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section7mfu2016-07-25 12:25 pm
lindafishes8.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2016-07-25 12:25 pm
Entry tags:
For the Short Affair Challenge, Section VII, 7/25/16
Weight of the World, Part One
Prompts used: ribbon, silver
“Nyet,” Illya whispered to himself as he sat on the cold, damp ground. Arms wrapped around his knees, he was slowly rocking himself ever so slightly and yet unaware that he was doing so. It didn’t help relieve the pain. The night was his alone.
Only moments before there had been sounds of an automatic weapon firing in short bursts, yelling and screaming. His ears still rang with the echos and adrenaline raged through his veins. Now, all was quiet. The light of the moon shown down on him, accusingly.
They were gone, an entire family wiped out by a madman he’d been unable to stop in time. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. He’d promised safety and new identities but now their bullet-ridden bodies lay in the field before him, scattered like discarded rag dolls. As he stared at the lifeless bodies, his gaze settled on the two young sisters, the wind gently blowing at their hair ribbons. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head on his knees.
They’d almost reached the safety of the trees, almost.
The air reeked of discharged gunpowder and rusted iron; was it their blood he was detecting or his own? He was wounded, a bullet buried in his left shoulder but the pain he felt was not physical. Illya made no move to staunch the flow of blood. Nothing mattered; he had failed.
Forcing himself to move, Illya stood and stumbled towards the shooter. With a trembling hand he withdrew his blade from the gunman’s chest and tossed it away, dissociating himself from the weapon. He’d never use it again. The corpse still grasped the Colt automatic rifle and Illya pulled it from him.
That the assassin was dead held no satisfaction.
With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, he lowered himself to the ground and spoke into his silver communicator.
“Open Channel D.”
Prompts used: ribbon, silver
“Nyet,” Illya whispered to himself as he sat on the cold, damp ground. Arms wrapped around his knees, he was slowly rocking himself ever so slightly and yet unaware that he was doing so. It didn’t help relieve the pain. The night was his alone.
Only moments before there had been sounds of an automatic weapon firing in short bursts, yelling and screaming. His ears still rang with the echos and adrenaline raged through his veins. Now, all was quiet. The light of the moon shown down on him, accusingly.
They were gone, an entire family wiped out by a madman he’d been unable to stop in time. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. He’d promised safety and new identities but now their bullet-ridden bodies lay in the field before him, scattered like discarded rag dolls. As he stared at the lifeless bodies, his gaze settled on the two young sisters, the wind gently blowing at their hair ribbons. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head on his knees.
They’d almost reached the safety of the trees, almost.
The air reeked of discharged gunpowder and rusted iron; was it their blood he was detecting or his own? He was wounded, a bullet buried in his left shoulder but the pain he felt was not physical. Illya made no move to staunch the flow of blood. Nothing mattered; he had failed.
Forcing himself to move, Illya stood and stumbled towards the shooter. With a trembling hand he withdrew his blade from the gunman’s chest and tossed it away, dissociating himself from the weapon. He’d never use it again. The corpse still grasped the Colt automatic rifle and Illya pulled it from him.
That the assassin was dead held no satisfaction.
With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, he lowered himself to the ground and spoke into his silver communicator.
“Open Channel D.”
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