[non-challenge]
Challenge: inspired by [230 - Whisper], but I'm not entering :3
Title: Ten Percent
Word Count: 220
Spoilers: BbS (Terra's story and the complete ending), in a vague "I hate concrete details" way
Voices at the limit of hearing are less words than their unspoken essence, saying too much and not enough, and just out of reach no matter how you grasp at coherency. 90% of communication is non-verbal. You wonder if that missing fraction knows the answer to who you are (who you were)
You have one word, one name, but when you mutter it under your breath it feels wrong on your tongue and you hear
harsh, rasping bark of laughter-
a response, as if mumbling to itself, old and tired and unbearably sad-
and, with a cadence like I'm sorry, I am so sorry, something halfway between a promise and a threat-
You are never able to sort out which whispers are yours and which are the demons in your head until it doesn't matter anymore (it never mattered). The demons outside your mind get to you first: laying out doubts and plans and ambitions in a hushed but frantic tone, muttered litanies of hearts and darkness and opening doors. Their breath is hot on your ear, an arm rests heavy on your shoulder as
you (almost) hear a voice in protest. But it's ten percent short of saving the world
Somewhere in a graveyard, a suit of armor creaks, and the wind howling through its hollow shell sounds like regret.
Title: Ten Percent
Word Count: 220
Spoilers: BbS (Terra's story and the complete ending), in a vague "I hate concrete details" way
Voices at the limit of hearing are less words than their unspoken essence, saying too much and not enough, and just out of reach no matter how you grasp at coherency. 90% of communication is non-verbal. You wonder if that missing fraction knows the answer to who you are (who you were)
You have one word, one name, but when you mutter it under your breath it feels wrong on your tongue and you hear
harsh, rasping bark of laughter-
a response, as if mumbling to itself, old and tired and unbearably sad-
and, with a cadence like I'm sorry, I am so sorry, something halfway between a promise and a threat-
You are never able to sort out which whispers are yours and which are the demons in your head until it doesn't matter anymore (it never mattered). The demons outside your mind get to you first: laying out doubts and plans and ambitions in a hushed but frantic tone, muttered litanies of hearts and darkness and opening doors. Their breath is hot on your ear, an arm rests heavy on your shoulder as
you (almost) hear a voice in protest. But it's ten percent short of saving the world
Somewhere in a graveyard, a suit of armor creaks, and the wind howling through its hollow shell sounds like regret.