Post by Andy on Sept 23, 2014 14:38:52 GMT -6
He was busking when it happened, lazily strumming his guitar. He was sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall of a building downtown.
‘What a beautiful day,’ he mused, looking up into the bright blue sky. It reminded him of her eyes, and he smiled wider. A passerby dropped a small handful of change into the hat set up in front of him, and he thanked them quickly as they walked away.
The added benefit of the nice weather meant foot traffic was increased, but not so bad he hadn’t gathered a small crowd of people with nowhere to be at the moment. A little girl was watching him pluck out a new song excitedly, one hand in her mother’s and the other swinging against her side as she twisted to the music. He finished his latest song, and her mother smiled, dropping a bill into his hat. He thanked them very much, the little girl cheering, “Good-bye, musician man!” as her mother tugged her along behind her.
“My name’s Greg!” He called after her with a little wave, before returning his hand to his guitar to play again.
By midday, it was getting a bit too hot to sit in the sunlight with his dark hair exposed. He counted the latest haul, pleased with the results. Soon enough he’d be able to afford the ring, and his heart thudded excitedly as he carefully tucked the money into his pocket. He pushed his hat on, guitar in a case across his back as he walked.
‘Might as well get a bite to eat.’
Someone stumbled into him in his absent-minded reverie, and he was about to babble a clumsy apology when he noticed they didn’t look okay. Reddened eyes, jaw a little slack. They looked like they were going to be sick, if they weren’t already.
“Woah, are you ok—“ He tried to ask, but they gave him an answer already.
With more strength than he thought a person of their size would have (granted, he was significantly taller than most, so maybe he had just underestimated) they snatched his wrist and pulled it forward, sinking their teeth into it. He screamed in a mixture of surprise and pain. The people around them stopped and stared, hands covering their mouths in shock. Some of them were more helpful, phones already being pulled out to phone for an ambulance, the police, whatever authority they thought was appropriate in this given situation.
He yanked his wrist back, hard. The force was enough to send the person stumbling forward, their teeth still glazed red with a coating of his blood. Their eyes, previously half-lidded, looked crazed now. Darting at all the people on the street, they open their mouth and let out a spine-tingling screech. It was never a sound Greg had expected another human to make in his life. He turned and fled. He clutched his wrist, dripping red all over as he ran. Whatever that person’s problem was, he didn’t want to stay to find out.
‘No, no, no, no…’ He thought in a panic, sparing a glance at the hand squeezing over his injured wrist. Thick streams of red were oozing out between his fingers, soaking into his shirt sleeve and staining the striped fabric. He'd been so close! Everything had been going so well! He thought of the collection of money in his pocket that'd he intended to return home with today. It might've been enough... Feeling tears making their way down his cheeks, he turned his head upwards, once again taking in the bright blue sky that seemed so reassuring moments ago. His distraction kept him from paying attention to the world around him, the traffic lights not working in his favour as he galloped. He heard the tires screech and his head snapped back into action, too late to react to the danger besides that.
"What the hell happened?!"
"Is that a bite?"
"Somebody, get some help!"
"Is he okay?!"
He woke up, sometime later. Everything hurt, but at the same time, it didn’t. Like a distant ache. A memory of something you used to be able to feel, but don’t anymore. Almost like a phantom limb, except everything was still attached. Sort of.
His wrist hung limp, the tendon never having healed properly. It made it really difficult to stand back up again, when he finally did. Something was wrong with one of his legs, too, he thought. It took much longer to connect his thoughts to his actions, like his head wading through mud to process anything. His head hung to one side, then slumped forward, trying to look at his legs. There was a windshield wiper jutting out of one of his calves. Yeah, that’d probably be why he had to limp everywhere.
But that he did, with some form of determination no one seemed to understand. He never approached anyone, never spoke. If he looked at someone, it would be more accurate to say he was looking through them, his remaining eye shining oddly. He trudged onwards, always. In search of something, but seemingly never finding whatever it was. It was almost pitiful, and definitely strange.
Luckily for him, it meant most everyone left him alone.
"What's de use 'n killin' somethin' dat ain't even alive no more?" He overheard someone ask one day.
Alive? Dead? It didn't seem to make a difference to him. His feet carried him forward, despite his limp, one in front of the other. The obstacle didn't matter - there was never a barricade too tall for him to eventually climb over, never a mob too thick to pass his way through, never a river too deep to wade across, never a threat to stop him in whatever internal quest he seemed to have.
Until, one day...
The figure lay prone, soon to be gone. As if what remained of two of their limbs wasn’t indication enough, there were so many other ways he could tell. The blood caking one side of her face, emanating from what looked to be horrible damage to one of her beautiful blue eyes, if it remained in the socket at all. The edges of her hair, short and choppy, clearly hacked off in a frenzied rush. He stroked a hand through it gently, waiting for a reaction. There wasn’t one, at first. He slipped his wounded hand under her head, using his arm to prop her up. She stirred, her good eyelid fluttering as consciousness returned.
She opened her eye, slowly. Recognition bloomed in her iris, the blue of her remaining eye sparkling in delight. Though one side of his face was basically gone, the cheek that still functioned pulled up into what could pass for a small smile. He helped her stand upright. Luckily, though her wounds made it hard to move at first, they matched each other in such a way he could act as her crutch when she stumbled. She slipped a hand in his, and despite his wounded tendon, he managed to squeeze.
