(no subject)
It was interesting how an object as small as a revolver was able to make such a large sound, and pack such a powerful punch. One wouldn't expect something so small to be the source of so much disturbance. But just a pull of the finger, a simple drawing of a single digit, could create a blast which echoed across a field in a way that startled a flock of crows into alarmed flight, and the punch of which could send a full grown man collapsing to the ground as he gasped in pain and surprise. It was less the force of the actual bullet that sent Vincent to the ground, but the unexpected kickback, leaving him startled and as winded as the crows that had fled moments before.
The ache in his heart weighed heavily on his chest, and for a moment, Vincent thought his lungs had failed. That maybe he was to drown in this field, his breath gone, his side and chest aching from the bullet now inside of him. He could feel it in him, like a smothering stone that couldn't be lifted from him, it pressed and pushed and left him breathless.
But he could breathe, his breath having only been gone a moment, but what was a moment right now, as he waited to die? A moment was forever. Only moments ago he'd pulled the trigger, the force of the shot knocking him clean over, but it felt like an hour had already passed. The crows, their alarm, their flapping wings as they fled, he could hear them still in his ringing ears, he could hear them mingled with the drum of his own heartbeat. Only moments had passed, and he was alive, lying on his side and eyes staring blindly at the stalks of golden wheat. Shooting himself straight into his troublesome heart surely would have been more effective, but then there was no sense of closure. And he could never have shot himself in his head, why it would have been terrible if Theo ha-
Theo. His brother, he could never make him see him in that way. Face distorted and mangled, blown away and gone. No, he could never do that. He'd done this, this act, this sin, he'd done this as much for Theo's pain as for his own. Now, perhaps Theo and his little Dutch wife could find an apartment with less stairs. Now they could pick a proper godfather for the baby.
But, what if he died here amid the grain? No one knew for sure where he was, they didn't know to look in this field. And what of the crows? What of their cawing and flapping dark wings, what of their sharp beaks and sharper claws? The crows would do worse to him than any bullet. They'd pick, they'd gauge, they'd take every soft piece of him. He couldn't do that to Theo. Make him worry and wonder, make him identify a brother who was nearly unidentifiable.
Vincent pushed himself up with a groan.
The pain was coming stronger now. It was coming sharper, strangling him in a way that dulled the stone pressing onto his heart. Every step was a struggle, every breath he feared would be his last. He could not die here, he had to go home. He would die at home, his brother would be spared the extra pain. He just needed to get his things and he could walk back to town, lay comfortably, and die as he needed. Perhaps he wouldn't even die. The pain was coming badly now, but if it was a fatal wound, wouldn't he be dead already? Maybe he'd just see a doctor and be alright, maybe he was being foolish, maybe this was just another experience like that wretched night with his ear. The easel and canvas…well, he could leave the easel. But his paint, he needed his paints. He struggled to crouch and retrieve the paint box, the sharp pains growing sharper, his balance wavered, and as he stood, or attempted to do so, he realized he couldn't. He fell, rolling back, paint box still clasped in one hand as the other pressed against the bleeding hole in his chest. It was no matter, he'd simply get up again. He just needed to stand and walk. He'd leave his hat, he'd leave his worthless easel, but his paints, his work, he couldn't leave them.
He began to stand, rolling onto his side, grasping desperately at the paint box, his balance and knees betraying him and he stumbled. Who would have thought a bullet in your chest would make it hard to stand. He hadn't shot his legs, they should be working just fine. He scrambled to collect the box, and pitched his weight forward, the blood dripping between his fingers and sweat dripped down his neck. He just needed his things, and to get to town, if he lived that long, long enough for Theo to not worry, then it would be alright.
Vincent's legs would not hold him as he reached for the canvas and he dropped the paint box. He bent to reach for it, his knees shaking and his breath catching painfully, and with a gasp he allowed himself to fall to his knees, his forehead pressing to the cool Earth as his eyes squeezed shut for just a moment, and his fingertips faintly keeping their contact with the box as though it'd bring some degree of comfort. Perhaps, if he could, he'd just rest this short moment, and then he'd walk back to town.
