[Her pulse fades. In his arms, she dies. Ryder the writer who loved and missed her mom and spaghetti. It's hardly truly knowing her, but he holds on to the details all the same. Her blood had long gone from enticing to something rancid and now he feels no impulse to harm her at all. Dead, gone, turned.
There's a moment of stillness and in that moment he unravels from her. It feels wrong. It feels like abandoning. But this is the time to move. He needs to clean himself as best he can, both of her and the black ink that's welled in his eyes, now that he's not bothering to fight it back or hide it behind goggles. It's night and the living won't move in the dark, for the most part. They know his kind can find them that much easier.
He should still be thinking about whether she was with anyone else. Travelling alone didn't lend to survival for very long, no matter what some thought. He should be considering the risks of finding others, but he can't, he doesn't, his thoughts are on her, on himself, on all the dead around him who suffered alone. His head is heavy with it, thoughts crammed like cotton stuffing and in doing so subversing themselves by hardly letting him think clear at all.
He's stumbling along and he is being sloppy. He notices the scuffling footfalls far too late, specifically that the noise has followed him and not wandered away as other undead would. He turns and his first stupid thought is that this is hardly fair. He helps a girl pass and so she haunts him? His slightly less stupid realization is that she followed him.
His brow furrows. He stares at the shell of a girl.]
no subject
There's a moment of stillness and in that moment he unravels from her. It feels wrong. It feels like abandoning. But this is the time to move. He needs to clean himself as best he can, both of her and the black ink that's welled in his eyes, now that he's not bothering to fight it back or hide it behind goggles. It's night and the living won't move in the dark, for the most part. They know his kind can find them that much easier.
He should still be thinking about whether she was with anyone else. Travelling alone didn't lend to survival for very long, no matter what some thought. He should be considering the risks of finding others, but he can't, he doesn't, his thoughts are on her, on himself, on all the dead around him who suffered alone. His head is heavy with it, thoughts crammed like cotton stuffing and in doing so subversing themselves by hardly letting him think clear at all.
He's stumbling along and he is being sloppy. He notices the scuffling footfalls far too late, specifically that the noise has followed him and not wandered away as other undead would. He turns and his first stupid thought is that this is hardly fair. He helps a girl pass and so she haunts him? His slightly less stupid realization is that she followed him.
His brow furrows. He stares at the shell of a girl.]
... Ryder...?