Follow Your Passion: A Seamless Tumblr Journey
The white static made it hard to see what was what.
He could see his own breath like a foggy mist while his feet and arms begged for him to stop crawling through the thick snow. His nose caught in the smell of burnt metal and vulgar smoke.
Warm blood poured down as his left eye squinted and winced.
He touched his forehead only to see a warm sticky red trickle down his fingers. His head lolled to the side, before he regained his focus and continued to pull himself through the snow.
Hudson was already feeling lightheaded, but also felt like the world was slightly slanted.
Either way, it just didn’t feel right.
“How long has it been since I left the site of the crash? Have I just been going in circles? Those trees look familiar,” Thoughts creeped through his mind as he was too weak to push them away. They ate his determination and hope like bugs, while only emptiness stayed.
Everything hurts. My mind feels like someone swung a hammer at my head, He thought.
However, he thought about Felix, his co-pilot. Poor Felix waited at the site of the plane crash, his torso stuck under heavy metal and burnt steel.
What makes it even worse, the whole plane ride, all Felix talked about was how excited he was for his and his fiancé's wedding. How they were going to have it at a large beautiful church. Inside the church would be decorated with white flower petals. How they ordered custom golden rings for each other made specifically in Belgium. How beautiful his fiancé would look in her wedding gown.
Hudson’s stomach lurched at the thought of how Felix’s face twisted in pain when he tried to free his legs from under the wreckage. At how Felix had such calmness in his grey eyes when he looked up at him. He trusts me. He respects me.
The wind now sounded like a woman’s high pitch scream. Too much. It’s all just too much. His arms gave out and half of his face became buried in snow.
He could see crimson seeping into the pure white.
He tried to get up, but his arms gave out.
He could barely feel the snow cushioning his face. He wanted to call out for help, but he stayed silent. He hardly knew where he’d crashed.
Calling out into unknown territory could lead to fatality.
He wasn’t sure if any enemy officers were around and he didn't want to learn that the hard way.
His pale blue winter uniform is soaked. He should’ve worn his pilot suit all together, but due to the rush he was in he had little time to put it on.
With all the strength Hudson mustered, he army crawled through the snow and pushed ahead.
It was still bright outside, but he was worried that soon the sky would be casted into a deep darkness.
He noticed that the gash on his head was still bleeding heavily and the tips of his fingers were making his body scream in pain. Shards of glass from a broken windshield embedded into skin.
Squinting his brown eyes, he could see that they were an ugly white at the tips of his fingers.
Frostbite.
He shivered as he could hear his teeth clattering against each other.
He wearily looked up where he was faced with a black raven sitting on an overhanging branch. Its talons hooked the branch and its jet black feathers looked glossy in its white surroundings. It tilted its head at Hudson and squawked.
Hudson heard a twig snap behind him, but he was too frozen to roll over and see.
The raven squawked again and flapped its wings around frantically before it took off at the drop of a hat.
It flew away and Hudson watched it in burning envy.
Even the bird has places to be, He thought with bitterness. He was alone with his thoughts.
His cold wretched thoughts.
He glared ahead, before he rested his head on his arm, his legs feeling consumed by the cold.
For all his life, he had just been debating, comparing and surviving.
Reality hit him hard and pulled him under.
He would never have a chance to say those important words to Bill.
His family was scattered from the war.
Some of his friends were still yowling and fighting in the trenches, others fighting in the skies being shot at like birds, and more were dying in hospital beds, wounded beyond repair.
While only a rare few were stuck in New York, cheering him on.
Yet here he was: failing.
All the letters he had gotten from Jack. All the sweet words from a kind man who had been never, but good to him, would mean nothing soon. The man who he looked up to…the man he had hoped to return the kindness…he would never see again.
His heart lurched at that.
And what about Charlie and Cassidy?
Charlie had seen him off when he was on leave. Her hug was powerful even when she cried. He remembered how she promised to write, promised to cheer him on and tell his story.
