Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Join the millions that use us for their forum communities. Create your own forum today.
Viewing Single Post From: What Are Little Girls Made Of?
Member Avatar
i'm not upset
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
“There is a house in New Orleans they call The Rising Sun. It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy and God I know I’m one..” Ethan sang idly to himself while looking just past Feo as she cleaned her wounds.

He felt…good. Strangely enough he was relaxed in this place. He reclined against a tree with just his jeans and seemed to be in a sort of comfortable state where he didn’t want to move. Ethan only wanted to watch her.

Flawlessly designed

“I don’t think we’re quite a mile up. I’m sure there’s some sort of award for fucking during Survival of the Fittest, though. It’s funny, in the traditional sense this is what survival of the fittest is. It is staying alive long enough to procreate and pass on the genes you proved were worthy by making it that far. Well, if I know my tropes, someone should be leaping out of the bushes sometime soon to stab us both to death. It teaches the kids at home what happens when you sin it up on a mountain during a blood sport on television,” he said with a contented sigh.

He opened his eyes and saw her looking at him. She had a gentle quality in her eyes that he just noticed.

She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She- wait, what the fuck am I doing? Fuck! I’m a fucking idiot! I fell for it! What do you think, lover boy? You think she really cares about you? You think you and her are gonna take down the big bad Danya and live in little house and some scientist is gonna build her robot fingers and she’ll overcome her disabilities to play the sax again? DO YOU?

Ethan shook his head. He grabbed his shirt and his sharpened stick and walked to her. He was close enough that he could end her swiftly.

You have to do it. This has gone far enough. Do it. Think about how stone cold badass you'd have to be to nail a chick, then kill her with a stick.

His brain communicated the message “lift the stick” but his arm was dead like it was made of lead. Not even a twitch of movement.

I…..I can’t. Oh God damn it. God damn it to hell.

“I….think you did a terrific job with those bandages.” He gave her a kiss.

You can’t do it. My God, you are screwed. You two can’t outrun death forever. After all, you’ve got asthma.
Offline Profile
What Are Little Girls Made Of? · The Mountain