Sit on the Toilet, Get Prose
Jan. 6th, 2014 10:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breezeshadow "There, just one foot in front of the other... There. You're doing it."
The oddly-neutral encouragement came from far away -- everything did, these days, processing through a fog that had enveloped his world. He walked on a dead man's feet and stared at them, expecting at any moment they may finally realize that they should not walk. He put one leg forward, the strong one, the normal one. After that came the left one and its cane. Pain shot through him, blasting from his ruined hip as he made the step, but he barely noticed, anymore. All of the pain was blending together, and he did not have the energy to keep track.
One foot forward, then the other and its help, then the other foot, and so on. It was a perfect marionette routine, following the will of the doctors holding the strings. If he really thought about it, he thought that the floor may be an old stone, slate and tired, ready to be cast back into nonthing just as he was. But it took too much to think about, especially when he had to be alive at the same time.
He reached the chair that had been set up as the limit he could walk, and then instinct told him to move around.
"No, not yet." A stranger's hand grasped his stranger arm, forcing him gently into the seat. "You need to rest."
Had to write this down before going to bed, so I didn't lose that second paragraph. Once the line "He walked on a dead man's feet" came into my head, I knew I'd better sit at the computer just a little longer.
Guten Nacht, alles.
The oddly-neutral encouragement came from far away -- everything did, these days, processing through a fog that had enveloped his world. He walked on a dead man's feet and stared at them, expecting at any moment they may finally realize that they should not walk. He put one leg forward, the strong one, the normal one. After that came the left one and its cane. Pain shot through him, blasting from his ruined hip as he made the step, but he barely noticed, anymore. All of the pain was blending together, and he did not have the energy to keep track.
One foot forward, then the other and its help, then the other foot, and so on. It was a perfect marionette routine, following the will of the doctors holding the strings. If he really thought about it, he thought that the floor may be an old stone, slate and tired, ready to be cast back into nonthing just as he was. But it took too much to think about, especially when he had to be alive at the same time.
He reached the chair that had been set up as the limit he could walk, and then instinct told him to move around.
"No, not yet." A stranger's hand grasped his stranger arm, forcing him gently into the seat. "You need to rest."
Had to write this down before going to bed, so I didn't lose that second paragraph. Once the line "He walked on a dead man's feet" came into my head, I knew I'd better sit at the computer just a little longer.
Guten Nacht, alles.
