I swear to god
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
These woods are a prison, its trees the bars of a cage and the sallow, sickle moon that hangs overhead like a swinging lantern does little to dispel the image. Up above he can hear the music that falls in cascades from the solid stone of the city, bounces from charred wall to charred wall until it wafts all the way to the lake, to the woods. The night is crisp and the air trembles when he breathes it. He cannot go to the city. Its masses, especially now that the festival is in full swing, make his bones feel to big for his body. If Michael is a ghost himself then surely he belongs here, trapped in the mist that gathers in every valley and rolls off every tangled root.
The woods say, help me.
The woods do not ask as much as they howl -- a distant but jarring voice that leaves him shaken. In reality it is very quiet, but a voice at all where a voice should not have come from in the first place rings in him like so many bells.
(Alarms.)
Michael is not sure he believes in ghosts. He is not sure he believes in anything at all. But he does know that he believes in the way that this voice leaves him pitted and empty, some deep and desperate want that fills the hole as fast as it is torn open.
Michael knows only that he must.
So he does.
He tells himself, it's only one step. He tells himself, what's the worst that can happen? So many things have tried to kill him and still he survives. He isn't sure he wants to survive, anyway.
So he does. He steps. And though his legs feel at once like lead and electrivity, though the cold and the mist and the sense of black dread sink into his bones and stay there, he does.
He thinks only that he must.
The woods say, help me.
The woods do not ask as much as they howl -- a distant but jarring voice that leaves him shaken. In reality it is very quiet, but a voice at all where a voice should not have come from in the first place rings in him like so many bells.
(Alarms.)
Michael is not sure he believes in ghosts. He is not sure he believes in anything at all. But he does know that he believes in the way that this voice leaves him pitted and empty, some deep and desperate want that fills the hole as fast as it is torn open.
Michael knows only that he must.
So he does.
He tells himself, it's only one step. He tells himself, what's the worst that can happen? So many things have tried to kill him and still he survives. He isn't sure he wants to survive, anyway.
So he does. He steps. And though his legs feel at once like lead and electrivity, though the cold and the mist and the sense of black dread sink into his bones and stay there, he does.
He thinks only that he must.
