RE: Vox Mentis
05-24-2017, 07:02 PM
Thoreau’s eyes widen across the table. You've never seen him look shocked before. You've never really seen him look anything.
“Release me,” he says.
“You release me,” you say, although that's just to fill time; there's only one way you can ever be free of Thoreau, and you're going to have to make that happen yourself. He pulls back, reaching inside his jacket for the thing that will take away your mind again. Which shows you that Thoreau really does not get it. He thinks the word has worn off, somehow; that you no longer feel compelled to obey him.
You go after him but find yourself gripped from behind by Plath, of all people. Plath is thin and wiry, not the kind of person who can hold you for long, but you hadn’t expected to be held at all, and it gives Thoreau time to clasp something in his jacket.
“Sit down and stop moving,” he says.
“No.” Disbelief spreads across his face. Plath’s arms are already slackening, anticipating your compliance. But Thoreau’s hand is coming out, and you don’t want to face what he has, so you throw your head backward. There is a satisfying connection. You step forward, swipe a glass from the table, and toss the water over Thoreau’s shoes.
Thoreau makes a frightened, high-pitched sound. This is very beautiful in your ears, but the point is Thoreau is not making other sounds, sounds that command people to kill you, so in the moment he is occupied with the horror of his softening leather, you break the glass against the edge of the table and slice it across his throat.
He tries to speak. Little red bubbles pop along his lips. You take the bareword from his fingers as gently as can be. He drops to his knees, and you should be turning to face Plath and Masters and whoever else is back there, but instead you just stand and watch him die.
“Release me,” he says.
“You release me,” you say, although that's just to fill time; there's only one way you can ever be free of Thoreau, and you're going to have to make that happen yourself. He pulls back, reaching inside his jacket for the thing that will take away your mind again. Which shows you that Thoreau really does not get it. He thinks the word has worn off, somehow; that you no longer feel compelled to obey him.
You go after him but find yourself gripped from behind by Plath, of all people. Plath is thin and wiry, not the kind of person who can hold you for long, but you hadn’t expected to be held at all, and it gives Thoreau time to clasp something in his jacket.
“Sit down and stop moving,” he says.
“No.” Disbelief spreads across his face. Plath’s arms are already slackening, anticipating your compliance. But Thoreau’s hand is coming out, and you don’t want to face what he has, so you throw your head backward. There is a satisfying connection. You step forward, swipe a glass from the table, and toss the water over Thoreau’s shoes.
Thoreau makes a frightened, high-pitched sound. This is very beautiful in your ears, but the point is Thoreau is not making other sounds, sounds that command people to kill you, so in the moment he is occupied with the horror of his softening leather, you break the glass against the edge of the table and slice it across his throat.
He tries to speak. Little red bubbles pop along his lips. You take the bareword from his fingers as gently as can be. He drops to his knees, and you should be turning to face Plath and Masters and whoever else is back there, but instead you just stand and watch him die.