KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
With his head ringing like a bell after the blow and his eyes not seeing straight from booze, with nightmare and waking bleeding together, the last of the Hale's was quite out of his mind. The red that dripped into his vision soon coated his hands as he wiped and wiped, but it wouldn't stop running. A red river - the only kind that flowed in these parts - that distorted his view and reminded him of a carnage he had seen once. Bodies had been cut to pieces, crimson flowers blooming in the snow.
It had been cloudy that day.
A shape came looming up before him, almost as tall (but not quite, ha!) and even before the owner of the voice registered, Korbin flung an arm out to ward off the hands that reached for him. "Dontuch me," he said, words garbled, unintelligible, and spat when he realized that the red was in his mouth too. Coppery, full, a taste of life and death and other things he hated. He aimed for the ground, but quite possibly the spit went astray, towards some boot or other. Not his though. (Ha, again!)
The world was a blur, tinted with red, and as he squinted against the blood and the sun at Chulane, it dawned on him why he found this person so hateful. He was always so damn nice. All fucked over, dragged here and there and with nothing, no one, so why was he smiling?
Old ire rose up in the boy, and he meant to stagger on, to slam a shoulder into the other as he passed. "Fuchoff," hesnarled slurred. Half hoping for a reaction. Half expecting none.
This guy had never fought back before. Why would he start now.
It had been cloudy that day.
A shape came looming up before him, almost as tall (but not quite, ha!) and even before the owner of the voice registered, Korbin flung an arm out to ward off the hands that reached for him. "Dontuch me," he said, words garbled, unintelligible, and spat when he realized that the red was in his mouth too. Coppery, full, a taste of life and death and other things he hated. He aimed for the ground, but quite possibly the spit went astray, towards some boot or other. Not his though. (Ha, again!)
The world was a blur, tinted with red, and as he squinted against the blood and the sun at Chulane, it dawned on him why he found this person so hateful. He was always so damn nice. All fucked over, dragged here and there and with nothing, no one, so why was he smiling?
Old ire rose up in the boy, and he meant to stagger on, to slam a shoulder into the other as he passed. "Fuchoff," he
This guy had never fought back before. Why would he start now.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
