||Open Roleplay.|| Dying should come easy: like a freight train you dont hear when your back is turned. - Charles Bukowski Within the world, there always exists a form of conflict, a tipping of the theoretical scale that allows for a natural installation of superiority to be established. As one thing lives, another dies. As one thing flourishes, another falls. Where it began is not something you memory is allowing you to recall. The scattered thoughts, the blurred vision, the pounding of your pulse in rhythm with the drive to achieve a goal. The goal. A goal. Sounds attacks your auditory senses- the bump of tires, the awkward guttural groans of the city as it surrounds you, enveloping you in an unforgiving hold consisting of the mediocrity of a metropolis, the swearing and muttering of a civilization, the whispers and rumors of something more- all of which is found sending shock waves through your thought process with a shockingly similar reaction as a transient electromagnetic disturbance. The ragged bump of rubber against corroded asphalt, kicking up dust and dirt, the grime of the city, is what now serves as your alarming recovery of certain cognitive functions. The onslaught of screeching noises assaulting your ears with the same fervor and intensity as the chanting beats of memorization acts as the stimulus when your foot slams against the break. Control, control. You dont have control. But you must contain it. No. You must control it. No. Shaking, the door is slammed open, eyes shifting to you, observing you, watching you. Breathe, breathe. Theres a purpose. Whats the purpose? Theres a purpose. Right! Quick! Shaking, shaking. Your eyes dart, your breath catches. You need to get let it out. Let it out. Open. Freedom. No. Wait. You dont want to. Yes, you do. You shouldnt. You must. You need to. Movements become slurred to you, blurred in the rush of your shaking, shaking. Words are lost in the infinitive abyss of your inability to use them, drifting far from your mental grasp along with the synapse of muscles, the decisions to execute movements, the very breaths taken in. Constraints seem to limit your very being, the capabilities gifted to humanity to simplistically exist. Tensions created within the confines of your flesh seem to spread to every inch of your body, grabbing hold of every voluntary and involuntary function with a malicious vice grip. Erratic motions become your concern as you become naught more than a witness to the scene, viewing as your limbs are moved for you, dragging the body you were once able to call your own into a massive hysteria of locomotion. You are observed carefully, the pressure mounting, mounting, mounting until it just… Spreads. Passersby are now entreated to the view of a newcomer seeming to lose his mind in the midst of the Trinity City slums. Grabbing a clay jar from his automobile by way of a series of synchronized movements, erratic in his breath that so desperately catches in his throat, threatening almost to choke on it as he suddenly drops it. In the seconds it takes for the artifact to shatter against the rugged pieces of asphalt, attention is gifted to the piercing scream emanating from the ragged form of the newcomer. As shards splatter against the man-made path, ricocheting to slice at the open skin of a handful of bystanders. Upon the impact, a collective gasp releases itself from those effected. Pupils dilate as bodies convulse and seem to become integrated, synchronized. Terror sparks within the accumulating pairs of bloodshot eyes. Irises become tainted with the same unusual pallidly drawn green, though the gaze of their thoughts blink witness within the moving bodies, all shifting erratically, suddenly, unforgivingly towards the upheaval of screams that now begins in the slums of Trinity City. A new form of infection.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Jul 2014 04:22:23 +0000
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