Inuyasha, "Open and Clench" Miroku
Mar. 20th, 2006 07:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quirkysmuseFandom: Inuyasha
Title: Open and Clench
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Character Introspective
Word Count: 187
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
iyissekiwa
Open. Close. Open. Flex.
He forgets what it is like to have a hand that is whole, that still has muscles and blood underneath. Instead he only knows that his hand is as good as gone, unnatural and unholy – cursed.
Flex. Beads scrape. Rattle, tighten – whisper and malign.
He thinks pensively, flexing the muscles in his upper arm that are still whole. He feels the muscles in his forearm that are real too. But his hand –
The truth is it’s not really a hand anymore – it’s a marker – a marker for his inevitable end.
It’s a truth that he is not whole – and with a slim chance of ‘not yet’. He is fragmented and continuously cracking – his hand swishing by his side seeping lost time, and opening, flexing and tightening –
And waiting for the quick grab of Death.
One day, then three, then forty – his many days fade into few and time once polished begins to dull.
Open. Close. Wait. Clench.
He opens his hand, and Coincidence moves the winds of the outside world. He waits, and inside … the swallow of his finality waits as well.
Title: Open and Clench
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Character Introspective
Word Count: 187
Notes: Written for
iyissekiwaOpen. Close. Open. Flex.
He forgets what it is like to have a hand that is whole, that still has muscles and blood underneath. Instead he only knows that his hand is as good as gone, unnatural and unholy – cursed.
Flex. Beads scrape. Rattle, tighten – whisper and malign.
He thinks pensively, flexing the muscles in his upper arm that are still whole. He feels the muscles in his forearm that are real too. But his hand –
The truth is it’s not really a hand anymore – it’s a marker – a marker for his inevitable end.
It’s a truth that he is not whole – and with a slim chance of ‘not yet’. He is fragmented and continuously cracking – his hand swishing by his side seeping lost time, and opening, flexing and tightening –
And waiting for the quick grab of Death.
One day, then three, then forty – his many days fade into few and time once polished begins to dull.
Open. Close. Wait. Clench.
He opens his hand, and Coincidence moves the winds of the outside world. He waits, and inside … the swallow of his finality waits as well.