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Post by HENRIETTA QUICKE on Nov 20, 2011 2:46:31 GMT -5
Well. This sucked.
Yes, Henrietta was alive. That much, she could be grateful for. But for some odd reason, being alive just wasn't that much of a comfort when it meant fighting your way through a crazy forest where nearly everything she touched was likely to go ahead and finish the job the damn boat started. Henri gave a frustrated huff, and wiped sweat from her brow, pausing in her trek to lean against a tree and catch her breath. In her hand was clasped the switchblade her father had given her two Christmases ago. Would it honestly protect her against a hunger jaguar? No. Did it make her feel a little better about being alone in the woods with nothing else to protect her? Yes. Yes it did.
Bracing her hands on her knees, Henri released a low grown that quickly turned into a torrent of colorful curse words, most of which learned from her dear old Uncle Lou (her father would never be so undignified as to curse). For a moment she sat like that, welling in the sheer disparity of her situation. Then, with a brisk sigh she stood straight and continued onward. Nobody ever got anything done just by whining about it. And Henri wasn’t about to give up yet.
Of course, if it came to the point where she stared talking to a coconut or soccerball and naming it Walter or Willis or whatever the hell it had been, then she’d reconsider.
Now, Henri knew better then to just prance around screaming for help. She wasn’t a fool – there could very well be aborigines on this island, and even if there weren’t, she wasn’t too keen to alert the other survivors of her presence. Not yet. Not until she got a feel for how they functioned.
Assuming there were, of course, survivors. Henri herself had barely made it. At some point she had found a lifesaver to cling to, though most of her drifting was a blurry nightmare. When she had finally regained her senses, Henri was sprawled out on the beach, serving as a sunbathing rock for a few crabs that thought her awakening was quite rude.
And now here she was, a handful of hours away from sunset and completely lost. Okay, maybe storming into the jungle with no sense of direction or plan was a slightly flawed idea, but in her defense, she had been lightly delirious.
Picking up a stick, she whipped it into the trees ahead, taking out her frustrates in the best, most muted way she knew how – by beating shit up. If she walked long enough, Henri supposed she either hit the other side of the island, or perhaps find a river that would lead her back to the sea. Until then…
“Freaking Tom Hanks. Never around when you need him.”
THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING OH THOSE MEMORIES
( • A S Y O U S P O K E Y O U R F O R K E D T O N G U E S H O W E D • ) W O R D S • 470
T A G G E D • no one <3
O U T F I T •
L Y R I C S • memories by lion if ido
T E M P L A T E • PANIC! ITS LAUZ of CAUTION
N O T E S • these are notes. aren't they pretty?
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Post by NOAH GREY on Nov 21, 2011 20:47:02 GMT -5
Noah Grey
Put me to sleep, Evil Angel.
Open your wings, Evil Angel.
[/i] .xXx. [/color] Noah had never experienced anything quite so horrifying, never experienced something this powerful; something that, no matter how he tried to control himself, could tear him apart within mere seconds. It was relentless, merciless, and completely overpowering of all emotions within the younger man. He no longer had control over how he felt, what emotions he showed, and it was starting to rip him apart completely. He’d never experienced such a pain before; one that, though not physical, made him want to writhe about in pain, screaming, crying, and kicking like an angry little child. If Noah didn’t know any better, he’d say it was killing him. In fact, he wasn’t even entirely sure as to why he was still breathing. Without her, there was no point. Why should he breathe, if she wasn’t there to breathe with him? Noah’s thought process had traveled down this treacherous, emotional path many times since he’d ended up on the beach, the body of his washed up fiancé laying beside him in the sand, eyes dull, body limp and cold. He’d spent hours there, with her, head in his hands, tears welling from his eyes. Noah was not a man that cried; no, he was a man who offered smiles to the ones who were crying, a man who, no matter who it was, would offer someone comfort when in need. And yet, as the roles were reversed and he was in a stop of near torture, there was no one there to pull him through it. No one to tell him to lift his chin up, because things would get better. To be quite frank, that man wasn’t entirely sure that things would. He was on a rather deserted-looking island, with the woman he loved with every fibre of his laying buried a small ways into the forest. Noah’s soft, green eyes darkened with the thought, his gaze flitting towards the forest in front of him, in order to keep moving. He didn’t know where he was going, or why for that matter, though the man wasn’t sure he could stop himself. He needed to get away. Away from what? These emotions, that beach, everything. Noah just needed to move, needed to breathe. He felt as if he was claustrophobic, suffocating, and yet, he was left floundering by himself, unable to achieve safety. He couldn’t escape any of it. When the man was awake, he thought of her, and when he was asleep, she refused to leave him. Noah’s forehead creased at the thought, before he gave a low, desperate sigh, his hands gently folding away the fiolage blocking his way to god know’s where. He knew he needed shelter, so he’d set out to find a spot. However, once the man had started walking, he hadn’t stopped. He stumbled through the forest in a pair of dampened, worn shorts, paired with a ripped and torn, white (or rather, previously white) button-up shirt. He pushed the sleeves up past his elbows as he continued through the tropical landscape, blinking furiously, in order to try and relieve the stinging from crying. Noah wasn’t ashamed of the fact he’d shed a tear, despite what everyone else in the world seemed to think. Sure, it was weak. Sure, he would normally be totally against it. And sure, he didn’t want anyone to see him at the moment. But it takes a real man to be able to cry, and let emotion get the best of him. A real man to admit that they care about something so intensely, that it overwhelms them. Noah shook the thoughts off, as a nearby noise caught his attention, his entire body paused, breath hitching within his throat. There were many dangers lurking within the jungle around him, however as Noah stood to simply listen, it seemed as if it was a furious, whipping noise. A branch against a tree. Could an animal do that? “Freaking Tom Hanks. Never around when you need him.” Noah listened for a moment longer, letting out the breath he’d been holding subconsciously. Part of him fought to run off undetected, though the other half, his normal, dominant side, said to go and make sure the woman was alright. So, being that Noah couldn’t simply walk away and leave someone in an uncomfortable state, he exhaled deeply, ran the back of his hand across his eyes to ensure there would no longer be moisture lining his eyelids, before walking out to where the woman could see him, and he could see her. His expression shifted from its previous, hopeless one once in the eye of public, into a softer, attempted look of happiness. His smile was sad, though the man was trying. It was the best he could manage. “Are you alright?” He asked easily, slipping one of his hands into the pocket of his jeans, a brow quirking with the question. His demeanour was soft, calm, and entirely harmless. He offered the girl a smile, or tried rather, though the attempt was rather miserable. He just had to hope she wouldn’t notice. Fly over me, Evil Angel.
Why can’t I breath, Evil Angel?
Words: 873 Muse: Meh Notes: Sorry it's a fail, ahaha. He's all doom and gloom. T.T Oh, and I didn't proof it, so there may be hardcore fails. D: SORRY<3[/size][/blockquote] |
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