It was bad luck that Dominic was moving forward at the exact moment Alexander lashed out, worse luck that he was staring beseechingly at the other boy's face, unable to understand the anger he was hearing. This wasn't like Phil. This couldn't be like Phil...
The blow caught him high on the cheekbone, momentum and the loss of balance caused by exhaustion and dehydration sending him hard to the forest floor. His head snapped back, bounced off the ground, making tears spring to his eyes as he yelped and scuttled backwards. What the...he didn't understand. Why had Alex hit him? That made no sense - at least with Phil, there was something of a reason, he knew it was simply a part of what Phil was like, could understand the circumstances, but here Alex had been soothing. Calming. A friend.
Had it been a trap all along?
He pulled himself warily to his feet and inched forwards again, hands held out to his sides. As real as it gets. The bloody faces of Abigail, Tiffany, Phil Ward with teeth like a shark, Dominic's own face grinning at him. This was the game. Kill or be killed. But he hadn't thought anyone would play it. People couldn't. They wouldn't...
He moved towards Alex, faster this time, grasping for him.
"Please..."
If That Looking Glass Gets Broke
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ifnotwinter†
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler ifnotwinter. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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Lord_Shadow†
- Posts: 26
- Joined: Sun Sep 02, 2018 7:15 am
(GMing approved by faceinabook. Also, apologies for dragging this thing on so long. My part in this ends with this post.)
There was no way he could back down now. No way he could simply walk away. He had struck first, and now Dom was coming after him.
"I said get away from me!" He took a swing at Dom's midsection, and another, and another. Alex threw punch after punch, not wiling to stop for anything. He made another heavy swing to Dom's head, bringing the boy down. And once he was down he began to kick him with everything he had.
Rage, frustration, anger, and confusion were all channeled into each hit. Alex beat Dom as hard as he could possibly muster, but didn't kill him.
No, instead he'd leave him to die.
"Survival of the fittest. That's the name of the game and the law of the world. And so I will survive, and you will not. Bye, thanks for helping me realize that." Alex left him, tuning out anything the boy may have said. He didn't want to hear it. He wasn't going to hear it. Survival was all that mattered to him now. And no one nor anything would stop him from surviving. He popped a caffeine pill. He couldn't afford to be tired, not now.
(Alexander Seymour continued in Still Going Strong)
There was no way he could back down now. No way he could simply walk away. He had struck first, and now Dom was coming after him.
"I said get away from me!" He took a swing at Dom's midsection, and another, and another. Alex threw punch after punch, not wiling to stop for anything. He made another heavy swing to Dom's head, bringing the boy down. And once he was down he began to kick him with everything he had.
Rage, frustration, anger, and confusion were all channeled into each hit. Alex beat Dom as hard as he could possibly muster, but didn't kill him.
No, instead he'd leave him to die.
"Survival of the fittest. That's the name of the game and the law of the world. And so I will survive, and you will not. Bye, thanks for helping me realize that." Alex left him, tuning out anything the boy may have said. He didn't want to hear it. He wasn't going to hear it. Survival was all that mattered to him now. And no one nor anything would stop him from surviving. He popped a caffeine pill. He couldn't afford to be tired, not now.
(Alexander Seymour continued in Still Going Strong)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Lord_Shadow. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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ifnotwinter†
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
The next punch landed just under Dominic's ribs, in that soft fleshy hollow of skin and fat and muscle and organ. It drove the breath out of him with a surprised whoof, left him choking on nothing as he tried to drag in oxygen, feet still inexorably dragging him forwards. His words were gone with his air, but his lips still moved, mouthing desperate pleas, eyes wide and dark with the pupil swallowing up the brown.
The punch after that swung wild, knocking his shoulder and sending him staggering, off balance. The one after that connected neatly with his ribs so that he half-fell, dull ribbons of pain twining around his midsection, forward motion finally arrested and the single shocked scream of WHY repeating itself in his mind, his lips forming the word over and over and over until a heavy blow to the side of his head knocked him into the dirt, dead leaves, rotting things invading his mouth and making him spit.
After that, he lost track.
Alexander's shoe made bright starbursts of pain, thudding over and over into his body. The occasional difference was a fist, or open-handed slap, but they all ran together. His eyes were closed now, rolled up into his head as he fought to curl into a ball. Once in a while, he cried out, the abrupt sound of an animal being stepped on. When he heard the crack, felt two ribs buckling under the assault, giving way to curl around his lungs. When the toe of a sneaker connected with his lower back, once, twice, three times, until his world dissolved in white-hot sparkles without pity or sympathy enough to bear him away on wings of unconsciousness. When his glasses shattered, and glass splinters bit deep into his cheek. When he ran out of air to vocalize, he buried himself in his mind and prayed.
To what?
He wasn't sure anymore.
Just as he wasn't sure how long it had been when he finally registered that the blows had stopped raining down, leaving him in a broken bundle on the forest floor. He started to uncurl, stopped as white-hot knives buried themselves in his sides, suns exploding in front of his eyes, fingers refusing to listen to his order.
He opened his mouth to cry out, to heave great dry sobs the way a child would, frantic for their mother, but all that emerged was a tooth. A canine, coated in blood.
