Sunday, February 17, 2008

Noir.

Death stood silent in the doorway while Archie paced the room.

This was not part of the agreement,
[angry = frightened]
this was not part of the fucking agreement. DAMN YOU TO HELL YOU FUCKER, I'M NOT FUCKING READY.

Death was a great believer in the beauty of silence. Had always been of a mind that silence somehow made his job more

dignified.

This noise always...

disappointed him somewhat.

And the sweat, something which always repulsed him. The way they began to sweat, when they sensed him closing in, when they felt his presence, when they felt his breath on their necks, his hands on their shoulders, his eyes - his eyes - his eyes - the terrifying depth of his eyes
[forever, do you want to see forever?]
meeting their eyes. Their eyes
[I can't - I can't]
always beginning to leak. Which was weak, Death thought. Which was weak. Everything leaked.

The savage stink of sweat and pores
[and more]
all the tears, always tears - termites those tears,
[scratch and skrittle]
a crippling tide and torrent of self, awash with fear and soaked in selfishness
[me - me - me]
not to mention the piss and the shit and the begging, screaming, desperation
[anything, anything, anything, please]
to avoid him, as though they had spent their whole lives forgetting that the first time they opened their eyes was a GIANT leap into the unknown,

as though they had never dived beneath the sea,
as though they had never walked into a darkened room,
as though they had never stood before a blank canvas

and searched for something
- a beginning -
when faced with a NOTHING.

C'mon,
said Time,
who had been watching from
the corridor,
I'm thirsty.
Let's do this thing
and get out of here already.

That's the thing with Time,
Death thought,
always bloody
running...

And

that's the thing with Death,
Time thought, laughing
always taking his job

so

fucking.

seriously.

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