(no subject)
Title: Nothing to Live For
Fandom(s): Cube
Author:
darsnape_dracul
Recipient: mr_yoshimi
Char : David Worth
Rating: PG-13
Summary: David in the last room, bleeding. And thinking. I'm nnot quite sure if it's finished.
Red Walls
Red Ceiling
Red Floor
Nothing to live for
Red Wound
Red Blood
His name is now mud
David couldn’t stop smirking. With the help of a doorhandle, he was becoming a poet. Leaven . . . Joan lay not too far from him. She was pretty . . . so very pretty, like those school girls from his collection.
David sighed happily as he remembered his collection. Eleven years. Eleven years of collecting, of hiding behind bookshelves as he snuck the books out of the library. Eleven years of downloading the information through his father’s computer so that nobody would ever suspect him. Eleven years of asking his older friends, before they left him because of his obsession, to buy the videos for him. Eleven years. His collection had grown.
And now he was stuck, with no way out, with only himself, (since Quentin was dead, and Joan was dead, and Hallingway had fall but not gonnagotherenonotgonnagothere) and not even one video. Not even one tiny picture to help him get through this. This Cube had to be hell. That was the only explanation.
Although . . . Looking up at Quentin, David began to play his favorite video in his head. It kept the other memories at bay. Just how much of a loser he truly was, how he didn’t wan to die inside this coffin of 14x14x14, how even though Kazan got out, there was no proof that he’d make it past whatever was on the other side, how the blood from Joan was starting to reach him. . . . Oh look, he was thinking about it again. Damn.
Fandom(s): Cube
Author:
darsnape_dracul
Recipient: mr_yoshimi
Char : David Worth
Rating: PG-13
Summary: David in the last room, bleeding. And thinking. I'm nnot quite sure if it's finished.
Red Walls
Red Ceiling
Red Floor
Nothing to live for
Red Wound
Red Blood
His name is now mud
David couldn’t stop smirking. With the help of a doorhandle, he was becoming a poet. Leaven . . . Joan lay not too far from him. She was pretty . . . so very pretty, like those school girls from his collection.
David sighed happily as he remembered his collection. Eleven years. Eleven years of collecting, of hiding behind bookshelves as he snuck the books out of the library. Eleven years of downloading the information through his father’s computer so that nobody would ever suspect him. Eleven years of asking his older friends, before they left him because of his obsession, to buy the videos for him. Eleven years. His collection had grown.
And now he was stuck, with no way out, with only himself, (since Quentin was dead, and Joan was dead, and Hallingway had fall but not gonnagotherenonotgonnagothere) and not even one video. Not even one tiny picture to help him get through this. This Cube had to be hell. That was the only explanation.
Although . . . Looking up at Quentin, David began to play his favorite video in his head. It kept the other memories at bay. Just how much of a loser he truly was, how he didn’t wan to die inside this coffin of 14x14x14, how even though Kazan got out, there was no proof that he’d make it past whatever was on the other side, how the blood from Joan was starting to reach him. . . . Oh look, he was thinking about it again. Damn.