(no subject)
I HAVE AN IDENTITY DRABBLE
"Que es la punta de vivir?"
Ed tossed violently against the cheap motel bed, his grip in the sheets tightening.
He'd hesitated, and she had seen it.
The pained, surrendered look she gave him as she stepped back and fell into the air caused a seering pain to shoot up Edward's back, and he'd rushed forward, even though there was nothing he could do, and watched as her frail body smashed against the pavement thirty stories below.
He'd never gotten those images out of his mind.
As each day passed and the headaches got worse and the blackouts more intolerable, Ed began to wonder the same thing. What was the point of life? It was nothing more than a shoddy quilt pieced together of one's own shitty experiences, ratty and falling apart, holes where his memory no longer quite reached.
And the quilt, in the dead of winter, just really wasn't cutting it for warmth anymore.
He'd never considered suicide an option, really, but was doping himself up every day really that much different?
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder", the doctor had called it, and he was good (when Ed could make his appointments, anyway) but the medication didn't seem to be doing shit. Ed still saw her in his dreams, still raced to piece together something she could live for, something to tell her, still smelled her blood all the time.
It was enough to drive him insane. Just how long could he keep running from this before it finally cornered him...?
"Que es la punta de vivir?"
Ed tossed violently against the cheap motel bed, his grip in the sheets tightening.
He'd hesitated, and she had seen it.
The pained, surrendered look she gave him as she stepped back and fell into the air caused a seering pain to shoot up Edward's back, and he'd rushed forward, even though there was nothing he could do, and watched as her frail body smashed against the pavement thirty stories below.
He'd never gotten those images out of his mind.
As each day passed and the headaches got worse and the blackouts more intolerable, Ed began to wonder the same thing. What was the point of life? It was nothing more than a shoddy quilt pieced together of one's own shitty experiences, ratty and falling apart, holes where his memory no longer quite reached.
And the quilt, in the dead of winter, just really wasn't cutting it for warmth anymore.
He'd never considered suicide an option, really, but was doping himself up every day really that much different?
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder", the doctor had called it, and he was good (when Ed could make his appointments, anyway) but the medication didn't seem to be doing shit. Ed still saw her in his dreams, still raced to piece together something she could live for, something to tell her, still smelled her blood all the time.
It was enough to drive him insane. Just how long could he keep running from this before it finally cornered him...?