chattering. She was a long way from home… but home was the last place she wanted to be right now.
‘What is it Bobby?! What makes her so special?! Why do you love her more than me?!’
She could hear her voice echoing in her head – although she stared at the faded green street sign, her mind was several miles away.
‘I don’t love her more! I just… I loved her first!’
It stung just as much as the first time, her eyes flinching away. Instead, she looked around at the boarded up windows, the growing sense of concern distracting her from the painful ache. She hadn’t really been thinking about where she was going – only then did she realize how far she had ran. Neon signs that flickered before dying. Broken windows. Graffiti splattered against the brick walls like blood.
It was a different kind of dark. And Bobby wasn’t there to laugh the shadows away.
The thought sent an icy chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the rain, her body freezing up as let her eyes dart around, the irrational, childlike fear starting to creep through her body. Around her, she could see tiny flickers of movement in the corners of her eyes, threatening at a memory she had long since buried under warm blankets and infectious laughter. The calm state of her mind she was so used to was coming undone, even as she tried to tell herself it was a trick of the light, nothing more than the movement of the rain. Her hand was already reaching into her back pocket, pulling out her cell phone and pressing the buttons to the number she knew by heart, but rarely had to press.
‘Hey, ya missed me, or I just don’t wanna talk to you. Either way, leave a message, ‘n I’ll—‘
“Whoever it is, they won’t get here in time.”
Although it was pounding rain, the voice was calm and clear, unwavering from the shadow of the alleyway from which it had come. As if struck by lightning, her hand jerked from where she’d been holding the phone to her ear, her body whirling to face the chillingly clinical voice. It came from inside the darkness, that even tone, and even through the rain she could see the hooded figure, eyes hidden from view.
“It was trying very hard to get you. Now… why would that be?”
She didn’t answer. Her fear was there, but her eyes displayed none of the cold adrenaline welling in her chest. The only indication was the cell phone she seemed to now be holding like a weapon, ready to pelt it at him and run. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. The figure, too, seemed to sense the futility of her situation – if he felt at all threatened, he didn’t show it, stepping forward a little out of the shadow of the building, the hood covering his eyes as it shielded him from the rain. “It didn’t like that you could see it,” he answered for her, unperturbed by her lack of response. Perhaps he was sizing her up.
“It’s a two-way street, you see – you can see them… and they can see you. But the difference is… you can’t fight back.”
The muscles in her shoulders tightened again -- a knee-jerk reaction.
“You want to learn how to fight back?”
This time, a response. It wasn’t verbal, but it spoke volumes. He had her attention now, her eyes trained on him even through the torrential downpour.
‘More than anything.’
“Give me the names of the others.”
There was a hesitation. It felt too much like the inquisition, or the Nazis – give me the names of the others like yourself. Of course you know others. Give me their names, and …
…and what? She didn’t even know. But as the hurt began to well back up in her chest, she squared her shoulders, her expression evening into the perfect disconcerting picture of indifference.
“Roberta Walker. My sister. And… “
“....And…?”
“Robert Morris.”
The words had no sooner left her lips, when the memory faded to nothingness. Petra Walker was eighteen years, forty one days, and ten hours old when the reapers took her.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Apr 25, 2011 12:32 am
---Redemption---
There was nothing left. That was the end of her memories… after that, there was nothing. There were no eyes to close – her consciousness was barely lingering, suspended in the state of misted nothingness, waiting to dissipate completely. She was floating… it would have been a sweet sensation, had things been different. Despite the sense of peace, there was the lingering sense of regret, a weight that was not quite tangible.
The feeling of strong, arms around her waist left the feeling lifted, bleeding away into the mist. Although she knew it wasn’t real, she felt her arms encircle his neck, the faintest feeling of warmth as she rested her cheek against his shoulder.
It’s my fault… I’m sorry Bobby… I’m sorry.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Interesting Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu May 05, 2011 10:52 am
Even the last pieces of false warmth were torn away amidst the complete darkness. There was no-one, nothing, absolute emptiness, only the feeling of everything falling apart, memories scattering, self consciousness collapsing entirely.
