Post by tylatz on Jan 16, 2010 23:14:35 GMT -5
There are limitations to the amount of punishment that can be absorbed before vital systems cease operation in a detrimental sense of self preservation. Divested of consideration for the situation reflexes, once sharp, become dull and unresponsive to prevent an overreaction which might hinder the internal processes of a body attempting to knit itself whole. Receptive sinews of the languid response hesitate in a calculation of minimal disbursement of caloric energy to excite the requested action despite the mortal liability that plausibly resides at the source. The thoracic diaphragm recedes from the pressuring of abdominal muscles there by increasing intra-thoracic pressure forcing a shift along rounded shafts of bone twice fractured resulting in lips eliciting a terse exhalation and -
A groan amplified by the acoustic qualities of the bathroom and chased by a surge of pain seized Des' body as he attempted to catch the razor which he knocked off the counter. He stood stock still, mouth agape and watched through eyes crested in a surge as the razor clattered against the white tiles. A partially outreached arm folds inwards and braces the fore on the ledge to support the sinking weight of his torso. Through clenched teeth the short expulsion elongated into labored respiration. With each measured breath stability returned and flood waters rescinded their rise granting sight to a reflective mockery. A wet hand settled over flesh distorted with hues of green and purple. Tensed muscles relaxed and a single sigh announced the cessation of the momentary torment.
“You good?” a heavily accented voice called from outside the room.
“No,” a single frail syllable returned.
Des was far from good. Only a few hours ago he stared down an amalgamation of metal he had never confronted before and that hovering dervish of Minovsky particles whispered to him. It was a bizarre moment as the finality of the situation struck him and the conviction silently voiced sank into his chest. Those words it said told him it was over. That the story of Des Mielle had come to a close over the miniscule tribulation of a mine. His stomach churned and heart ceased its rapid palpitations like wise did the world around him. It all simply stopped and frozen in time he continued to live apart from the sorted affairs of mortals. Locked in an agonizing battle against his own demise his will rallied his being to fill its lungs with air and push vital fluids through his veins, but it failed him. He lost to those words, whispered to him at that instance. Des truly -
“Get some rest,” the voice interrupted Des' doddering gaze into his own eyes that led his thoughts astray. “We have to move out by daybreak.”
“How do you keep doing it?” Des toddled to the door and leaned into the frame to arc his neck through the opening to face the Russian. “How did you ...” the words trail off as the complications of expression over powered the limited vocabulary he could conjure.
“Do what?” Sergei peered up from the bag he was packing.
“Nothing,” he muttered, rolled his back against the wall, and sank to the floor.
A groan amplified by the acoustic qualities of the bathroom and chased by a surge of pain seized Des' body as he attempted to catch the razor which he knocked off the counter. He stood stock still, mouth agape and watched through eyes crested in a surge as the razor clattered against the white tiles. A partially outreached arm folds inwards and braces the fore on the ledge to support the sinking weight of his torso. Through clenched teeth the short expulsion elongated into labored respiration. With each measured breath stability returned and flood waters rescinded their rise granting sight to a reflective mockery. A wet hand settled over flesh distorted with hues of green and purple. Tensed muscles relaxed and a single sigh announced the cessation of the momentary torment.
“You good?” a heavily accented voice called from outside the room.
“No,” a single frail syllable returned.
Des was far from good. Only a few hours ago he stared down an amalgamation of metal he had never confronted before and that hovering dervish of Minovsky particles whispered to him. It was a bizarre moment as the finality of the situation struck him and the conviction silently voiced sank into his chest. Those words it said told him it was over. That the story of Des Mielle had come to a close over the miniscule tribulation of a mine. His stomach churned and heart ceased its rapid palpitations like wise did the world around him. It all simply stopped and frozen in time he continued to live apart from the sorted affairs of mortals. Locked in an agonizing battle against his own demise his will rallied his being to fill its lungs with air and push vital fluids through his veins, but it failed him. He lost to those words, whispered to him at that instance. Des truly -
“Get some rest,” the voice interrupted Des' doddering gaze into his own eyes that led his thoughts astray. “We have to move out by daybreak.”
“How do you keep doing it?” Des toddled to the door and leaned into the frame to arc his neck through the opening to face the Russian. “How did you ...” the words trail off as the complications of expression over powered the limited vocabulary he could conjure.
“Do what?” Sergei peered up from the bag he was packing.
“Nothing,” he muttered, rolled his back against the wall, and sank to the floor.