Wow it’s been a while :’)
But hey demons, what do we think of this as a prologue for a fantasy/scifi-ish story? (no context cause who needs context, ask if you want it idk):
What use is logic to a dead creature? Logic has no home here. Here, where fake sound spins and stumbles through his head drunk on its own terror. Here, where his eyes see everything that is not there. But he is alive-- irrevocably, undeniably alive. His heart hammers the weeping cage of his chest. His mind beats the pulse of his existence to a frayed, trembling thread, splaying in a hundred reaching, broken paths. Here, it threatens snapping. The snow is grey, red, warm and melting under his fur that gathers and sticks in clumps to his flesh. It is so cold. It is the most he has felt in years.
The arrow.
The arrow. The arrow should not have pierced his shoulder. One future. One one-thousand futures told him that it would. Better would have been the beating center. He does not want to die. How nice it would be. The quiet. The stillness. But he reels and bites the menacing leather that curls under his spine and pulls him up. Up, up, up away from the ground. He is not dropped. New spinning threads tie around the folds and wrinkles of his brain. Yank towards different futures. Tearing him apart. Organs and viscera flirt with the muddied slush. Crushed under sole and squished into the earth. And teeth. Teeth, in his head and his stomach and his throat. They rip away; he hears distant bones crunch and agony writhes and twists like maggots under his skin. He thinks he screeches over the noise. He must. Or he is stricken with howling silence, and the hands will not release him. Please. He has never begged. He has begged for life, for death, for her to stay.
It would be so nice. The quiet. The stillness.
But what use is logic to a dead creature?
