Post by Talbot Grimes on Jul 24, 2021 22:24:57 GMT -6
[TW: Drugs, Self Harm]
For so long, he had stared at those cold stone walls, in a cell unguarded and ungated, but near impossible to escape none the less. He had come accustom to the haze that clung to the roof and slithered down the hallway, and eyes that saw him but never registered his presence. Up until then, this place had been useless. Talbot knelt on the ground, one hand pressed against the wall, the other white-knuckle gripped on a rock. Its edge was rugged, with a tip sharp enough to pierce skin and carve deep into the walls the held him. Theoretically, he could dig his way out, he certainly considered it, But instead he chased a memory that was sure to fade, and he could not let it. So much of his past life was a blur, only existing in little bits that shine and then burn out like a candle at the end of it’s lifespan, but not this. No, no, he saw his work, little fractions of what drove him for a lifetime. How had he forgotten? It wouldn’t drift away again, he told himself, no one could silence his word when it was written in stone.
Blood trickled down his palm, the bends on his fingers rubbed raw. When he started, pain and presence was smothered by opioids, and now his hand throbbed, shook. Still he worked diligently. One section of one last wall, and then what? His question was answered by a whispering in his mind, beckoning. He heard an offer of freedom, of escape. “Talbot, listen,” it called, “follow.” The alchemist rushed, his final letters mere scraps on the stone. He couldn’t read it, his magnum opus, but he knew it was grand, that it couldn’t be ignored.
Talbot stood, stumbling backwards, turning erratically to view his work. The little voice mumbles compliments, and one last request. His hands shake, around the stone tightly grasped. He couldn’t leave, not normally, but that voice promised stranger salvation... what did he have to lose? Almost impulsively, Grimes drove the rock into his stomach, and pain bloomed like a flower in his abdomen and staining ragged clothes. It was retrieved with a loud scream, and a thud, and Talbot found his vision fading as he collapsed into the dark liquid pooling beneath him - and still that voice sang to him, getting louder. Maybe, he had made a mistake, maybe, maybe...
The wind was cold, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked pine and freshly spilled blood. Talbot sprung up, expecting the familiar, bland prison walls, but was instead greeted by towering trees with branches that reached out of the darkness. Beneath his bare feet, twigs and rotten leaves snapped loud enough to startle the crows nestled high, who had all seemingly been watching him. Past the tree’s canopy was just blackness, no stars in sight. The little voice in the back of his head had vanished, but it had not lied. In the distance, something orange glowed, with a dream-like familiarity.
He’d finally found it.
For so long, he had stared at those cold stone walls, in a cell unguarded and ungated, but near impossible to escape none the less. He had come accustom to the haze that clung to the roof and slithered down the hallway, and eyes that saw him but never registered his presence. Up until then, this place had been useless. Talbot knelt on the ground, one hand pressed against the wall, the other white-knuckle gripped on a rock. Its edge was rugged, with a tip sharp enough to pierce skin and carve deep into the walls the held him. Theoretically, he could dig his way out, he certainly considered it, But instead he chased a memory that was sure to fade, and he could not let it. So much of his past life was a blur, only existing in little bits that shine and then burn out like a candle at the end of it’s lifespan, but not this. No, no, he saw his work, little fractions of what drove him for a lifetime. How had he forgotten? It wouldn’t drift away again, he told himself, no one could silence his word when it was written in stone.
Blood trickled down his palm, the bends on his fingers rubbed raw. When he started, pain and presence was smothered by opioids, and now his hand throbbed, shook. Still he worked diligently. One section of one last wall, and then what? His question was answered by a whispering in his mind, beckoning. He heard an offer of freedom, of escape. “Talbot, listen,” it called, “follow.” The alchemist rushed, his final letters mere scraps on the stone. He couldn’t read it, his magnum opus, but he knew it was grand, that it couldn’t be ignored.
Talbot stood, stumbling backwards, turning erratically to view his work. The little voice mumbles compliments, and one last request. His hands shake, around the stone tightly grasped. He couldn’t leave, not normally, but that voice promised stranger salvation... what did he have to lose? Almost impulsively, Grimes drove the rock into his stomach, and pain bloomed like a flower in his abdomen and staining ragged clothes. It was retrieved with a loud scream, and a thud, and Talbot found his vision fading as he collapsed into the dark liquid pooling beneath him - and still that voice sang to him, getting louder. Maybe, he had made a mistake, maybe, maybe...
The wind was cold, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked pine and freshly spilled blood. Talbot sprung up, expecting the familiar, bland prison walls, but was instead greeted by towering trees with branches that reached out of the darkness. Beneath his bare feet, twigs and rotten leaves snapped loud enough to startle the crows nestled high, who had all seemingly been watching him. Past the tree’s canopy was just blackness, no stars in sight. The little voice in the back of his head had vanished, but it had not lied. In the distance, something orange glowed, with a dream-like familiarity.
He’d finally found it.