Tactic Static
Posted: Wed Feb 09, 2011 11:26 am
((Michael Moretti and Violet Druce continued from Cool Ranch.))
Mike let a palmful of sand fall through his fingers onto the lid of his guitar case. The early sun reflected off the black pockmarked hardshell and burned into his eyes. His headaches were getting worse. Dehydration, probably. He wasn't about to dig into the water. They were dangerously low as it was, and besides, his lips were welded together from a day's worth of silence and he could hardly conjure the energy to pry them back apart. Violet sat across from him, head down towards the piece of stale bread she was intently tearing to crumbs. The black roots in her part were clearly visible. A crack in the veneer. They were both cracked. Hilary was dead and Leila was a killer and it was all Violet's fault. Ilario was a killer. That was all Mike's fault. They were no closer to Liz. They were farther than ever from escape. Good morning. He thought longingly of the plant in his guitar. Fuck, his head hurt.
The bags were piled up between the pair. The morning star's handle rested against Vi's bag. Her blowtorch was thrown haphazardly to the side. It looked abandoned, even with its owner inches away. Her head still hadn't lifted. Her bread was beginning to look like the sand. He was glad for the bags between them. He had a mad urge to touch her shoulder or her hand. He couldn't comfort her, he knew. His own guilt was just as heavy on both of them. Besides, she was strong. She would realize soon enough that what had happened was out of her hands. She could only live for herself, and she would. It was why he chose to follow her. He wished he was as lucky. He thought again of the despoiled eye and the grief-frenzied boy who had become an unwitting (unwilling?) murderer.
He really wished his head would just stop hurting.
Mike let a palmful of sand fall through his fingers onto the lid of his guitar case. The early sun reflected off the black pockmarked hardshell and burned into his eyes. His headaches were getting worse. Dehydration, probably. He wasn't about to dig into the water. They were dangerously low as it was, and besides, his lips were welded together from a day's worth of silence and he could hardly conjure the energy to pry them back apart. Violet sat across from him, head down towards the piece of stale bread she was intently tearing to crumbs. The black roots in her part were clearly visible. A crack in the veneer. They were both cracked. Hilary was dead and Leila was a killer and it was all Violet's fault. Ilario was a killer. That was all Mike's fault. They were no closer to Liz. They were farther than ever from escape. Good morning. He thought longingly of the plant in his guitar. Fuck, his head hurt.
The bags were piled up between the pair. The morning star's handle rested against Vi's bag. Her blowtorch was thrown haphazardly to the side. It looked abandoned, even with its owner inches away. Her head still hadn't lifted. Her bread was beginning to look like the sand. He was glad for the bags between them. He had a mad urge to touch her shoulder or her hand. He couldn't comfort her, he knew. His own guilt was just as heavy on both of them. Besides, she was strong. She would realize soon enough that what had happened was out of her hands. She could only live for herself, and she would. It was why he chose to follow her. He wished he was as lucky. He thought again of the despoiled eye and the grief-frenzied boy who had become an unwitting (unwilling?) murderer.
He really wished his head would just stop hurting.