Now I know there's no one I can trust - I used to think there was
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
He’s drowning. Iron is flooding his nose and mouth, thick and uncomfortably hot. Each breath is a rattle, spraying blood when he convulses uselessly on the rotted wooden floor. His mother is crying in the background somewhere, her shrill voice overshadowed by his father’s booming shouts. There’s a panicked undertone there that Bart isn’t used to hearing. The words themselves are muffled. Like there’s cotton in his ears. Or maybe there’s blood there too? It’s a hysterical idea in the moment.
I’m dying, he thinks to himself. There’s no fear, only a sense of wonder. Befuddlement perhaps. Of all times, he hadn’t expected it to be now. Here.
At least there’s no pain. He has seen firsthand the terrible, slow ways death can come to a person. As he gurgles blood, lips stained and hand uselessly pressed to his throat, he’s simply grateful.
It’s finally over. The last chapter penned, the cover finally closed.
He can rest now.
I’m coming, Nate.
- - -
There’s rain on his face. And fuck is it annoying. A deluge or whatever. He’s halfway to scowling before he even opens his eyes, and then he’s more distracted by the fact that he’s alive. And not in his father’s rundown living room if the gritty sand beneath him is any evidence. Which is a major difference from what he last remembers you know? For a moment he just lays there, trying to figure out what the hell is happening, but that becomes useless real quick. Sitting up and looking around isn’t much better. In fact it’s the opposite, because Bart has never seen this place before in his life, and he doesn’t think heaven - or hell, who is he kidding - would be this soggy. Which leaves him with just about zero context clues for where he has ended up.
So he does what he does best - gets on his feet and keeps moving.
The rain plasters his curls down against his forehead, but at least his jacket keeps him warm enough. A hand strays to his throat, and he swallows shakily at the scar he feels beneath his fingertips. So it was real. But if that’s the case, where the hell is he now?
He walks aimlessly away from the shore. Inland is where the people will be. Or so he hopes. God, please don’t let this be some Lord of the Flies bullshit.
I’m dying, he thinks to himself. There’s no fear, only a sense of wonder. Befuddlement perhaps. Of all times, he hadn’t expected it to be now. Here.
At least there’s no pain. He has seen firsthand the terrible, slow ways death can come to a person. As he gurgles blood, lips stained and hand uselessly pressed to his throat, he’s simply grateful.
It’s finally over. The last chapter penned, the cover finally closed.
He can rest now.
I’m coming, Nate.
There’s rain on his face. And fuck is it annoying. A deluge or whatever. He’s halfway to scowling before he even opens his eyes, and then he’s more distracted by the fact that he’s alive. And not in his father’s rundown living room if the gritty sand beneath him is any evidence. Which is a major difference from what he last remembers you know? For a moment he just lays there, trying to figure out what the hell is happening, but that becomes useless real quick. Sitting up and looking around isn’t much better. In fact it’s the opposite, because Bart has never seen this place before in his life, and he doesn’t think heaven - or hell, who is he kidding - would be this soggy. Which leaves him with just about zero context clues for where he has ended up.
So he does what he does best - gets on his feet and keeps moving.
The rain plasters his curls down against his forehead, but at least his jacket keeps him warm enough. A hand strays to his throat, and he swallows shakily at the scar he feels beneath his fingertips. So it was real. But if that’s the case, where the hell is he now?
He walks aimlessly away from the shore. Inland is where the people will be. Or so he hopes. God, please don’t let this be some Lord of the Flies bullshit.
Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear
let weakness disappear
BARTHOLOMEW