Cassidy on the other hand now had two kids and was married to Robert. Happy and blessed.
He was so proud of her and happy.
He was an uncle.
Was.
But his thoughts turned to a different direction.
He wouldn’t even get discharged honorably, gaining peaceful retirement. Or even recognition for his hard work.
His body might be lost.
As well as his name in the archives.
People would forget him.
The cold had reached to his torso now, gripping tightly around his organs while his rib cage was too feeble to protect.
The bruises and cuts were starting to get to him as the pain he had repressed was now pulsing through him. He could feel the shards of glass poking at tissue and muscle, some even drilling deeper.
His eyes watered, blurring his vision. His chest felt heavy and his lungs clinging onto his unstable breathing.
Hudsons head rolled off his arm and was now laid dipped in the snow.
He glared up at the grey sky with a blurred vision.
Blood pooled the ground below him while the cold was now to his shoulders, biting through his uniform as it began to stab through his skin. Before numbing it.
The world slowly grew dark in Hudson's half-lidded eyes. The pilot's breathing grew shallow and slow.
He coughed, tasting blood and bitter soot.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, water streamed down his bloodied and soot tainted face.
“I tried. I really did.”
“But I can’t get up.”
Blood, soot, cold, glass, smoke and screams.
Oh such wonderful things.
Ɨ nɇɇđ ŧø ǥɇŧ øᵾŧ øf ħɇɍɇ….łɇŧ mɇ øᵾŧ, łɇŧ mɇ øᵾŧ! Ɉøɇɏ! ĐȺmn ƀȺsŧȺɍđ, Ɨ ꝁnøw ɏøᵾ'ɍɇ øᵾŧ ŧħɇɍɇ…!
ȼøᵾǥħɨnǥ
Ɨf Ɨ ȼøᵾłđ ɉᵾsŧ…ĦȺħ….ħȺħȺ.
ĦȺĦȺĦĦȺĦ!!! Ɨ'M ǤØƗNǤ ŦØ ĐƗɆ! Ɨ'm ǥøɨnǥ ŧø đɨɇ….
Ɨ đøn'ŧ wȺnŧ ŧø ŧħøᵾǥħ….ƀᵾŧ, ŧø ƀɇ ħønɇsŧ….Ɨ'm nøŧ sᵾɍɇ wħȺŧ Ɨ wȺnŧ.
MȺɏƀɇ mɏ ɇɏɇs ƀȺȼꝁ wøᵾłđ ƀɇ nɨȼɇ…mȺɏƀɇ Ⱥ ȼħȺnȼɇ ŧø ǥø ħømɇ.
Ⱥ đȺɏ wħɇɍɇ ŧħɇ ħøᵾɍs Ⱥɍɇ sᵽɇnŧ wɨŧħ łȺᵾǥħŧɇɍ Ⱥnđ ǥøøđ sᵽɨɍɨŧs.
Nøŧ ɇnsłȺvɇđ ŧø Ⱥ ŧɏᵽɇwɍɨŧɇɍ. Ħøƀƀɨɇs sħøᵾłđn'ŧ ƀɇ ŧħɨs…ŧøɍŧᵾɍɨnǥ.
Ɨ đøn'ŧ wȺnŧ ŧø ƀɇ føɍǥøŧŧɇn…ɇvɇn ɨf Ɨ đø đɇsɇɍvɇ ɨŧ. Ɨ wȺnŧ ŧø ƀɇ łøvɇđ ɇvɇn ɨf Ɨ'm nøŧ sᵾɍɇ wħɏ. Ⱥnđ Ɨ wȺnŧ ħɇłᵽ ɇvɇn ɨf Ɨ đøn'ŧ ꝁnøw ħøw ŧø Ⱥsꝁ.
Ɨ łɇŧ ɇvɇɍɏønɇ đøwn.
