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Viewing Single Post From: Rückenfigur
Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
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Red and numb and hand. It quaked, trembled, rocked with every single futile breath that put soot and eroded tombstone dust into her still beating lungs. Air was no longer enough, it hurt too. It had always hurt, Tina realized with the dull, wet, slimy pop of one rusty little gear of her brain into it's resting place.

The darkness she saw, it had always been. Black and ink and midnight, shredded tattered muslin ribbons about her form. Draped she had been, cut of such cloth as a stoic fashion model to be used then toppled and left to dust and ruin.

Red splashed on her from above, in rivulets off a wrist superior to her own. It was warm and soft, silky.

Red within her. It bubbled and frothed weakly. She made efforts, she was efforts. All of them already failed.

A smile from above. It seemed a mimicry of Tina's face, as much a reflection as the ghost in the glass shard to be her guillotine. A pleasant little reminder in molten colors and shapes that teased with soft edges. Of where momentum was. Of who somebody was. Of where life was. Of color, of breath, of sound. Of one. Not of Tina.

Two hands became one as one eroded away. The momentum and impulse of life turned downward with crushing finality. One hand's final, artisan brush stroke. The camera giggled impishly, an organic sort of metal screeching it's newborn breath as it let them witness.

"... somehow, someway, you make them see you."

They did see her. Oh, Papa, they did see her.

They saw nothing.

And so did she.

G047 : Deceased
105 students remaining

A crimson sort of brackish stain that erupted from the dead girl's now broken to paper shreds throat, quick to harden and coagulate in ugly chunks over her limbs, one twisted at a wickedly disgusting angle. A mosaic, a fresco of tiles that cracked in the shape of the rubble strewn about the body. Jagged as the shards of wood and glass and steel that tiled the floor. Edges and fissures and crevasses in stark relief against a dismally monochrome soup.

The camera leered briefly at the creator, Isabel Ramirez. Evaluating the quality of her work past the initial inspired bout of craftsmanship, in the way of aesthetic value it was dubious. It was a work like any other, of material like any to be found in any generic artroom closet. A work like many others before it, many to come. Nothing gained.

Nothing lost.
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