#stdane

The dirt beneath the plant is less dirt and more rock. The scrub nearby is not quite green. Sharp, small fragments of white rock dig into your palm where it rests to support you. You know these are your own teeth, spit out on impact with the ground. Your hand sits in your lap, limp and useless. You stare at the cactus, the Wrong cactus, and the lump in your throat becomes a sharp and pointed intrusion. You cough, the intrusion rattling and vibrating with the sound of it. You clear your throat. It doesn’t help. You do not even need to verbalize the complete Fear, the emotion piercing through your mind faster than you can pin words into sentences. There is only the pang, deep in your gut, and the intrusion in your throat turned malicious. You gasp, and feel something sharp rake along the soft palate of the back of your throat.

You have always been here. There is no Script, only the vast expanse of a barren desert in all directions. The world lacks a horizon, and, yet, you are distinctly aware of an unforgiving Sky stretched above you. Light blooms from all directions, casting a radio-static shadow in one direction or other, until you look at it and then it jumps to cast someplace else. You shade your eyes with your good hand, then become aware of the fact you have a “good hand,” currently. Your limp arm tingles and buzzes with the lack of breeze, pickling and tanning in the harsh light of the desert sky. Your breath hitches at the memory of a car, a driver too-close, and you sit down hard on the dirt. Your good hand braces against the ground, offering some semblance of stability, though you wobble and teeter regardless. Your vision is tunneled, black vignette filtering your world through a narrowed lens, and you wheeze around the prickling lump in your throat. You glance to a cactus, nearby, and Know it is Wrong. You study it, fixated, desperate for any excuse to avoid the present panic which grips you.

Hyp sits alone in the vast expanse of barren desert, an angry sun beaming down and blood beading on every inch of bare skin. He spits out dirt and fractured fragments of bone, or tries to, but it sticks to his lower lip and he resigns himself to wiping it off with his bare wrist. He doesn’t remember being left-handed. Maybe he’s ambidextrous. He knows how to draw, that’s where the anatomy comes from. He cannot recall how Dream rendered meat textures before he learned to place muscles underneath skin to structure a face. He had certainly been stabbed, gutted, and flayed apart before today. It was always meat, wasn’t it? Hyp’s sweat stains the front of his shirt, a wet patch under both his arms and running the length of his collar. Fucking heat. He doesn’t even recoginize the driver of the car, somewhere off in the distance and steering with a fractured forearm. Saltwater catches on his eyelashes, and turns dust on the back of his hand to mud when he drags it across his eyes once more.

"Breakfast was mediocre, and that's being generous." #luxescarlettelizabeth #luxethestdane #puppies #puppiesofinstagram #stdane #9monthsold

Duke 10 months old. just done #swimming. Now chillin on his #lazyboy . #greatdane #stbernard #stdane #dogsofinstagram #puppies #dogs