Sø mȺnɏ fȺȼɇs…sø mȺnɏ nȺmɇs…Ɨ sħøᵾłđn'ŧ ħȺvɇ ƀɇɇn mɇȺn sø Ħɇnđɇɍsøn, ɇvɇn ɨf Ɨ wȺs ɨnsȺnɇ. Ɨ sħøᵾłđn'ŧ ħȺvɇ ᵽᵾsħɇđ ȻħȺɍłɨɇ ȺwȺɏ, sħɇ wȺs ŧɍɏɨnǥ ŧø ħɇłᵽ.
NøɍmȺn, Ɍɨđɇɍ Ⱥnđ WȺłłɏ đɨđn'ŧ đɇsɇɍvɇ Ⱥnɏ ɨnsᵾłŧ Ɨ ŧħɍɇw Ⱥŧ ŧħɇm. Ŧħøᵾǥħ..Ɨ đøn'ŧ ȺȼŧᵾȺłłɏ ɍɇȼȺłł ɨnsᵾłŧɨnǥ ŧħɇm ɇvɇɍ.
Ⱥnđ ɈȺȼꝁ….đȺmn ɨŧ…ŧħɇ đȺɏs łɇȺđɨnǥ ᵾᵽ ŧø ŧħɨs…Ⱥłł ŧħɇ ᵾsɇłɇss Ⱥɍǥᵾmɇnŧs Ⱥnđ føɍ wħȺŧ? Ŧħøsɇ wøɍđs wɇɍɇ ɉᵾsŧ ɨnfłᵾɇnȼɇđ ƀɏ sømɇønɇ wħø đɨđn'ŧ ɇvɇn ȼȺɍɇ Ⱥƀøᵾŧ ħɨs øwn søn. ɈȺȼꝁ ȼȺɍɇđ føɍ mɇ. Ħɇ wȺs ŧħɇɍɇ møɍɇ ŧɨmɇs ŧħȺn ħɇ ɇvɇɍ wȺs føɍ mɇ.
Ɨ'm sø fᵾȼꝁɨnǥ ŧɨɍɇđ. Øf ŧħɨs. Øf ŧħɇ sŧᵾđɨø. Øf mɇ.
Ɨ Ⱥɍǥᵾɇđ ƀɇȼȺᵾsɇ Ɨ ȼȺɍɇđ, ɈȺȼꝁ. Ɨ snȺᵽᵽɇđ Ⱥŧ ɏøᵾ føɍ nøŧ ɇnłɨsŧɨnǥ ƀɇȼȺᵾsɇ Ɨ wȺs sȼȺɍɇđ ŧħȺŧ ɨf ɏøᵾ wɇɍɇn'ŧ ŧħɇɍɇ…ɏøᵾ wøᵾłđ føɍǥɇŧ mɇ.
Ⱥnđ mȺɏƀɇ…
ɏøᵾ wøᵾłđ sŧøᵽ ȼȺɍɨnǥ ₳฿ØɄ₮ ₥Ɇ.....
Ⱥs føɍ SȺmmɏ…… Ɨ wȺnŧ mɏ đȺmn ɇɏɇs ƀȺȼꝁ. Ɨ đøn'ŧ ȼȺɍɇ wħȺŧ ɨŧ ŧȺꝁɇs.
Ⱥnđ ɨf ɏøᵾ ƀȺȼꝁ đøwn nøw….đøn'ŧ ƀɇ sᵾɍᵽɍɨsɇđ wħɇn ŧɍøᵾƀłɇ ƀɇǥɨns ŧø sŧɨɍ.
Ⱥnđ đø NØŦ ᵾsɇ ŧħɇ ɇłɇvȺŧøɍ.
I gripped the both sides of the sink, my knuckles turning white.
She can't be dead. She isn't.
The ceremony starts in five minutes. People are already gathering in.
And here I am in the backstage bathroom throwing up my guts.
I stare at the mirror, slowly tilting my head up.
