I heard you screamin' that you want me dead
I'm a nobody. Things like this aren't supposed to happen to nobodies.
The snow is cold, he knows it must be, but he can't tell whether it's blood or water clinging to his lips and nose where he lays propped carelessly against his own front door. How long has it been? It had felt like hours, but care had been necessary in his carving - he's awfully weak, you know, or so he'd been told. It took more care not to kill him. He's not sure he'll ever forget that it had been a choice. He doesn't have the consciousness to weep, but he would if he did. It makes no sense to feel grateful or indebted to his would-be killer, but the senseless beast inside each human that cares only for survival hunkers in the snow and blood and whines a pathetic litany of thanks.
The hurt that comes as the door opens and he falls through is a distant echo beneath the present agony. The fall jolts him from somewhere timeless and twilight, summoning enough consciousness for his throat to work and spasm uselessly around bile and hoarse vocals. "D'd," he gurgles wetly into the dark. It's not the first time Luka has said it; called, begged, screamed it. Luka only prays this is the last time he'll have to do so. There's no energy left to plea again for his father to save him.
The snow is cold, he knows it must be, but he can't tell whether it's blood or water clinging to his lips and nose where he lays propped carelessly against his own front door. How long has it been? It had felt like hours, but care had been necessary in his carving - he's awfully weak, you know, or so he'd been told. It took more care not to kill him. He's not sure he'll ever forget that it had been a choice. He doesn't have the consciousness to weep, but he would if he did. It makes no sense to feel grateful or indebted to his would-be killer, but the senseless beast inside each human that cares only for survival hunkers in the snow and blood and whines a pathetic litany of thanks.
The hurt that comes as the door opens and he falls through is a distant echo beneath the present agony. The fall jolts him from somewhere timeless and twilight, summoning enough consciousness for his throat to work and spasm uselessly around bile and hoarse vocals. "D'd," he gurgles wetly into the dark. It's not the first time Luka has said it; called, begged, screamed it. Luka only prays this is the last time he'll have to do so. There's no energy left to plea again for his father to save him.
Is that what the voice says inside of your head?
Luka
