Post by QUENTIN BLACKWOOD on May 13, 2016 4:11:45 GMT -6
i'm slipping off the edge
i'm hanging by a thread
i'm hanging by a thread
the past few hours felt like nothing more than a dream, an abstract reality. everything was so hard to grasp, to understand... memories were blurred, internally struggling to push back what happened. quentin had woken up within an unfamiliar room, blankets covering his battered body. though his wounds were healed, the pain remained. the boy could barely speak, an effect of the scar left across his throat. genevieve managed to close the wound, which in turn saved quentin's life. however, his death was not what the demons wanted. oh no, that blade they used held ancient ruins carved upon the metal. their intentions were to mark the boy, but for what? quentin didn't understand why they were after him in the first place, let alone their future plans. what could he possibly do for them? why go through so much trouble for some worthless kid? none of it made any sense. then again, quentin wasn't sure he wanted to know their reasoning. the only thought running through his mind was of giselle. his mother was dead, and it was his fault.
despite wanting to sneak out of the unknown house without being noticed, he was caught in the act. genevieve appeared in the doorway shortly after he had woken up, immediately using that stern voice to stop his actions. she told him to stay in bed, to rest and regain his strength. heh, strength... as if he ever possessed such a thing. helpless, now that was a word to better describe his character. still, the kid did as he was told. laying back in the bed, his hands slowly crept toward his neck, feeling the bandages that had been wrapped around his neck. peeling them off, a slight sting took hold, causing a whimper to escape. fingers traced along the scar, moving from one end to the other. squeezing his eyes closed, tears began to roll down his cheeks. having experienced such a traumatic event only days prior, quentin bring himself to focus on the female's words, remaining silent as she spoke. eventually, he let the darkness take over, falling back into a deep sleep.
night fell upon the city by the time he woke, eyes slowly drifting toward the window. how long had been out? struggling to sit up, hands rubbed at his bloodshot eyes before pulling back the blankets that previously covered him. silently, he left the confinement of his room, orbs glancing around the blackened manor before stepping into the hall. with a hesitant pace, quentin's hand traced along the wall as he walked, a feeling of familiarity washing over. there was something about this place... something he could faintly remember. despite having only been five when he was taken away, some memories never fade completely. pausing momentarily, his eyes trailed up to a portrait hanging upon the wall, studying it's imagery. he may have called the blackwood estate home at one point, but that's not what it truly was. quentin was never apart of that family, not really. his father wanted nothing to do with him... besides, compared to tate's other children, quentin was surely viewed as a mistake. he would never be able to amount to others... he wasn't like them.
turning away from the painting, a sudden burst of noise filled the area. hands instinctively moved to cover his ears, trying to block out the high pitched yelling. with fear clinging tightly to his being, the kid hesitantly turned, instantly noticing the ghostly image standing merely feet away. shaking his head, quentin began to take small steps backward. "not now..." with every step taken, the spirit took another forward. "i don't know what you want..." tears welled within the corners of his eyes, expression fading into pure fear. "i can't help you... i'm sorry..." words broke out in a shaking tone, which caused yet another apparition to appear. "please..." hitting a corner, quentin's back connected with the wall, slowly sliding down as he tightly gripped his knees to his chest. one by one, the spirits began showing themselves, quickly forming a horde.
covering his face with both hands, he could feel the anger radiating from them. "i can't help you!" as his voice raised in a broken tremble, he could feel them surrounding, their ghostly hands grabbing hold of him. struggling slightly, fingers were tightly wrapped around his wrists, forming bruises almost immediately. "stop! please... i can't-" unlike his previous encounters with the spirits, their power over physical contact was becoming much stronger. the kid was cornered, ghosts clawing at the fabric of his sweater while tearing at his flesh. but if someone were to witness that scenario? it would simply appear as if quentin was crazy, hallucinating the demons he saw on a daily basis. it was all in his head, right? struggling to ignore their presence, blood began to drip from his nose due to the force being used, that same crimson liquid seeping from his ears. he was trying to fight against himself, which in turn, was slowly draining the life from his own body. in other words: the more he resisted, trying to make them go away... the quicker he was killing himself.
despite wanting to sneak out of the unknown house without being noticed, he was caught in the act. genevieve appeared in the doorway shortly after he had woken up, immediately using that stern voice to stop his actions. she told him to stay in bed, to rest and regain his strength. heh, strength... as if he ever possessed such a thing. helpless, now that was a word to better describe his character. still, the kid did as he was told. laying back in the bed, his hands slowly crept toward his neck, feeling the bandages that had been wrapped around his neck. peeling them off, a slight sting took hold, causing a whimper to escape. fingers traced along the scar, moving from one end to the other. squeezing his eyes closed, tears began to roll down his cheeks. having experienced such a traumatic event only days prior, quentin bring himself to focus on the female's words, remaining silent as she spoke. eventually, he let the darkness take over, falling back into a deep sleep.
night fell upon the city by the time he woke, eyes slowly drifting toward the window. how long had been out? struggling to sit up, hands rubbed at his bloodshot eyes before pulling back the blankets that previously covered him. silently, he left the confinement of his room, orbs glancing around the blackened manor before stepping into the hall. with a hesitant pace, quentin's hand traced along the wall as he walked, a feeling of familiarity washing over. there was something about this place... something he could faintly remember. despite having only been five when he was taken away, some memories never fade completely. pausing momentarily, his eyes trailed up to a portrait hanging upon the wall, studying it's imagery. he may have called the blackwood estate home at one point, but that's not what it truly was. quentin was never apart of that family, not really. his father wanted nothing to do with him... besides, compared to tate's other children, quentin was surely viewed as a mistake. he would never be able to amount to others... he wasn't like them.
turning away from the painting, a sudden burst of noise filled the area. hands instinctively moved to cover his ears, trying to block out the high pitched yelling. with fear clinging tightly to his being, the kid hesitantly turned, instantly noticing the ghostly image standing merely feet away. shaking his head, quentin began to take small steps backward. "not now..." with every step taken, the spirit took another forward. "i don't know what you want..." tears welled within the corners of his eyes, expression fading into pure fear. "i can't help you... i'm sorry..." words broke out in a shaking tone, which caused yet another apparition to appear. "please..." hitting a corner, quentin's back connected with the wall, slowly sliding down as he tightly gripped his knees to his chest. one by one, the spirits began showing themselves, quickly forming a horde.
covering his face with both hands, he could feel the anger radiating from them. "i can't help you!" as his voice raised in a broken tremble, he could feel them surrounding, their ghostly hands grabbing hold of him. struggling slightly, fingers were tightly wrapped around his wrists, forming bruises almost immediately. "stop! please... i can't-" unlike his previous encounters with the spirits, their power over physical contact was becoming much stronger. the kid was cornered, ghosts clawing at the fabric of his sweater while tearing at his flesh. but if someone were to witness that scenario? it would simply appear as if quentin was crazy, hallucinating the demons he saw on a daily basis. it was all in his head, right? struggling to ignore their presence, blood began to drip from his nose due to the force being used, that same crimson liquid seeping from his ears. he was trying to fight against himself, which in turn, was slowly draining the life from his own body. in other words: the more he resisted, trying to make them go away... the quicker he was killing himself.