#needs title

By poetry siir

Another drop of blood hit the ground. He took his hand away from the injury that he’d thought was just a bad bruise, and it was red. A wave of dizziness overtook him, and little bits of black started creeping in around the edge of his vision.

Reblog only-!

Many who wandered the park today were frequent visitors; it was seldom one saw too many strange faces here. It made it easy to get used to a person's habits, to grasp a small amount of insight about the more subtle details of their lives. There was one woman who came almost every day with her small baby, and a person who didn't see her every day might think nothing of the subtle change in her behavior. But lately, she sat with the child on a blanket and watched him with whimsy and uncertainty, and in his mind Fylkir thought she must have doubts about his sire. An old man fed ducks by the water, but looked perfectly furious in the process. This was daily, and one could set their clock by his arrival. He then ate a sandwich he brought in a tin box and left. At first Fylkir had felt pity for him --he must have been lonely and without family to visit him often enough, but after a time he observed the man was always picked up by a wrinkled woman near his own age. The story shifted --the angry duck feeder must have come here to escape the small hunched woman. There was one person about whom he'd gathered no details. She'd come and scribble something or other down, but he'd never gotten close enough to know if it was schoolwork, a drawing, or writing. She and the few strangers who came here were the only mysteries to him. His appearances weren't clockwork like the old man's. He sometimes came, sometimes didn't --but he did spend a considerable amount of time walking a lap around the lake or wandering a trail with his hands in his pockets and a look of deep rumination furrowing his eyebrows and turning down the corners of his mouth. Today, he had brought something new. It was a camera --a fairly pricey model which was draped by a lanyard around his neck. He looked at it often, turning it over in his hands until he reached a spot of shade beneath an old tree that slightly leaned. When he reached the spot, he waited for the woman with the baby to become entranced in her wistful stare and discreetly snapped a picture of her, fingers tuning the focus. The camera was then aimed without hesitation at the old man, and he zoomed the lens into his grouchy face just as he tossed a handful of crumbs. Finally, he looked at the two pictures on the camera's screen and hoisted it back to his eye, looking through at the woman about whom he'd guessed nothing, sitting on her usual bench.

Jordan could only move her eyes about her sockets when she came to. The room was white, suffocatingly so, and the only thing that seemed to define it was a small, silver vent screwed tightly into the ceiling. Other than that she couldn't tell where one wall began and the other stopped, everything was seamlessly white, illuminated from some unknown light source. While her body remained obscure and detached from her consciousness Jordan closed her eyes and tried to remember quite what had happened. They'd been lying on the hill, hands entwined. She'd heard them coming, then suddenly there was a shot and something wet fell against her forehead an- where the hell was Cyndie? Her vocal chords could apparently push through whatever paralysis the rest of her body was under, because the orderlies came rushing to pull down her slacks (not the skirt she'd been wearing before) and stab her with sedatives. Just before the world faded to black Jordan wondered what Cyndie would make of a cloud shaped like a vent.