Beauty In Death [DreamNotFound]

chapter seven

Red is quite a taunting colour.

Red is the colour of her lips as she tells you you'll never be good enough for her. Red is the stain of your white t-shirt after a disastrous wash. Red is the absence of the welded dagger in your heart, ripped out by painted red nails leaving you empty and sore. Red is the colour of your roses, shrouded by darkness, painted by the ignition of your own necrosing fingers. Red is the blood that seeps out, flames douced in acid that steals every hit of colour life desired to kiss. Red is quite a dangerous colour.

As the clash of swords ricocheted through George's eardrums, he watched as Dreams opponents red shirt rippled with the force of his movements, creasing under straining muscles. George was mistaken, he was a lot better at defending himself then attacking. Dreams sword sliced at his side, instantly crashing against metal, a screeching noise filling the arena as hot sparks flicked and spat from the friction of the two weapons clashing together. Each attack was met with a reciprocated strong defence, meeting Dreams sword each time in a chaste kiss before dramatically shoving his sword away to the side.

George thought back to the first man he had killed at the very beginning, it had only been a day but it felt like century's ago, all stored in the back of his mind in a memoir of sin. He recalled the regret he had felt as soon at the dagger had sunk into the olive skin, he had no recollection of who the man even was, all he could remember was prominent side burns and a face etched with excruciating pain, burning into his facial features, his wrinkles creasing into his forehead, never to be ironed out again. What if there wasn't an after life? What if that was just it? What if every man whom had felt the wrath of Dreams sword wasn't sent to damnnation, what if it was something worse, somewhere where the light was stolen by the night, shrouded in malignancy, in darkness. Somewhere that wasn't here not there, hell nor heaven, just nothing. Their life was like a telephone wire, one side with them the other their connection to earth and George had sliced right through it, disconnecting their link and their life all in one.

He wondered how Dream had the courage to even risk his own life in the place of George. Yes he was a good fighter, yes he was skilled but he was still exposing himself to the chance that something could go wrong and for someone he had only met yesterday? Something was up but George couldn't put a finger on it. Some saviour personality he suspected.

The tip of Dreams blade slit at the palid cheek of the blond fighters face, red blood oozing into his sword. The man stumbled backwards clutching at his face, wincing in pain. George was almost glad Dream had inflicted the wound onto him, now he was able to feel the same way George felt right at that second, crying with agony as blistering shoots of pain splintered up his arm. The player didn't stop, with one hand on his face and the other gripping his weapon, he continued to persevere, deflecting every attack with one hand, the other dripping in carmine. His eyes tensed as sweat started to pool on his forhead, running down into his cut, salt in the wound, incinerating and burning at the open tissue.

George saw as he switched from defence to attack, hoping, begging that he'd be able to defeat Dream in order to tend to his wound in peace. He swiped at Dreams figure, lunging into combat, cutting through the wind, lashing out left and right with intense speed, giving it his all, too focused on attacking rather than defending.

He left his body unguarded.

George winced as Dreams sword plummeted through the boys abdomen, bleeding into his already red stained shirt. The life from his ocean eyes slowly drained out, trickling down his face and to the open wound, choking him from blood loss. His body relaxed as his eyes lids shut, his fingers drooped and his knees buckled. Dream pulled his sword out of him just before he fell to the ground, body submerging into the cherry grass.