TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood, depression, homes lost due to natural events.
The destruction had reached everywhere. Gnarled, proverbial digits had toppled buildings, destroyed property. Killed many. A reminder of how small they all were, even those more powerful than the rest.
Even the gods and goddesses, deities of god damn nothing.
Michael’s survival instincts seemed to be the only thing that saved him these days. Hadn’t always been that way, no. Once, he’d relied on his brothers and sisters in arms, relied on the shotgun-blast shout of his superiors to tell him what to do, where to go, how to do it. When to rest, when to eat, when to fuck.
The war ended and so had his purpose. No amount of whiskey or pain could ever stop the numb, not REALLY, but once in a while small evidence of a heart shone through. Because he knew what it was like to have a home crushed, ripped from him. Knew how it felt to stand in the open spaces and not know where to turn.
He understood the definitions of both LOSS and LOST. Two things that didn’t always go hand in hand, but they did for him. And they did for this man who stood there in the partial rubble of his home. One that had been closest to the destruction, the unyielding waves of water, the blast. The event that had shaken the world enough to leave long, eerie streaks of purple in the sky. Even now, even during the afternoon, darkness not set to arrive for hours.
And it was easier – ALWAYS easier – to give zero fucks; but, with something this devastating, even he felt the twinge of sadness. The desire to assist as he had been trained to do as a soldier. That life, what he had done, what he had learned… that would never go away.
He stood next to a small home, a patchwork of materials, mostly stone, that had once housed a man and his daughter. No one else to help him, and the youngster was less than ten years old. Michael knew him, the man, from the war. Had fought at his side more than once. Now, he could finally start to pay him back. Father and daughter were both gone, headed for a friend’s home that hadn’t been so devastated by the blast. Trusting in Michael to repair their house.
It wouldn’t be easy on his own, but he’d manage. Had built his own temporary homes more than once, knew the basics of stone working and carpentry via necessity as a solitary Nomad living in wild places.
He needed to figure out what the hell had happened to this place before he did anything else. Stepping closer, careful not to go near anything unstable, he began his assessment of what needed to be fixed and what could be repaired.
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
Even the gods and goddesses, deities of god damn nothing.
Michael’s survival instincts seemed to be the only thing that saved him these days. Hadn’t always been that way, no. Once, he’d relied on his brothers and sisters in arms, relied on the shotgun-blast shout of his superiors to tell him what to do, where to go, how to do it. When to rest, when to eat, when to fuck.
The war ended and so had his purpose. No amount of whiskey or pain could ever stop the numb, not REALLY, but once in a while small evidence of a heart shone through. Because he knew what it was like to have a home crushed, ripped from him. Knew how it felt to stand in the open spaces and not know where to turn.
He understood the definitions of both LOSS and LOST. Two things that didn’t always go hand in hand, but they did for him. And they did for this man who stood there in the partial rubble of his home. One that had been closest to the destruction, the unyielding waves of water, the blast. The event that had shaken the world enough to leave long, eerie streaks of purple in the sky. Even now, even during the afternoon, darkness not set to arrive for hours.
And it was easier – ALWAYS easier – to give zero fucks; but, with something this devastating, even he felt the twinge of sadness. The desire to assist as he had been trained to do as a soldier. That life, what he had done, what he had learned… that would never go away.
He stood next to a small home, a patchwork of materials, mostly stone, that had once housed a man and his daughter. No one else to help him, and the youngster was less than ten years old. Michael knew him, the man, from the war. Had fought at his side more than once. Now, he could finally start to pay him back. Father and daughter were both gone, headed for a friend’s home that hadn’t been so devastated by the blast. Trusting in Michael to repair their house.
It wouldn’t be easy on his own, but he’d manage. Had built his own temporary homes more than once, knew the basics of stone working and carpentry via necessity as a solitary Nomad living in wild places.
He needed to figure out what the hell had happened to this place before he did anything else. Stepping closer, careful not to go near anything unstable, he began his assessment of what needed to be fixed and what could be repaired.
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
