[RM] 1.86.2 - Open Wounds
Dec. 14th, 2007 04:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onlysayinghelloIt goes right through him. Well placed between two ribs he's amazed at the accuracy more than the betrayal. He can almost feel the organs inside of him being punctured, fluids flooding the inner cavity of his body, the warmth of it almost secondary to the shock of it all. He can feel the cross guard pressed into his body, the sort of pressure that could bruise, even leave a small reminder of that distinct shape. Still all he's doing is drawing air inward, the lung probably has a slice through it he figures because no air is coming fast enough, or deep enough. The rattle of his gasp continues, repeating over and over as he attempts to do anything except stare at the man.
Part of him thinks he could have seen it coming. That maybe he shouldn't have been so forward, or maybe he just wasn't forward enough. Regardless it doesn't matter because he can feel the blade run through him now and it's just a matter of time. The options at this point are slight, and he knows it. The blade staying in him for a bit longer is probably optimal, because he knows the moment it gets withdrawn he's going to feel a hell of a lot worse. It's a second wound having it pulled free, the strong at the moment holding everything in place and once it was loose everything could collapse.
Technically he knows it doesn't matter. That from the point to the strong all the way up to the guard, it doesn't matter. His mind is trying to rationalize it but the pain is overwhelming and his body still is trying to cling to life.
Then it's pulled from his body and he collapses to the ground. Hands covering the wound, feeling that warmth pool against his palm, saturating his shirt and staining it with crimson. His lungs still fight for air, fight for a chance to fill with oxygen and continue what his body still believes to be actual life. The man is already walking away, the ting of noise coming from the clothe wiping clean the blade as it gets slid back into the scabbard. Any final words the man might have thought to claim from Jack instead are left to mystery, as the gasping shifts to a sharp staccato sound that cuts off abruptly as the darkness claims him.
When his body starts again, it's a sharp intake of air rushing into his lungs, both of them filling to the point where his chest rises from the expansion. His hand surges to where the slice should have been. The tear in his shirt is large enough for his fingers to touch skin, skin that's fully healed, but still a bit tacky from the dried blood. It should be a gaping wound, he should be bleeding out, never to be found in the middle of the fields, but instead he's rising to his feet trying to dust the clumps of dirt off the back of his pants. His hands pull the front of his jacket tugging it closed tightly across the obvious blood stain that would give away his state for certain.
His hand reaches to the leather at his wrist, flipping it open to glance at how long it took him to live again. It's been just shy of an hour, and he's almost shocked at how quickly it went by. The thought of all that his body had to do to recover, astounds him... but the only pain he has is a slight dull ache where he's sure a few things are still recovering. His movement isn't as steady as he'd want it to be, but all things considered...
He's still alive.
Part of him thinks he could have seen it coming. That maybe he shouldn't have been so forward, or maybe he just wasn't forward enough. Regardless it doesn't matter because he can feel the blade run through him now and it's just a matter of time. The options at this point are slight, and he knows it. The blade staying in him for a bit longer is probably optimal, because he knows the moment it gets withdrawn he's going to feel a hell of a lot worse. It's a second wound having it pulled free, the strong at the moment holding everything in place and once it was loose everything could collapse.
Technically he knows it doesn't matter. That from the point to the strong all the way up to the guard, it doesn't matter. His mind is trying to rationalize it but the pain is overwhelming and his body still is trying to cling to life.
Then it's pulled from his body and he collapses to the ground. Hands covering the wound, feeling that warmth pool against his palm, saturating his shirt and staining it with crimson. His lungs still fight for air, fight for a chance to fill with oxygen and continue what his body still believes to be actual life. The man is already walking away, the ting of noise coming from the clothe wiping clean the blade as it gets slid back into the scabbard. Any final words the man might have thought to claim from Jack instead are left to mystery, as the gasping shifts to a sharp staccato sound that cuts off abruptly as the darkness claims him.
When his body starts again, it's a sharp intake of air rushing into his lungs, both of them filling to the point where his chest rises from the expansion. His hand surges to where the slice should have been. The tear in his shirt is large enough for his fingers to touch skin, skin that's fully healed, but still a bit tacky from the dried blood. It should be a gaping wound, he should be bleeding out, never to be found in the middle of the fields, but instead he's rising to his feet trying to dust the clumps of dirt off the back of his pants. His hands pull the front of his jacket tugging it closed tightly across the obvious blood stain that would give away his state for certain.
His hand reaches to the leather at his wrist, flipping it open to glance at how long it took him to live again. It's been just shy of an hour, and he's almost shocked at how quickly it went by. The thought of all that his body had to do to recover, astounds him... but the only pain he has is a slight dull ache where he's sure a few things are still recovering. His movement isn't as steady as he'd want it to be, but all things considered...
He's still alive.
