11-02-2019, 02:04 AM
Throbbing agony continued to wallop Leroy's brain, relentlessly pounding away until the point of submission. His very mind was collapsing on itself, and he painstakingly endured every excruciating moment that came with it. Not that he had any other choice, of course.
If it was up to the male, he would be looming over a cast iron pot, in which bubbled a heated hodgepodge of vegetables, meat cubes, broth, and tangy spices. The mere scent of the culinary creation would tickle his nostrils and bring his maw to a drool. It would have served as an impeccable meal, a wonder in modern cooking. The two other inhabitants residing in the Roux household would be met with pleasant surprise as they consumed one of the best suppers they've ever had. Joyous laughter would erupt from the father and son, having tasted such an excellent dish. What a reality that would have been. Unfortunately, the dying canine held no control over the current situation, and instead of wearing a chef hat and a gleaming smile, he wore the expression of a man past all hope.
Seconds were hours, every coming one ten times as harrowing as the last. A little while down the line, the Proxy's perception of time went out of wack, and he couldn't tell the difference between a minute and an era.
Muffled words soon rang through the atmosphere, but the specifics were hard to make out. The voice surely belonged to Selby, and the younger Roux had definitely said "Promise", "Crow", "Leroy" in the midst of his meandering. The rest of what he said was completely indecipherable, like some archaic language. Appearance-wise, the feline was a cloud of gray-toned bokeh. A bulbous blob of blurry balls. Wormwood's presence graced the library, as well - he knew that for the lion's unmistakable tone had crept into his folded ears. The Guardsman mustn't have stayed for long, though, as his voice soon dissipated into obscurity after seemingly calling for aid.
More Tanglers made their way through the library to his side. One looked quite pink, he thought, so he could infer that this one was Delilah. A wheezing noise crept from the dog's gullet, a noise that sang a hymn of wretched sadness. The femme passed away before his very eyes in the days of yore, shepherding godawful melancholia toward his previously-elated system. Her passing, albeit brief, left a mark on the canine's soul unlike anything before. Hopelessness and despair, two shuddersome sensations that were absent in his lowdown life up until that point. Today, the roles became reversed, and it was his time to pass; he only hoped that his existence's end failed to bring the same terrible feelings he withstood before. The three remaining figures of nonrecognition were coloured white, cream, and orange, their figures clouded beyond realization. Additionally, the cur's eardrums ceased their function, rendering him deaf as a post, and his nostrils refused to pick up any scents whatsoever. Henceforth, the mongrel's five senses went null. Identifying the others was nothing short of impossible.
A vignette cemented itself at the outer reaches of his vision, beckoning darkness to corrode away at whatever eyesight he had left. Within a matter of mere moments, darkness enveloped his vision. Fully enveloped, completely enveloped.
Fully. Completely.
Fear should've consumed the male at that point, what with Lady Death eagerly inviting him inside her homestead. But, he did not feel. Not just touch could he not feel, but emotion as well. For the entire duration that followed his collapse, Leroy suffered no emotional turmoil, despite there not being a single hopeful outcome in sight. The exception of this being Delilah, and how dubiously he yearned for her to not feel pain at his loss. One may consider the gloppy tears cascading down his face a stressful reaction, yet in actuality, the waterworks had nix to do with sentiment. In fact, the mutt failed to comprehend that he cried at all, offering the argument that his crying was more so an automatic, involuntary response than anything else.
THWUMP.
A subwoofer-like boom beats inside. At once, he felt.
Warm. A tender warm, a warm only lovers could exude between one another. Every nerve, every vein, every square millimetre of his form submerged in the warm. And as long as it took for the warm to engulf his body (which was quite a short bit of time), Leroy understood why he felt the warm, in spite of how dull he now was.
Crow.
The Proxy lacked sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste. Regardless of that, the connection he shared with the General felt stronger than ever before.
There was so much he wished he could do with the guy right now. If it was in his ability to push all this aside, sit up, and give him a hug, by all means would he do so. He wished to tell the alabaster feline one last time that he loved him so. To express just how grateful he was to share a home with him in his final days, and just how much it meant to him - just how much he meant to him. To say to him that he'd do absolutely anything just to spend another day with him. To kiss him, as he had never done so before. To wake up beside him in relief, relieved because it had all been a wicked dream.
