Feb. 13th, 2010

almosthonorable: (baleful)
whitetextiswhite

[ "'tis an ill wind that blows o'er us all" ]


His dreams bend and breathe.

Shadows bleed down and up the walls, a menagerie of shifting, squirming shapes.

The Bible in his hands turns to ash; when he opens his mouth to cite Scripture, his tongue falls to the floor, a torn, ragged mess of atrophied muscle.

His gun is gone, his holster empty.

He imagines he's gripping the Colt, the gold crucifix branding his palm with red lines.

If wishes were horses, Ben would have a ranch right now, but that voice -- that goddamn voice -- never stops talking to him. It may as well be inside his head, and for all he knows, it is.

You could live forever, it says, and while Ben can't say the thought's not appealing, he'd bet his missing hat Eve thought that serpent was her friend, too.

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Ben Wade

May 2012

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