He probed the inside of his mouth with a tongue that felt like it had gone through a paper shredder. Two molars slid out with just a little prodding, the incisor taking a little more work before the root ripped free of the pulped gum. It didn't particularly hurt. The little nuggets of enamel dropped from his lips, one by one, and when he opened the eye that would still open and saw, blurry and indistinct, the teeth lying on the ground, he vomited.
It hurt almost worse than the beating, and he lay shaking long after he had finished. There seemed to be altogether too much blood dripping from his mouth, but that somehow didn't feel important right now. What was important was Alexander.
Alexander. Had done this to him - but no, that was impossible. He wouldn't. No student would, no one in Bayview, not since Pondsworth had gone, and that left the simple, easy to understand concept that someone else, some sicko, perhaps the same one who had dreamed up this game, had done it. And Alexander was gone. Perhaps to find help? Or he was scared. Dominic could understand scared. He was scared too. It ran deep, still waters, current humming through him, but he forced himself to ignore it.
Alex could be hurt too.
He should (kill him) find him.
Find him.
Yes.
Raising himself on his hands made him feel like there was something hot and fiery inside of him, lava, slowly running through his veins. Achingly sharp, burning him from the inside out. He made one abortive attempt to get to his feet, but his knee buckled under him and send him shrieking back to the ground, a thin, high noise that sounded like the keening of a dying animal, one of the many he'd tried to save. Eventually, he made it back to his hands, planting one after the other, dragging the injured leg behind him in an awkward half-crawl. Each movement made fresh explosions go off dully in his organs. He spat blood. Some from his mouth, cut as it was, but some came from deeper, hot and fresh.
But he had to keep going. He knew that much.
Barely able to see, barely able to crawl, barely able to talk, Dominic Stratford dragged the bleeding, broken heap of flesh he had so recently called his body forwards, following footsteps which weren't there, the last vestiges of adrenaline propelling him into the trees.
((Dominic Stratford continued in No Valhalla For Pacifists))
The punch after that swung wild, knocking his shoulder and sending him staggering, off balance. The one after that connected neatly with his ribs so that he half-fell, dull ribbons of pain twining around his midsection, forward motion finally arrested and the single shocked scream of WHY repeating itself in his mind, his lips forming the word over and over and over until a heavy blow to the side of his head knocked him into the dirt, dead leaves, rotting things invading his mouth and making him spit.
After that, he lost track.
Alexander's shoe made bright starbursts of pain, thudding over and over into his body. The occasional difference was a fist, or open-handed slap, but they all ran together. His eyes were closed now, rolled up into his head as he fought to curl into a ball. Once in a while, he cried out, the abrupt sound of an animal being stepped on. When he heard the crack, felt two ribs buckling under the assault, giving way to curl around his lungs. When the toe of a sneaker connected with his lower back, once, twice, three times, until his world dissolved in white-hot sparkles without pity or sympathy enough to bear him away on wings of unconsciousness. When his glasses shattered, and glass splinters bit deep into his cheek. When he ran out of air to vocalize, he buried himself in his mind and prayed.
To what?
He wasn't sure anymore.
Just as he wasn't sure how long it had been when he finally registered that the blows had stopped raining down, leaving him in a broken bundle on the forest floor. He started to uncurl, stopped as white-hot knives buried themselves in his sides, suns exploding in front of his eyes, fingers refusing to listen to his order.
He opened his mouth to cry out, to heave great dry sobs the way a child would, frantic for their mother, but all that emerged was a tooth. A canine, coated in blood.
He probed the inside of his mouth with a tongue that felt like it had gone through a paper shredder. Two molars slid out with just a little prodding, the incisor taking a little more work before the root ripped free of the pulped gum. It didn't particularly hurt. The little nuggets of enamel dropped from his lips, one by one, and when he opened the eye that would still open and saw, blurry and indistinct, the teeth lying on the ground, he vomited.
It hurt almost worse than the beating, and he lay shaking long after he had finished. There seemed to be altogether too much blood dripping from his mouth, but that somehow didn't feel important right now. What was important was Alexander.
Alexander. Had done this to him - but no, that was impossible. He wouldn't. No student would, no one in Bayview, not since Pondsworth had gone, and that left the simple, easy to understand concept that someone else, some sicko, perhaps the same one who had dreamed up this game, had done it. And Alexander was gone. Perhaps to find help? Or he was scared. Dominic could understand scared. He was scared too. It ran deep, still waters, current humming through him, but he forced himself to ignore it.
Alex could be hurt too.
He should (kill him) find him.
Find him.
Yes.
Raising himself on his hands made him feel like there was something hot and fiery inside of him, lava, slowly running through his veins. Achingly sharp, burning him from the inside out. He made one abortive attempt to get to his feet, but his knee buckled under him and send him shrieking back to the ground, a thin, high noise that sounded like the keening of a dying animal, one of the many he'd tried to save. Eventually, he made it back to his hands, planting one after the other, dragging the injured leg behind him in an awkward half-crawl. Each movement made fresh explosions go off dully in his organs. He spat blood. Some from his mouth, cut as it was, but some came from deeper, hot and fresh.
But he had to keep going. He knew that much.
Barely able to see, barely able to crawl, barely able to talk, Dominic Stratford dragged the bleeding, broken heap of flesh he had so recently called his body forwards, following footsteps which weren't there, the last vestiges of adrenaline propelling him into the trees.
((Dominic Stratford continued in No Valhalla For Pacifists))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler ifnotwinter. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.