.
. .
. . .
. .
.
Fin.
If it was up to the male, he would be looming over a cast iron pot, in which bubbled a heated hodgepodge of vegetables, meat cubes, broth, and tangy spices. The mere scent of the culinary creation would tickle his nostrils and bring his maw to a drool. It would have served as an impeccable meal, a wonder in modern cooking. The two other inhabitants residing in the Roux household would be met with pleasant surprise as they consumed one of the best suppers they've ever had. Joyous laughter would erupt from the father and son, having tasted such an excellent dish. What a reality that would have been. Unfortunately, the dying canine held no control over the current situation, and instead of wearing a chef hat and a gleaming smile, he wore the expression of a man past all hope.
Seconds were hours, every coming one ten times as harrowing as the last. A little while down the line, the Proxy's perception of time went out of wack, and he couldn't tell the difference between a minute and an era.
Muffled words soon rang through the atmosphere, but the specifics were hard to make out. The voice surely belonged to Selby, and the younger Roux had definitely said "Promise", "Crow", "Leroy" in the midst of his meandering. The rest of what he said was completely indecipherable, like some archaic language. Appearance-wise, the feline was a cloud of gray-toned bokeh. A bulbous blob of blurry balls. Wormwood's presence graced the library, as well - he knew that for the lion's unmistakable tone had crept into his folded ears. The Guardsman mustn't have stayed for long, though, as his voice soon dissipated into obscurity after seemingly calling for aid.
More Tanglers made their way through the library to his side. One looked quite pink, he thought, so he could infer that this one was Delilah. A wheezing noise crept from the dog's gullet, a noise that sang a hymn of wretched sadness. The femme passed away before his very eyes in the days of yore, shepherding godawful melancholia toward his previously-elated system. Her passing, albeit brief, left a mark on the canine's soul unlike anything before. Hopelessness and despair, two shuddersome sensations that were absent in his lowdown life up until that point. Today, the roles became reversed, and it was his time to pass; he only hoped that his existence's end failed to bring the same terrible feelings he withstood before. The three remaining figures of nonrecognition were coloured white, cream, and orange, their figures clouded beyond realization. Additionally, the cur's eardrums ceased their function, rendering him deaf as a post, and his nostrils refused to pick up any scents whatsoever. Henceforth, the mongrel's five senses went null. Identifying the others was nothing short of impossible.
A vignette cemented itself at the outer reaches of his vision, beckoning darkness to corrode away at whatever eyesight he had left. Within a matter of mere moments, darkness enveloped his vision. Fully enveloped, completely enveloped.
Fully. Completely.
Fear should've consumed the male at that point, what with Lady Death eagerly inviting him inside her homestead. But, he did not feel. Not just touch could he not feel, but emotion as well. For the entire duration that followed his collapse, Leroy suffered no emotional turmoil, despite there not being a single hopeful outcome in sight. The exception of this being Delilah, and how dubiously he yearned for her to not feel pain at his loss. One may consider the gloppy tears cascading down his face a stressful reaction, yet in actuality, the waterworks had nix to do with sentiment. In fact, the mutt failed to comprehend that he cried at all, offering the argument that his crying was more so an automatic, involuntary response than anything else.
THWUMP.
A subwoofer-like boom beats inside. At once, he felt.
Warm. A tender warm, a warm only lovers could exude between one another. Every nerve, every vein, every square millimetre of his form submerged in the warm. And as long as it took for the warm to engulf his body (which was quite a short bit of time), Leroy understood why he felt the warm, in spite of how dull he now was.
Crow.
The Proxy lacked sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste. Regardless of that, the connection he shared with the General felt stronger than ever before.
There was so much he wished he could do with the guy right now. If it was in his ability to push all this aside, sit up, and give him a hug, by all means would he do so. He wished to tell the alabaster feline one last time that he loved him so. To express just how grateful he was to share a home with him in his final days, and just how much it meant to him - just how much he meant to him. To say to him that he'd do absolutely anything just to spend another day with him. To kiss him, as he had never done so before. To wake up beside him in relief, relieved because it had all been a wicked dream.
.
. .
. . .
. .
.
Fin.