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EIGHT LEGS TO THE WALL
14 years ago
HIT THE GAS, KILL 'EM ALL.
this is old and i actually made somebody cry with it.
grace: 1 you: 0
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No, this wasn't right, this wasn't right at all. Everything was falling down around him. He couldn't fucking see his own hands when he held them in front of his face (was he holding them up?), and it was the fucking the brightest day of the year. The window was open, wasn't it? The noises outside just blended together and he wasn't sure exactly what was happening. He could see the needle on the floor, his fingers had opened on their own, he must have let it drop. He can't remember. He can't think.
His head is swarming, his brain is squirming, and, oh God, his blood is pumping, overflowing, he feels like he's going to burst. He can't hear his own heart, it's beating so fast, or maybe that's because his running veins are so loud in his ears, he can't hear much other than this. And he knows he shouldn't stand up, but he does, oh, he does. He's performing the unthinkable on a terrible trip. He's taken too much, he's panicking, he can't feel his toes.
His feet.
His legs.
It's starting from the bottom, and moving upward, he's disappearing.
Oh, God, where have his fingers gone?!
He tries to blink, and he wonders if he did. If he did, why didn't he see the backs of his eyelids?
He's only made it as far as his kitchen, until his knees fold, and his body is enough of a dead weight, his tiled floor hard enough, he's shifted his kneecap out of place.
But Riah doesn't know, Riah can't feel it. Everything's numb. There's a low throb in his head, down the arteries in his arms.
And suddenly, he can't remember who the fuck he is. Where the fuck he is.
He can't think properly, his eyes are rolling, he's laying face down on the floor, and he can't move.
He tries to open his mouth to say something, yell for help?, and instead of words, vomit comes out. It's replaced his sentences, his vowels, his alphabet. He feels like he's being crushed, he's crying empty, broken, noiseless tears. His breathing is tortoise-like, sluggish.
Slow.
But his heart was thrumming, like the fuckin' wings of a hummingbird. Oh, God, he's taken too much.
He's dying. He's dying. He's dying.
He couldn't feel the tile, or his knuckles tapping, he couldn't feel his body shaking. His bones rattling, they were too heavy, the marrow was boiling, he was the end of the world within itself. Plates grinding, aftershocks, thunderstorms, hurricanes, lightning. And he can't feel any of this.
His blood was rushing, but he couldn't feel it.
His kneecap was fucked, but he couldn't feel it.
The tile of the kitchenette was keeping his body cool, but he couldn't feel it.
He couldn't feel the vomit pooling around his face, his shoulders (oh, but he could certainly smell it).
His head was throbbing, beating, swelling. His vision was blurring even more so, but he could see a figure draped in red tresses of hair. A demon.
Please, be a hallucination. Please, be a nightmare. Oh, I'm in Hell. I'm in Hell. If I'm not yet, I'm going to Hell. I'm dying, I'm dying. I'm dead.
He's still crying, squeezing out little salty tears, oh, he had always been so mediocre.
Oh so graceful.
What a beautiful way to die.
His body is still surging,
Fucking Ketamine,
He can't even feel the tip of his nose, and right now he's just running snot, and breaking tears, and rank vomit.
He's a sack of skin and bones, he's hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness. He's hoping for a savior, because he doesn't want to die like this. He's hoping for a personal hero, he'd even take his mom if it meant that he wasn't going to die. It wasn't his time, oh, merciful God, it wasn't his time. His nerves are causing his body to twitch and quiver like the spineless leech he was. Oh, God was going to send him to Hell.
He was off to live with Satan, to be right-hand man to Beelzebub.
If he got lucky.
This is what you do to me.
And Zacariah Joseph Grant is out for the count.
this is old and i actually made somebody cry with it.
grace: 1 you: 0
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No, this wasn't right, this wasn't right at all. Everything was falling down around him. He couldn't fucking see his own hands when he held them in front of his face (was he holding them up?), and it was the fucking the brightest day of the year. The window was open, wasn't it? The noises outside just blended together and he wasn't sure exactly what was happening. He could see the needle on the floor, his fingers had opened on their own, he must have let it drop. He can't remember. He can't think.
His head is swarming, his brain is squirming, and, oh God, his blood is pumping, overflowing, he feels like he's going to burst. He can't hear his own heart, it's beating so fast, or maybe that's because his running veins are so loud in his ears, he can't hear much other than this. And he knows he shouldn't stand up, but he does, oh, he does. He's performing the unthinkable on a terrible trip. He's taken too much, he's panicking, he can't feel his toes.
His feet.
His legs.
It's starting from the bottom, and moving upward, he's disappearing.
Oh, God, where have his fingers gone?!
He tries to blink, and he wonders if he did. If he did, why didn't he see the backs of his eyelids?
He's only made it as far as his kitchen, until his knees fold, and his body is enough of a dead weight, his tiled floor hard enough, he's shifted his kneecap out of place.
But Riah doesn't know, Riah can't feel it. Everything's numb. There's a low throb in his head, down the arteries in his arms.
And suddenly, he can't remember who the fuck he is. Where the fuck he is.
He can't think properly, his eyes are rolling, he's laying face down on the floor, and he can't move.
( He can't move, he can't feel an inch of his body.
Oh, God, he's in Hell )He tries to open his mouth to say something, yell for help?, and instead of words, vomit comes out. It's replaced his sentences, his vowels, his alphabet. He feels like he's being crushed, he's crying empty, broken, noiseless tears. His breathing is tortoise-like, sluggish.
Slow.
But his heart was thrumming, like the fuckin' wings of a hummingbird. Oh, God, he's taken too much.
He's dying. He's dying. He's dying.
He couldn't feel the tile, or his knuckles tapping, he couldn't feel his body shaking. His bones rattling, they were too heavy, the marrow was boiling, he was the end of the world within itself. Plates grinding, aftershocks, thunderstorms, hurricanes, lightning. And he can't feel any of this.
His blood was rushing, but he couldn't feel it.
His kneecap was fucked, but he couldn't feel it.
The tile of the kitchenette was keeping his body cool, but he couldn't feel it.
He couldn't feel the vomit pooling around his face, his shoulders (oh, but he could certainly smell it).
His head was throbbing, beating, swelling. His vision was blurring even more so, but he could see a figure draped in red tresses of hair. A demon.
Please, be a hallucination. Please, be a nightmare. Oh, I'm in Hell. I'm in Hell. If I'm not yet, I'm going to Hell. I'm dying, I'm dying. I'm dead.
He's still crying, squeezing out little salty tears, oh, he had always been so mediocre.
Oh so graceful.
What a beautiful way to die.
His body is still surging,
Fucking Ketamine,
He can't even feel the tip of his nose, and right now he's just running snot, and breaking tears, and rank vomit.
He's a sack of skin and bones, he's hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness. He's hoping for a savior, because he doesn't want to die like this. He's hoping for a personal hero, he'd even take his mom if it meant that he wasn't going to die. It wasn't his time, oh, merciful God, it wasn't his time. His nerves are causing his body to twitch and quiver like the spineless leech he was. Oh, God was going to send him to Hell.
He was off to live with Satan, to be right-hand man to Beelzebub.
If he got lucky.
This is what you do to me.
And Zacariah Joseph Grant is out for the count.
