73 Vhalar, 724
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Kotton was out for a walk. Yes, for his mental health, but it was more than that. He recalled times when he had spent covering the layout of Scalvoris, measuring up the town and thereby appointing personal poems to those establishments of the city he felt were worthy of such inspirational expenditure. He had written about written a piece of prose about the Knight’s Rest Inn, Gregorio’s Glassware, the general architectural enterprises of Scalvoris Town, non-permitting his knee-jerk observation of the Greystone Tea House or the conduits that led up to it- he was jotting down words with every lick of the tongue, every flick of the wrist, and every side-eye the nervous interviewee made when under pressure. Every detail he inscribed in his journal and every thought of processed feeling he underwent would be forever documented so long as he continued to embrace his need to be transparent. And he wanted to be transparent, that was. He wanted those who read his works, engaged in his stories, and responded to his ideas to be as apparent as he was, mind, body and soul. He hated the idea of keeping things hush, hush. Even secrets, as valuable as they could be, as important as they seemed, devoid of the public eye, there was something still that warranted explanation. Privacy was understandable, but lies were not. And he would give anything to bring to light the lies that dared shadow the righteousness that was the truth. Pier and Pre would look down on him with pride, he was sure of it.
Still walking and trying to avoid the debris that cluttered the streets, Kotton side-stepped a banana peel, a piece of plastic and a random child’s toy, though he was sure given how decrepit it had become after what was most likely weather and tear brought upon by a severe thunderstorm.
He challenged himself to look away and seemingly directed himself into an arbitrarily unmarked alleyway. At least here he felt a sense of calm. That was before intuition kicked in. He detected those objects that surrounded him as possible places to hide- for thugs or criminals to use before jumping someone such as an unarmed individual like Kotton. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and resisted the natural urge to conjure up a scene where he was the sole victim accosted by many vagrants. After he opened his eyes, he moved as quickly as he could, gazing into the empty barrels, hiking his neck against brick corners and inevitably standing tall in case anyone decided to use his unequally positioned weight against him.
He was ready.
And it didn’t take long before his assumptions were made true.
Out from that random corner he had just checked, came a masked man, slender, no muscle mass to be found, throwing an open hand against his face. Kotton side-stepped, avoiding the attack before positioning his dominant leg between his assailants, and turning so as to hinder said assailant’s balance. They fell to the ground and didn’t move another muscle.
Kotton wanted to flee. He had only predicted the scene using his mentally ill insight that was overthinking. He didn’t have anything else to use against people trying to mug and or attack him. Thinking overtly about situations that won’t actually happen was usually a problem, an issue, and illness, if you asked any mental health coach, but Kotton was in no mind to put a pin in thinking about when next he should see his therapist, Cyndica.
“Fuck youuuuuu-” shouted another thug as he ran towards him with a very sharp knife in his hand.
Kotton had never dealt with weapons before, only fists and other unarmed combative… things. How was he supposed to defend himself against this wild beast? He recalled the words from his tutor Stanz, and used his position, whilst also acknowledging the position of his opponent before putting out his left leg and spinning himself. His outstretched left leg made it so thug coming at him with a knife tripped and fell, thereby piercing himself with his own weapon.
Fear was immediately drilled into the young man. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone and he certainly didn’t mean to kill anyone. He was against killing unless previously declared acceptable by the immortals he worshipped: Pier and Pre. And what would Vri think of this?
His head spun. Oh, shit. Oh shit, shit, shit, he thought. He was way outside of his comfort zone now. Sure, the situation had sparked a sense of urgency that meant life or death, but Kotton, always the realist and always the thinker, wondered if there could have been another way.
But there was no time to think or wonder about another way, for the remaining assailant was standing tall and strong and exhibiting malicious intent against Kotton’s person.
They stood and stared at one another, both waiting for the other to make the first move. The time could have continued, endless, if it weren’t for the opposing thug lunging at Kotton with eyes as wild as a boar who had just been released from captivity.
Kotton threw himself to the side, hoping to distance himself from the attack made unto him. He rose, but not without first checking his body for injury. There, on his right shoulder was a small laceration. He tried to control his frustration, reign in his aggravation and the naturality that came from someone attempting to let go of what had become of insult and injury, but there was a gap- it was very small. Kotton was certainly no fighter, and he was absolutely terrible at combat, unarmed or armed, but the rage he kept bottled up inside himself, since he sincerely hated showing such anger when he desperately wanted to appear to be cool, collected and calm-headed- well, it was the last resort, apparently. It spewed out the cracks like lava from the fissures of an active volcano.
