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Feb. 17th, 2013
Ficlet to get the writing juices going...sorta.
Paris, France
1980's
"Come on! Come on! You are no good to me dead." The hard slap sent the side of my jaw jarring against the ground. Had I had it in me, I would have laughed with the absurdity of it all. A man. A rather beautifully reserved man, knelt by my side and, horrified at the blood spreading over my dress from two bullet wounds, shook me first and then tried to slap me conscious before applying pressure to my wounds or checking my pulse. Or rather, was it because he checked my pulse first, that he panicked and slapped me. No signs of life. No breath. No heartbeat, no pulse. Just two bullets holes and lots of blood. "Come on, come on, come." He whispered in a panicked haze as he lightly slapped my cheeks again.
( Read more... )
Paris, France
1980's
"Come on! Come on! You are no good to me dead." The hard slap sent the side of my jaw jarring against the ground. Had I had it in me, I would have laughed with the absurdity of it all. A man. A rather beautifully reserved man, knelt by my side and, horrified at the blood spreading over my dress from two bullet wounds, shook me first and then tried to slap me conscious before applying pressure to my wounds or checking my pulse. Or rather, was it because he checked my pulse first, that he panicked and slapped me. No signs of life. No breath. No heartbeat, no pulse. Just two bullets holes and lots of blood. "Come on, come on, come." He whispered in a panicked haze as he lightly slapped my cheeks again.
( Read more... )