Masaomi Kida (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mellowyellow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
logsinthenight2019-12-01 11:51 am
mellowyellow) wrote in logsinthenight2019-12-01 11:51 am
Entry tags:
you don't know what it's like
characters: Masaomi Kida, Rosalind Lutece
location: Southern edge of the village
date/time: Late November
content: Masaomi joins the ranks of the hilariously and gruesomely injured. Rosalind hosts the initiation.
warnings: Insides on the outside! I kid, but seriously, descriptions of viscera.
There are things nobody tells you in life, lessons some uniquely unlucky individuals will always have to learn the hard way. As Masaomi takes another unsteady step, unsure of whether he's moved an inch or a mile, he decides with detached clarity that this is one of those lessons.
Human beings aren't limited to just feeling pain. Pain can be experienced with all five senses.
It looks like sharp, serrated contrasts. It sounds like a neverending, high-pitched ring. It smells like rotten meat. It tastes like burning. It feels like he's better off dead.
Every part of him is being invaded, every sense and thought and instinct, until that pain is all he is.
He's holding something, but he can't feel it. He can't see it either, but then again, he can't even tell where he's looking anymore. Maybe at the ground, if the ground is still there. He can't feel that either. Maybe he's flying. Maybe he's falling.
Masaomi Kida stumbles over nothing, dropping to his knees first before unconsciously twisting. His back hits the dirt, scattering dust, leaves, and blood into the air. A jagged slash has split him open from near his left ear down the entirety of his torso. It's too messy to have been caused by a man-made blade. Chipped ribs and shredded muscle peek through the saturated wound, still desperately working to hold the lungs and heart in their rightful places, but the further south the gash runs, the deeper it gets. Cradled in Masaomi's slick palms just above his belt buckle are several coils of damaged intestine, looking more like hamburger as they float in a fountain of still gushing blood.
His foot twitches, trying to take another step before the brain realizes what's happened and shuts down too. A gurgle of a laugh follows.
He probably looks so stupid right now. It's a good thing M.K.'s not around to see.
location: Southern edge of the village
date/time: Late November
content: Masaomi joins the ranks of the hilariously and gruesomely injured. Rosalind hosts the initiation.
warnings: Insides on the outside! I kid, but seriously, descriptions of viscera.
There are things nobody tells you in life, lessons some uniquely unlucky individuals will always have to learn the hard way. As Masaomi takes another unsteady step, unsure of whether he's moved an inch or a mile, he decides with detached clarity that this is one of those lessons.
Human beings aren't limited to just feeling pain. Pain can be experienced with all five senses.
It looks like sharp, serrated contrasts. It sounds like a neverending, high-pitched ring. It smells like rotten meat. It tastes like burning. It feels like he's better off dead.
Every part of him is being invaded, every sense and thought and instinct, until that pain is all he is.
He's holding something, but he can't feel it. He can't see it either, but then again, he can't even tell where he's looking anymore. Maybe at the ground, if the ground is still there. He can't feel that either. Maybe he's flying. Maybe he's falling.
Masaomi Kida stumbles over nothing, dropping to his knees first before unconsciously twisting. His back hits the dirt, scattering dust, leaves, and blood into the air. A jagged slash has split him open from near his left ear down the entirety of his torso. It's too messy to have been caused by a man-made blade. Chipped ribs and shredded muscle peek through the saturated wound, still desperately working to hold the lungs and heart in their rightful places, but the further south the gash runs, the deeper it gets. Cradled in Masaomi's slick palms just above his belt buckle are several coils of damaged intestine, looking more like hamburger as they float in a fountain of still gushing blood.
His foot twitches, trying to take another step before the brain realizes what's happened and shuts down too. A gurgle of a laugh follows.
He probably looks so stupid right now. It's a good thing M.K.'s not around to see.