scraped_hands

Agarma

Arm, arm, leg, leg, arm, head, leg, leg, arm. You felt sick. Your back stung.

You rose to your knees, then swung and nearly collapsed after seeing the red streak on the ground.

“Over there!” shouted a guard, who ran over and steadied you, not yet raising you up. “Sir! Orders, sir! Do we pursue?”

Your hands were covered with blood, too. They were shaking. The wounds weren’t deep.

Infection. Chaos. Noise. A drowning in red fortune.

“Sir! Where did Samantha go? Was Anisa complicit? Are you married?”

“Shut up.”

“Sir!” Claire rushed over. “Sir, are you well?”

“I’m okay.”

“What do we do, sir?”

You started blinking.

The tree smothered you in leaves, and those leaves grew new branches and smothered you further, forever. The world would implode from the density.

“Whatever you think, Claire.”

Blink. Blink.

“Are you really okay, sir?”

“Yes.” No. No. Yes. “Yes, I’m okay. Just a bit scratched up.”