What a beautiful day.
‘What a beautiful day,’ he mused, looking up into the bright blue sky. It reminded him of her eyes, and he smiled wider. A passerby dropped a small handful of change into the hat set up in front of him, and he thanked them quickly as they walked away.
The added benefit of the nice weather meant foot traffic was increased, but not so bad he hadn’t gathered a small crowd of people with nowhere to be at the moment. A little girl was watching him pluck out a new song excitedly, one hand in her mother’s and the other swinging against her side as she twisted to the music. He finished his latest song, and her mother smiled, dropping a bill into his hat. He thanked them very much, the little girl cheering, “Good-bye, musician man!” as her mother tugged her along behind her.
“My name’s Greg!” He called after her with a little wave, before returning his hand to his guitar to play again.
By midday, it was getting a bit too hot to sit in the sunlight with his dark hair exposed. He counted the latest haul, pleased with the results. Soon enough he’d be able to afford the ring, and his heart thudded excitedly as he carefully tucked the money into his pocket. He pushed his hat on, guitar in a case across his back as he walked.
‘Might as well get a bite to eat.’
Someone stumbled into him in his absent-minded reverie, and he was about to babble a clumsy apology when he noticed they didn’t look okay. Reddened eyes, jaw a little slack. They looked like they were going to be sick, if they weren’t already.
“Woah, are you ok—“ He tried to ask, but they gave him an answer already.
With more strength than he thought a person of their size would have (granted, he was significantly taller than most, so maybe he had just underestimated) they snatched his wrist and pulled it forward, sinking their teeth into it. He screamed in a mixture of surprise and pain. The people around them stopped and stared, hands covering their mouths in shock. Some of them were more helpful, phones already being pulled out to phone for an ambulance, the police, whatever authority they thought was appropriate in this given situation.
He yanked his wrist back, hard. The force was enough to send the person stumbling forward, their teeth still glazed red with a coating of his blood. Their eyes, previously half-lidded, looked crazed now. Darting at all the people on the street, they open their mouth and let out a spine-tingling screech. It was never a sound Greg had expected another human to make in his life. He turned and fled. He clutched his wrist, dripping red all over as he ran. Whatever that person’s problem was, he didn’t want to stay to find out.
‘No, no, no, no…’ He thought in a panic, sparing a glance at the hand squeezing over his injured wrist. Thick streams of red were oozing out between his fingers, soaking into his shirt sleeve and staining the striped fabric. He'd been so close! Everything had been going so well! He thought of the collection of money in his pocket that'd he intended to return home with today. It might've been enough... Feeling tears making their way down his cheeks, he turned his head upwards, once again taking in the bright blue sky that seemed so reassuring moments ago. His distraction kept him from paying attention to the world around him, the traffic lights not working in his favour as he galloped. He heard the tires screech and his head snapped back into action, too late to react to the danger besides that.
"What the hell happened?!"
"Is that a bite?"
"Somebody, get some help!"
"Is he okay?!"
He woke up, sometime later. Everything hurt, but at the same time, it didn’t. Like a distant ache. A memory of something you used to be able to feel, but don’t anymore. Almost like a phantom limb, except everything was still attached. Sort of.
His wrist hung limp, the tendon never having healed properly. It made it really difficult to stand back up again, when he finally did. Something was wrong with one of his legs, too, he thought. It took much longer to connect his thoughts to his actions, like his head wading through mud to process anything. His head hung to one side, then slumped forward, trying to look at his legs. There was a windshield wiper jutting out of one of his calves. Yeah, that’d probably be why he had to limp everywhere.
But that he did, with some form of determination no one seemed to understand. He never approached anyone, never spoke. If he looked at someone, it would be more accurate to say he was looking through them, his remaining eye shining oddly. He trudged onwards, always. In search of something, but seemingly never finding whatever it was. It was almost pitiful, and definitely strange.
Luckily for him, it meant most everyone left him alone.
"What's de use 'n killin' somethin' dat ain't even alive no more?" He overheard someone ask one day.
Alive? Dead? It didn't seem to make a difference to him. His feet carried him forward, despite his limp, one in front of the other. The obstacle didn't matter - there was never a barricade too tall for him to eventually climb over, never a mob too thick to pass his way through, never a river too deep to wade across, never a threat to stop him in whatever internal quest he seemed to have.
Until, one day...
The figure lay prone, soon to be gone. As if what remained of two of their limbs wasn’t indication enough, there were so many other ways he could tell. The blood caking one side of her face, emanating from what looked to be horrible damage to one of her beautiful blue eyes, if it remained in the socket at all. The edges of her hair, short and choppy, clearly hacked off in a frenzied rush. He stroked a hand through it gently, waiting for a reaction. There wasn’t one, at first. He slipped his wounded hand under her head, using his arm to prop her up. She stirred, her good eyelid fluttering as consciousness returned.
She opened her eye, slowly. Recognition bloomed in her iris, the blue of her remaining eye sparkling in delight. Though one side of his face was basically gone, the cheek that still functioned pulled up into what could pass for a small smile. He helped her stand upright. Luckily, though her wounds made it hard to move at first, they matched each other in such a way he could act as her crutch when she stumbled. She slipped a hand in his, and despite his wounded tendon, he managed to squeeze.
What a beautiful day.