“Fuck you!” He screamed as he vaulted himself against his opponent. Screw whatever weapon they held, Kotton emotionally rioted with the use of every energetic motion he had left. His head was hit, beat by a gnarly fist and his left kneecap was railed upon by a very persuasive fist. His nose was hit time and time again by knuckles that had begun to bleed three seasons ago. But none of it was enough to keep him down. He managed to wrangle the thug, tuck his arms behind his back, keep his legs at bay from any kicking they may have decided to do, before Kotton sat proudly upright and against the man who had started this fight.
Spittle flew into his left eye as he had begun his monologue. His irritation was at an all time high, but he kept himself in check with the thoughts of his companions, Imogen and Spirit. They wouldn't want to see him lash out as much as he wished to.
Kotton dug his shoe into the very spot between his enemy’s hip bone and rib cage. With his knowledge of medicine and anatomy, it made sense to him that there would be no resistance- that very section of the body was sensitive and it could mean one of two things: pain or treatment. And according to Kotton locus on the man, it meant the former, hands down.
Time continued before the proper authorities announced their bodies amidst the gaps of the scene. Kotton debriefed the officials with everything he knew, taking special time addressing his profession as a medic/nurse, before being administered away from the point of crime and into the very basics of the city.
Rain had started to fall. It landed on Kotton’s coat with thick droplets. The sound was akin to the noises of a rowdy river: sloosh, poosh, pick, pick, sloosh, slaaaaash. He walked the sidestreets of the city using the several minutes he could have walking home, but didn’t. His mind was on something else, and no, it wasn’t on what had just been a brawl. His mind and its numerous thoughts were about something else.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and Kotton was still unsure about where he was going or what his mind needed to ‘figure out’ in regards to the recent act of violence. He shook his head, squinted his eyes as hard as he physically could before opening them and calling out his wish to return home to dry and safe origins.
Nevertheless the sloosh, poosh, pick, pick, sloosh, and slaaaash remained as a permanent memory residing in his head. He would have dreams about this scenario whether he liked it or not. But perhaps it wasn’t all that bad. Maybe he would learn from this situation and maybe, in the realm of his dreams, he would come to figure out how best to approach another situation of similar ______.
However the future went down, Kotton could only be certain of the present, and the present demanded of him his return home where there was the warmth of an energetic fire, the softness of tons and tons of blankets, the solace of a small cat’s paws on his thigh and the familiarity of thick walls that protected him from the rest of this unforgivable storm.
Still walking and trying to avoid the debris that cluttered the streets, Kotton side-stepped a banana peel, a piece of plastic and a random child’s toy, though he was sure given how decrepit it had become after what was most likely weather and tear brought upon by a severe thunderstorm.
He challenged himself to look away and seemingly directed himself into an arbitrarily unmarked alleyway. At least here he felt a sense of calm. That was before intuition kicked in. He detected those objects that surrounded him as possible places to hide- for thugs or criminals to use before jumping someone such as an unarmed individual like Kotton. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and resisted the natural urge to conjure up a scene where he was the sole victim accosted by many vagrants. After he opened his eyes, he moved as quickly as he could, gazing into the empty barrels, hiking his neck against brick corners and inevitably standing tall in case anyone decided to use his unequally positioned weight against him.
He was ready.
And it didn’t take long before his assumptions were made true.
Out from that random corner he had just checked, came a masked man, slender, no muscle mass to be found, throwing an open hand against his face. Kotton side-stepped, avoiding the attack before positioning his dominant leg between his assailants, and turning so as to hinder said assailant’s balance. They fell to the ground and didn’t move another muscle.
Kotton wanted to flee. He had only predicted the scene using his mentally ill insight that was overthinking. He didn’t have anything else to use against people trying to mug and or attack him. Thinking overtly about situations that won’t actually happen was usually a problem, an issue, and illness, if you asked any mental health coach, but Kotton was in no mind to put a pin in thinking about when next he should see his therapist, Cyndica.
