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CAN I.
That tomb of metal, an all encompassing coffin of death; depending upon the view one may have. Straps and locks, docks and clocks, the wonder of opaque like to hit her orbs. One pale body for one death coffin, locked to the pilot seat. Down she held her head, strands of darkened locks shifting and flaying down from her helmet. Cupping her face the head rocked back in despair, whispering out a phrase in her quiet tune that parted pink lips.
"Can I. Can I."
Inwards her voice was trapped, both body and mind tied to such metal contraption. An internal struggle of what one must do. Yet despite such struggle her way out was never quite clearer than the control stick before, sprung up between thighs and always proactive for its duty. Today such control stick was devoid of hold. Lacking the touch of a willing pilot.
And so no movement came, the hulking death coffin remaining upon its place. No motion of heavy limbs, no hulking arms, or winding barrels. Silence. But it was far from such silence in one's head. Her head flooded and splashed with thoughts. Those emotions and torments taking every flash of control. Out those waters leaked, shifting mental contradictions outward to a physical tear to slip and trail down pale cheek until finding its home upon the dashboard.
Away from her head the hands went, retreating to a better place, retreating to gift the control stick that hand been longing for touch. Jerky the control to the side came the groans and moans of movement. The machine crawling to life as weighted legs cranked and crawled below her in a rotation about. There was to be no bloodshed today, the death coffin would have no such thing. Blood would not be on her hands.
Out she whispered once again, parting pink lips for that same tune.
"I cannot."
Edited by Z?mbieBiscuit, 21 March 2015 - 07:30 PM.
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