no looking away from truths
death in numbers · 02/08 · 2:58PM

She could feel Elsa screaming from within her, but she couldn't let her give up. Not when it meant the difference between being alive and dead. There wasn't much time to answer him as she was scrambling to throw a body heavier than hers to the side. Growing irritated that it was taking this long, she grumbled, throwing an elbow to nose with intention to break and distract while she spun around behind him to send a kick into the back of knees. He didn't completely fall, but went to the ground just enough for her to position hands around his head, snapping the neck quickly, but with a force that was powered by the rush of adrenaline.

"Great. Just great." she replied breathlessly, reaching into the lifeless body's boot to grab for the knife that would be of no use to him. "Catch!" And she hurled it in his direction, wincing and falling back to the carpet.

The sound of someone's neck snapping would send him over the edge. He was less thrilled with body absorbing blows, the same area that caught a knife to the gut. He felt it no matter how well his body seemed to heal at a rapid rate than normal.

Slade was angry, pissed beyond words as his punches grew precise, and strikes to the side was enough to throw the fighter off him for space and the time it took to snap at the whizzing knife to be caught. Luckily it was from the handle, and he without hesitation, threw the knife like a dagger at a short distance, finding the blade wedged into the perpetrator's arm. Slade was out for blood, his rushing into the direction of a body with a lunge forward push the assailant into furniture, bracing for it to break under the two. Where he twisted the blade in an arm, it was removed and pressed against a throat with struggle. Eye narrowed, wishing there were a move made to end him there at the jugular.

"Who sent you?!"

Straddling the man above the rubble, he pressed firmly with knife as other hand held his shoulder down applying pressure. "I'm giving you to the count of three, who sent you?" Slade looked over his shoulder with one eye, "Are you good back there?"

A countdown started in his head. At a silent three, there was no answer but the gurgling of one man's blood.

Sweat speckled his face, dotted every inch of his body when the clock revived him back to the living. Dreaming escaped him into a place he had to relive more than any other images that were true memories or his mind trying to wrap it's hands about his neck. He sat up from the bed, his cat lying against him, unaware of its owner on the brink of hyperventilating. He blinked more than a few times, hoping all vision was available in both eyes, and not one. The longest slumber, was no more than a few hours since the time he laid his head down to crash. The amount of narcotic in his system wore off, leaving him uncoordinated and reluctant to rush out of bed for something. That something escaped his mind, needing to pinpoint the item for relief or a means of documenting what became realer than dreams suggested. They were more than dreams, a series of tales spun in his subconscious that confirmed who he was, and where he was going to be. He had this affect from daily life, routinely questioning what remained for him to gather but nothing cared to do the trick. His slow rise from the bed took more time than anticipated, feeling dizzy, disorientated from his sense of awareness tampered with. The room smelled the same. His scent, day old bottle of beer, clothes that became part of the carpet with the odor of smoke, clouded his nose.

No hints of alkaline, that metallic rinse that followed him through the tunnel of a hazy encounter. Red leaking from places he could envision with the closing of his eyes. Meat in its rare form and newly drained, stuck to a sensory palate that was immovable. He hopped out, landing almost in a rock forward until balance kicked in. The kitten was left behind, curious to its owner's departure. It watched from the mess of the blanket bundled up, prior to roaming about and pouncing in the space. Nathan had long since disappeared from the room, roaming the short hall, seeking for that something. Rediscovering the memorized scent, the noise, and the aftermath that stung each time he tried to pull from what haunted him in agonizing doses. A scramble towards the bathroom ended shortly after relieving himself, and exiting down the hall again.

Fist tightened up, feeling a phantom sting of pummeling into a live carcass on the defense. Rough knuckles healed by then, but the scars were in place for a reason. Reminders were around, crumbs left behind that were left in its place, while he jumped from one scenario to the next. He wasn't alone in this, and voiced it on more than one occasion. Nathan scurried into one space, pushing around items on surfaces, seeking out loose papers that were unmoved in the weeks that since passed. The living room was flipped upside down. Couch cushions pulled from their spot, running a palm across to find anything that he may have left behind. He felt faint in the sudden moments of the chase, but never faltered in the search. Closets filled with few coats, were pushed behind to seek out any containment unit. He came up with nothing, racing back towards the room on an urgent wind.

He gasped for air, frustration accumulating on the hunt as it was in his nature to be sharp in the find. When he failed to gain that something, he searched the room on the following go. Jumping to the dresser, then lowering himself to the grounds of the bed, waving an arm to feel for anything that remained. Nothing jumped out at him. Nothing stored in that space would detail a vivid hallucination that was now a reoccurring nightmare. Groaning to get back on his feet, he gave up, crashed on the edge of the bed with hands running against his face. The sweat escaped pores once again, eager rake through his jumbled mass of retention that was thought to be no more than his mind playing devilish tricks. The less he relied on the doubt, on the unresolved notion that his hands were projected in actions that caused a building body count, more he could come to its final term. Unknown, nameless, and unrecognizable from any path crossed, was a blot. A stain he tried to rub out and clean, bleached to nonexistence would reappear, surfacing like fat rising to the top. No matter if he slept for hours, or stayed away with bloodshot eyes, it would be there. Those deaths could not be unseen, never leaving because it was part of his story. His tale to be told while on his deathbed could save what piece of soul he held on tightly to. Resolving the sins that leveled minor ones left in his wake was one purpose he did not have steps to close in on.

Muffling words of incoherent nature into rough hands, he fell back into the bed, disturbing the kitten that seemed to paw at him in a fit of playfulness. It rarely brought his attention from the dread, but locked in an idea to not wallow in the mess created on his lonesome. Phone was reached in an extension towards the nightstand. Quickly pulling through messages, one contact in particular was a stand out. An unlikely source that made sense, that had caution all over but read that he wasn't alone. He needed a response, hers to break up the tension that was inescapable no matter what his pride attempted to dictate in that desperate moment. Thumbs tapped against screen with a hasty message: what are you doing? Body sunk into the bed, phone in his sweaty grip, waiting on pins and needles for avoidance of his pathetic state or acceptance of what wedged between sanity and delirium.