There was no-one. Nobody would come rescue Petra, and she would die her lackluster death alone. She was the entirely unremarkable girl who set out to do something and accomplished nothing.
"Petra, Petra. Wake up." That was strange, was this the ominous reaper greeting her a the end or the divine herald beckoning her to the beyond? "Wake up, if you fall any deeper within yourself, you will be forever beyond rescue."
Rescue? Someone was going to rescue her?
"You can stop now if you like, choose to retreat, rest forever, but you will never see your so-called loved ones again. You will never see what became of them, or what you could have become, but you will rest peacefully not caring of such result. Or-" A pause. "-You can fight back, struggle, to embrace your own future. Guide yourself, summon your own power, a weapon, something signifying your strength. Fight to finish your dream."
Yes, that was right, all that time she wanted someone there, someone to support her and fight alone with her, when she had forgotten how important she herself was. She was a fighter, she had to fight, the tables had been reversed. It was not about being rescued, it was about rescuing herself.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri May 06, 2011 4:47 pm
In the end, even that feeling of redemption was gone. As the false-pretense of peace she had created to ease her own guilt disappeared, she was left with only the rapidly-encroaching darkness, warmth sapped away by the unfeeling, uncaring cold. She tried futily to hold on to the feeling of comfort, searching for peaceful, happy memories of her childhood and held hands and wishing without hope for it just to last until she was gone. But there was nothing -- in the end, she couldn't trick herself into feeling any ill-begotten comfort, faced only with the truth. You couldn't cheat death. Not even with a lie.
Bitter acceptance it was, then. She couldn't stop it, right? Couldn't change it. Bad things happened, and there was nothing she could do about it, right...?
At first, the sound of her voice was off-putting, an annoying little voice at the forefront of her mind that would not let her just die already. She'd accepted her fate, wasn't that enough for you people? But it seemed it wasn't. First denied the comfort of at least believing she had lived a good, satisfying life, now it seemed she couldn't even be left alone in her own lack-luster. At first, she ignored the voice edging into her consciousness, trying to block it out in a manner akin to someone shutting their eyes tighter and rolling over to ignore the glaring stare of a light bulb. She had had enough of people calling her name. But as the voice continued to whisper in her ear, it became harder and harder to dismiss, the words buzzing like angry bees.
'You can stop now if you like, choose to retreat, rest forever, but you will never see your so-called loved once again.'
The words didn't sit well with her. It wasn't the tone -- she could barely make out the feeling behind the comment, unable to tell if the voice had any interest in her at all. But those words would not leave her alone, words like retreat and so-called that stung with a cold indignation, demanding her attention. Whether intended or not, there was a challenge interpreted in those words, her ire rising at what she took to be a dismissal. 'You will never see what became of them, or what you could have become, but you will rest peacefully, not caring of such result. Or... you can fight back.'
'Guide yourself, summon your own power, a weapon, something signifying your strength.'
In the darkness, she urged the ghostly illusion of her own hand to open, focusing on the feeling of a smooth handle against her palm as she summoned the symbol of power. It took no more than a few seconds for her to think of it, and only a few more to remember the weight of it as she'd held it, the comfort that had come from being able to control her own fate.
Closing her fingers around the handle, she summoned her mace.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Interesting Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 07, 2011 8:15 pm
The second Petra touched her weapon, the world seemed to fold into two. Strange sounds, blurry figures talking to each other phased back and forth, and even stranger was this unusual sensation, a slow burning, a dull thudding, and the feeling of something sticky, clammy, cold - her own body.
A hiss, and more noises, vague, unclear. It came out in a series of strange echoes, as the world unfolded slowly into more clarity.
Where was it? Where was her weapon - what was going on - in the strange disturbing and painful light, her peaceful dark sanctuary of only memories seemed thousands of times more favourable. Things continued moving too fast, spinning, shouting, screaming, and then-
"Shh..." The first time a voice made sense to her, the disjointed feel still making it hard to place the sound. "It is all okay now. Congratulations Petra, Candidate Zeta Eight, you have just saved yourself."((OOC: Please make one more "awakening" post at the Cove here! ))
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
