The bonds of the living hold us. These are shackles. These are the ties that keep us from moving forward. These are the restraints that prevent perfection. These are the holds that keep us against the wall, backs straight, heads up, simply staring. Life is a straightjacket.
Nirax put the gun into his belt and extended his hands to Airthe.
Airthe stared at him.
"C'mon," Nirax said. Airthe didn't move. Nirax sighed and grabbed Airthe by the shoulders to haul him upwards.
"I don't have legs," Airthe said.
"'Course not," Nirax said. "But you don't need legs. I'll carry you."
"You're not strong enough."
Nirax pulled Airthe up, and held him. "Are too."
Airthe wrapped his arms around Nirax's shoulders. He glared at Nirax.
"Are too," Nirax said. He smiled.
Airthe leaned forward to rest his chin on Nirax's shoulder so he wouldn't have to look at him.
Nirax's arms held him.
The church floor, stained with blood, grew farther away. Nirax walked out of the church, holding Airthe against him, right out onto the lawn in front of the church.
The lawn did not belong to the church, but people called it the church's lawn anyway. Standing on the church's lawn, Nirax said something.
Airthe heard his voice, but not his words.
Airthe's head hurt. He stared at the grass over Nirax's shoulder. The grass was green and brown. It hadn't rained recently.
The grass was brown.
Airthe's head hurt.
He told Nirax to put him down.
Nirax held Airthe closer.
Airthe's head throbbed.
"No," Airthe said.
Nirax didn't respond.
Airthe stared at the grass. It turned black.
Sleeping is an impermanent form a death.
No comments:
Post a Comment