ljidol; love you so
Nov. 2nd, 2019 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yachiruThe soft thump wakes her. Meryl groans and rolls over, staring at the white popcorn ceiling above her bed.
She thinks about going back to sleep. Pretending she hasn't heard a sound.
"Fuck," she mutters under her breath.
She sits up, legs dangling over the side of the bed as she bends over and reaches under for the wooden baseball bat. Her grandfather's, solid and heavy in her hands. He'd carved strange symbols over it, said they were Viking runes of protection.
The old man had been full of shit but she likes the look of them. The curving hooking lines that circled around the base were stained a dark red.
He'd always fancied himself a berserker. Meryl snorts at the thought.
She wiggles into a pair of ancient flip-flops near the foot of her bed, not bothering to change out of her gray tank and shorts.
The bat drags behind her as she turns on the porchlight.
The body isn't too far away. A man shape slumped against her old apple tree.
Blood tree now.
She lights her cigarette, inhales fire. Must be like the flytraps. Damn things just singed themselves until there was no help for them.
She smokes until her lungs burn. Smokes until nausea crawls up her throat.
The body isn't going anywhere but she can hear the soft pained wheezing of the creature.
She curses, stomps out her cigarette, and takes up the bat again.
She sees the wings first, as wide as her body was tall. Soft downy feathers surround him on the ground.
He speaks in a thousand voices. "Help me. Help me."
"Yeah," she says.
He makes no sound when the bat hits him. She hears only the thwack of the wood hitting bone. She has to swing hard. Her arms are tired by the time he dies. Blood covers her face. It tastes of flowers and spoiled fruit.
The earth beneath the tree will swallow the body come morning.
She should leave them to die. Let the damp or the cold do their job.
But she never could abide suffering. Even if angels were dumb as rocks.
She thinks about going back to sleep. Pretending she hasn't heard a sound.
"Fuck," she mutters under her breath.
She sits up, legs dangling over the side of the bed as she bends over and reaches under for the wooden baseball bat. Her grandfather's, solid and heavy in her hands. He'd carved strange symbols over it, said they were Viking runes of protection.
The old man had been full of shit but she likes the look of them. The curving hooking lines that circled around the base were stained a dark red.
He'd always fancied himself a berserker. Meryl snorts at the thought.
She wiggles into a pair of ancient flip-flops near the foot of her bed, not bothering to change out of her gray tank and shorts.
The bat drags behind her as she turns on the porchlight.
The body isn't too far away. A man shape slumped against her old apple tree.
Blood tree now.
She lights her cigarette, inhales fire. Must be like the flytraps. Damn things just singed themselves until there was no help for them.
She smokes until her lungs burn. Smokes until nausea crawls up her throat.
The body isn't going anywhere but she can hear the soft pained wheezing of the creature.
She curses, stomps out her cigarette, and takes up the bat again.
She sees the wings first, as wide as her body was tall. Soft downy feathers surround him on the ground.
He speaks in a thousand voices. "Help me. Help me."
"Yeah," she says.
He makes no sound when the bat hits him. She hears only the thwack of the wood hitting bone. She has to swing hard. Her arms are tired by the time he dies. Blood covers her face. It tastes of flowers and spoiled fruit.
The earth beneath the tree will swallow the body come morning.
She should leave them to die. Let the damp or the cold do their job.
But she never could abide suffering. Even if angels were dumb as rocks.