“Fuck youuuuuu-” shouted another thug as he ran towards him with a very sharp knife in his hand.
Kotton had never dealt with weapons before, only fists and other unarmed combative… things. How was he supposed to defend himself against this wild beast? He recalled the words from his tutor Stanz, and used his position, whilst also acknowledging the position of his opponent before putting out his left leg and spinning himself. His outstretched left leg made it so thug coming at him with a knife tripped and fell, thereby piercing himself with his own weapon.
Fear was immediately drilled into the young man. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone and he certainly didn’t mean to kill anyone. He was against killing unless previously declared acceptable by the immortals he worshipped: Pier and Pre. And what would Vri think of this?
His head spun. Oh, shit. Oh shit, shit, shit, he thought. He was way outside of his comfort zone now. Sure, the situation had sparked a sense of urgency that meant life or death, but Kotton, always the realist and always the thinker, wondered if there could have been another way.
But there was no time to think or wonder about another way, for the remaining assailant was standing tall and strong and exhibiting malicious intent against Kotton’s person.
They stood and stared at one another, both waiting for the other to make the first move. The time could have continued, endless, if it weren’t for the opposing thug lunging at Kotton with eyes as wild as a boar who had just been released from captivity.
Kotton threw himself to the side, hoping to distance himself from the attack made unto him. He rose, but not without first checking his body for injury. There, on his right shoulder was a small laceration. He tried to control his frustration, reign in his aggravation and the naturality that came from someone attempting to let go of what had become of insult and injury, but there was a gap- it was very small. Kotton was certainly no fighter, and he was absolutely terrible at combat, unarmed or armed, but the rage he kept bottled up inside himself, since he sincerely hated showing such anger when he desperately wanted to appear to be cool, collected and calm-headed- well, it was the last resort, apparently. It spewed out the cracks like lava from the fissures of an active volcano.
“Fuck you!” He screamed as he vaulted himself against his opponent. Screw whatever weapon they held, Kotton emotionally rioted with the use of every energetic motion he had left. His head was hit, beat by a gnarly fist and his left kneecap was railed upon by a very persuasive fist. His nose was hit time and time again by knuckles that had begun to bleed three seasons ago. But none of it was enough to keep him down. He managed to wrangle the thug, tuck his arms behind his back, keep his legs at bay from any kicking they may have decided to do, before Kotton sat proudly upright and against the man who had started this fight.
Spittle flew into his left eye as he had begun his monologue. His irritation was at an all time high, but he kept himself in check with the thoughts of his companions, Imogen and Spirit. They wouldn't want to see him lash out as much as he wished to.
Kotton dug his shoe into the very spot between his enemy’s hip bone and rib cage. With his knowledge of medicine and anatomy, it made sense to him that there would be no resistance- that very section of the body was sensitive and it could mean one of two things: pain or treatment. And according to Kotton locus on the man, it meant the former, hands down.
Time continued before the proper authorities announced their bodies amidst the gaps of the scene. Kotton debriefed the officials with everything he knew, taking special time addressing his profession as a medic/nurse, before being administered away from the point of crime and into the very basics of the city.
Rain had started to fall. It landed on Kotton’s coat with thick droplets. The sound was akin to the noises of a rowdy river: sloosh, poosh, pick, pick, sloosh, slaaaaash. He walked the sidestreets of the city using the several minutes he could have walking home, but didn’t. His mind was on something else, and no, it wasn’t on what had just been a brawl. His mind and its numerous thoughts were about something else.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and Kotton was still unsure about where he was going or what his mind needed to ‘figure out’ in regards to the recent act of violence. He shook his head, squinted his eyes as hard as he physically could before opening them and calling out his wish to return home to dry and safe origins.
Nevertheless the sloosh, poosh, pick, pick, sloosh, and slaaaash remained as a permanent memory residing in his head. He would have dreams about this scenario whether he liked it or not. But perhaps it wasn’t all that bad. Maybe he would learn from this situation and maybe, in the realm of his dreams, he would come to figure out how best to approach another situation of similar ______.
However the future went down, Kotton could only be certain of the present, and the present demanded of him his return home where there was the warmth of an energetic fire, the softness of tons and tons of blankets, the solace of a small cat’s paws on his thigh and the familiarity of thick walls that protected him from the rest of this unforgivable storm.