|"what did you just wipe on my shirt??!"|
"my faith in humanity"
|My artistical story :3 All comments are so much apprecitiated. Thank you for taking the time to look at this!|
"Ferb tossed her a beautiful, detailed, shiny golden-brown helmet with tiny flowerish-swirls and a darker golden brown striped running down it.
"I hope you like it...Ferb designed it," added Phineas.
Ferb cheeks flushed red. "It...it matches your eyes." He looked at the ground, trailing his foot around in a circle.
Alexis smiled. "It's beautiful. Thank you."
I wrapped my arms around him, taking in that thick, warm, soothing smell of his cologne, which I've always loved. I nuzzled my head under his neck.
He gently stroked my hair. "I'm sorry, too," he whispered.
My eyes opened in surprise. "Ferbooch, what do you have to be sorry about?"
His eyes cast downward. "I should've been a better friend, and have been happy for you and Aaron. But...it's hard. After all, Alexis Hart, I lo-" He cut himself short, his face beet red.
I put a hand on his back. "What? What is it?"
He sighed. "Nothing. Now, do you want to go watch some Doctor Who or something?"
"Or Star Wars or play Halo and blow stuff up?"
The enormous smile returned to his face. "I'm so glad you're not a girly-girl...let's go."
Do I recognize any bodies?
The long answer is I can’t bring myself to force out an audible response, and it is cruel to expect me to. It’s apathetic, it’s heartless to place a soldier amidst heaps of broken bodies, torn, pallid skin still warm with mouths hung open in anguished cries that never breached their lips and ask him if any of the still, porcelain doll faces- preserved immortally in a final, futile look at the world they’ll never see- had been smiling at him with love and care and hopes and dreams just hours ago!
...The short answer is yes. I do.
I’m being told to get a move on, now. That standing here with my guard down and weapons inaccessible, gaping at the crudest practical joke I’ve ever seen until the culprit jumps out announcing how priceless the utter horror on my visage was, could bring me to my own judgment day. They’re right, of course. The words hold truth even if they’re muffled and distant and ringing, but I can’t tear my eyes away. (He’s gone.) I feel paralyzed, transfixed by this nightmare’s ploy all too vivid. (He’s dead and right in front of you and you are still in denial.) My throat is dry in this eternity of a second (Run.) and I (Run.) can’t (Run.) move.
My shoulders are tense and quiver with the strain of holding everything in as the ashes I am clutching turn my palm a diluted gray. I raise my voice to alert the seraphs I'm speaking, and then whisper a name into the remnants of a wingless angel who finally returned home.
Gun-hearted souls stripped of what was precious to them can’t do much more than cling onto whatever they can scavenge that remains. Their own beating hearts in hollow shells were all that either of them had, and with quivering fingers crossing over where their pulse laid throbbing beneath their digits and cracked words on broken whispers, they promised, they swore to protect each other with their lives; but unspoken words stated louder that neither wanted to give that up, either.