"A dying man has every right to rest, I'll tell Theo exactly that when I see him," he decided, gasping, his eyebrows drawing together into a frown. Perhaps once this was all over and if he lived, perhaps they would let him move somewhere else, away from Dr. Gachet and the crows. Perhaps near the water.
The ache in his heart weighed heavily on his chest, and for a moment, Vincent thought his lungs had failed. That maybe he was to drown in this field, his breath gone, his side and chest aching from the bullet now inside of him. He could feel it in him, like a smothering stone that couldn't be lifted from him, it pressed and pushed and left him breathless.
But he could breathe, his breath having only been gone a moment, but what was a moment right now, as he waited to die? A moment was forever. Only moments ago he'd pulled the trigger, the force of the shot knocking him clean over, but it felt like an hour had already passed. The crows, their alarm, their flapping wings as they fled, he could hear them still in his ringing ears, he could hear them mingled with the drum of his own heartbeat. Only moments had passed, and he was alive, lying on his side and eyes staring blindly at the stalks of golden wheat. Shooting himself straight into his troublesome heart surely would have been more effective, but then there was no sense of closure. And he could never have shot himself in his head, why it would have been terrible if Theo ha-
Theo. His brother, he could never make him see him in that way. Face distorted and mangled, blown away and gone. No, he could never do that. He'd done this, this act, this sin, he'd done this as much for Theo's pain as for his own. Now, perhaps Theo and his little Dutch wife could find an apartment with less stairs. Now they could pick a proper godfather for the baby.
But, what if he died here amid the grain? No one knew for sure where he was, they didn't know to look in this field. And what of the crows? What of their cawing and flapping dark wings, what of their sharp beaks and sharper claws? The crows would do worse to him than any bullet. They'd pick, they'd gauge, they'd take every soft piece of him. He couldn't do that to Theo. Make him worry and wonder, make him identify a brother who was nearly unidentifiable.
Vincent pushed himself up with a groan.
The pain was coming stronger now. It was coming sharper, strangling him in a way that dulled the stone pressing onto his heart. Every step was a struggle, every breath he feared would be his last. He could not die here, he had to go home. He would die at home, his brother would be spared the extra pain. He just needed to get his things and he could walk back to town, lay comfortably, and die as he needed. Perhaps he wouldn't even die. The pain was coming badly now, but if it was a fatal wound, wouldn't he be dead already? Maybe he'd just see a doctor and be alright, maybe he was being foolish, maybe this was just another experience like that wretched night with his ear. The easel and canvas…well, he could leave the easel. But his paint, he needed his paints. He struggled to crouch and retrieve the paint box, the sharp pains growing sharper, his balance wavered, and as he stood, or attempted to do so, he realized he couldn't. He fell, rolling back, paint box still clasped in one hand as the other pressed against the bleeding hole in his chest. It was no matter, he'd simply get up again. He just needed to stand and walk. He'd leave his hat, he'd leave his worthless easel, but his paints, his work, he couldn't leave them.
He began to stand, rolling onto his side, grasping desperately at the paint box, his balance and knees betraying him and he stumbled. Who would have thought a bullet in your chest would make it hard to stand. He hadn't shot his legs, they should be working just fine. He scrambled to collect the box, and pitched his weight forward, the blood dripping between his fingers and sweat dripped down his neck. He just needed his things, and to get to town, if he lived that long, long enough for Theo to not worry, then it would be alright.
Vincent's legs would not hold him as he reached for the canvas and he dropped the paint box. He bent to reach for it, his knees shaking and his breath catching painfully, and with a gasp he allowed himself to fall to his knees, his forehead pressing to the cool Earth as his eyes squeezed shut for just a moment, and his fingertips faintly keeping their contact with the box as though it'd bring some degree of comfort. Perhaps, if he could, he'd just rest this short moment, and then he'd walk back to town.
"A dying man has every right to rest, I'll tell Theo exactly that when I see him," he decided, gasping, his eyebrows drawing together into a frown. Perhaps once this was all over and if he lived, perhaps they would let him move somewhere else, away from Dr. Gachet and the crows. Perhaps near the water.