"My thorns grew thick on my stem, slicing deep into your shaking palm, your hands of hatred grasping onto my fragile body. As the blood seeped down your hands you began to feel sour; For I was a pretty blooming red rose, and you were the gardener wh...
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(schlatt has an owie) (also apparently wattpad wont let me upload gore... obviously, so just pretend he's got guts and brains and shit all over him)
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(schlatt and his ex-wife before she died)(also look at the ring >,>)
The door slams shut behind me, rattling the house from silence. Darkness creeps up the walls and twirls humorously. Taunting me. I bite out a groan, hand clenching my shoulder. Blood coats my palm and fingers, dripping down and wetting my nice under shirt. I sneer, fumbling the door to the bathroom. My pain aches, my heartbeat in synch to the pumping of my blood. The mirror stands tall, forcing my eye to meet the reflection.
The blood staining my skin grew cold and dark, oxidizing in the evening air. It appeared almost black, deep highlights of brown. Chunks of brain matter clump in my beard, hanging loosely from my lips. It made me nauseous. I hadn't intended on such a gruesome death. I imagined a clean shot through the head with an arrow. Nothing could have prepared my for the explosion.
My shoulder sends another jolt to my body, letting me know something was wrong. I hiss, holding the appendage tighter. My non-wounded hand shakily lets go of my shoulder, turning to rummage through the medicine cabinet.
My hand hits a bottle of disinfectant, and a sigh of dread leaves my lips. I lift the rubbing alcohol from the shelf, undoing the lid lazily one-handed. I take a clean washcloth from the cabinet, dousing it in the disinfectant. Water fills my tear-line instinctively, sucking in a deep breath.
The rag presses against the wound, a deep heat filling my shoulder, burning like a deep inferno, blistering and seething beneath the skin. I bite my lip, the groan fizzling into a whimper. I grip the counter, eyes narrowing into the sink. My fingers dig into the ceramic, tapping rapidly as if to help the pain. It did not help the pain.
I flex my forearm, blood dripping steadily from between my fingertips. Gunpowder and smoke stung my nose and burnt my lungs. My pulse hits in hard waves, aching and dragging up my body. My veins stung with a numb hatred, something I knew well.
If death could not reach me, why must it be so painful every time he tries. Why must I be forsaken in this way? Is immortality worth it if I feel everything?
