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The Ground Won't Break To Save Your Fall; private threeshot
Topic Started: May 27 2011, 12:49 AM (1,487 Views)
ifnotwinter
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half Iago, half Fu Manchu, all bastard
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
((Ilario Fiametta III and Rhory Anne Broderick continued from Act II: A Mirror Dimly.))

Ilario was cold.

He had wrapped himself in what was left of his jacket, stained by salt water and blood and covered in grime, but the thin fabric offered little warmth against the chill of night. The light wind blowing in from the water made him shiver each time it caressed his shoulders, and he'd long since drawn his knees up into his chest in the foetal position. The coat had been stylish in a low-key sort of way once upon a time (not to mention expensive) but despite once being his favourite, the prevailing thought running through his head was that he would trade it a thousand times over for something thick and fluffy enough to conserve what little heat remained in his skin.

The Ferris wheel had not been designed for comfort. Some small animal had burrowed into the stuffing of the seat and removed massive chunks of it, making the slight cushion lumpy and uneven. The steel safety bar was stuck in the ‘engaged' position, forcing him to contort his body just to fit in the small space, and the whole thing squealed and shifted on its axis with every movement he made. But it was better than the control booth.

Metal groaned as Ilario shifted his upper body, eyes straining to make out the dark shape mere feet away. Rhory was there. A small and petty part of him hoped she was just as cold, just as stiff, just as tired and hungry and in pain as he was. Generic painkillers hadn't done much against the headache that still gnawed at his temples, although without the glare of light the dull throbbing had eased at least somewhat. Nausea still curled in his stomach even though he knew he hadn't eaten in far too long, vertigo making his head spin if his movements were too sudden. The tacky feeling of drying blood make the back of his head itch where Rhory had brought the stock of the shotgun down. Still, as bad as it all was, he was still alive. His skull hadn't split like a ripe melon.

He could still fulfill his purpose.

The deep and empty ache that was Frankie still filled him, but it was lined with the deep-banked fires of anger. It was her fault. The dark-haired bitch was the reason his sister was dead, the reason he had been unable to find and protect her. Not only that, but the damage she'd done to his body meant that for now he didn't have a choice but to stay. He couldn't die. Not here, not by her. Not without Rosa. But the concussion which scrambled his mind and made him too weak to fight forced him to follow her through the long grief-stricken hours, until at last they'd come to the fun fair. There had been bodies. Those he could not save, and those he had not killed.

They hadn't spoken much, him and Rhory. She had found the control booth and settled into it like a nesting bird, her gun and Ilario's held close. She had told him not to go far. He chafed under it, wanted nothing more than to rip her head from her shoulders and run until he found his remaining sister -- but couldn't. Knew he couldn't. Knew he had to bide his time, wait until the right moment. She thought he was complacent. She would learn soon enough.

But now here he was. Leaning his head against the back of the seat, he closed his eyes, dropping in and out of a fitful doze punctuated by dreams more a series of images, and familiar thoughts. In the morning he would be better. And she would see that he hadn't run, and think he was on her side. It would be so easy -- she was just a girl, just a small, scared, hurt girl -- a killer, though -- and he could take the gun and send a bullet to that sacred place between the stag's antlers.

Not much longer, he thought drowsily, his father (blood-stained and battered as Ilario himself) watching from a nearby tree, the ground turning from sawdust and grass to green carpet, turning back again, soft noises from the control booth worming into his mind and so that he blinked and woke, and then fell under the darkness once more.

Not much longer. And then.

His eyelids squeezed tightly shut, just for a moment. A damp track was carved in the dirt and blood coating his face, sliding over the purple-swollen bruises.

Then maybe it could finally be over.
Edited by ifnotwinter, May 27 2011, 12:55 AM.


marc st. yves
light it up or burn it down we'll all die in fire
{food for thought}


phineas rosario
fall down seven times stand up eight

sebastian conway
can't see the forest for the trees
{book of sparrows}


(so you've got to keep in mind, when you try to change the world for the better not everybody's gonna be on your side)
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