There, a sick looking man just stares back. The rings under his eyes striking out on dull white skin and bleak looking freckles. There's a bruise right in the middle of the bridge of his nose, black, red and purple. His hair is dishevelled as well as darker than he remembers. His tux clinging to his frame, the tie slanted and the buttons loose. Red smeared across his lips.
That man is me.
I turn on the faucet, watching the crimson mixing with clear water as it spirals down the drain.
I cupped up some water and splashed it on my face, cold drenching my skin while it trickled down. I dry my face off with my suit's sleeve, erasing the blood and matting off the water.
I glanced back at myself, my eyes narrowing.
"I hate you," I hissed.
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People are beginning to take their seats now. I recognize a few people in the front row.
Cassidy, wearing a black gown and a tinted veil over her face. Her sea green eyes looking weary and bleak while her husband, Robert, whispered words of comfort and put his arm over her shoulder.
Like that's gonna bring her sister back, jackass.
Clifford, a sort of friend of mine, came as well. He's sitting next to Robert. His suit is a dark grey, looking well cleaned up, considering this guy couldn't give a damn about his appearance most of the time.
Florence also came. Her face looked upset and overwhelmed by sadness. She's wearing a black dress, white gloves and a black rose in her brown hair.
Weird. How do you grieve for a person you've never met?
Charlie's parents are here, sitting on the second bleacher in the front row. Their faces weathered from time, but now chiselled from grief. Her mother won't stop crying.
As people settle down, their voices hushed, the pastor began to speak. Something about her resting in peace and God is watching over her.
Behind the curtain, I visibly scowl.
He's lying. She isn't resting in peace. She isn't watched over by God. If God really was watching, he wouldn't have let this happen.
She was too young. Too smart. And yet too naive at the same time.
"Stop it, stop it, just stop it..!" I whispered under my breath as he continued.
"-may we all grieve for the loss of Charlie Forester. A good friend. A precious daughter-"
"No...no...stop it. You didn't even know her..!" I hissed quietly from behind the blue curtain. I can feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
"-and a wonderful sister," the man said,his voice steady as his words echoed through the church.
I froze, feeling like I've been hit in the stomach. My eyes are stinging. My heart is heavy and my chest is way too tight.
I can't breathe and I can't cry.
I can't cry.
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He finished his speech with a few prayers. His prayers are interrupted by quiet sniffles and a few whimpers from Charlie's mother. Does he stops and assures them? As a man of God, surely he cares for his people?
Nope. Just keeps on going with his worthless prayers.
Some prayers bring comfort to folks.
I don't judge. But to folks like me? They never really did.
He's finally done and motions me onto the stage.
I take a deep breath and walk slowly to the front of the stage, replacing the pastor. My figure was bathing in the light above while all eyes were now turned to me.
I can hear a few whispers.
"-he isn't suppose to be up there-"
"-not even related to the family."
"-looks a little young-"
I tense, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. My heart is now rattling against my rib cage.
I cleared my throat, my voice a little rough, "Charlie Forester was someone very dear to me. We weren't siblings by blood, but by a deep bond. And it brings me great...pain..to.." I trailed off.
What's happening?
Sweat beads down my forehead and my knees feel weak.
Stop it.
I continue on, "To have her gone. To have her ripped away from the people she loved and treasured. Even if...even if some of those people didn't deserve her love and time." My tone is still rough, but now it's unsteady.
My vision is blurred at the ends, fogging up almost like glass. The tips of my hands feel numb.
Stop it. Please.
My heart wants out. It's gripping my rib cage like prison bars and won't stop tugging on them, tearing at them. My lungs are getting too clustered and my face feels flushed.
I can't breathe. I can't cry. I can't feel my legs.
I watch as Cassidy looks at me with concern in her puffy eyes beneath the veil.
Clifford's mouthing something at me. Reassurance, maybe? I can't tell.
It's not that I haven't practice this speech. I practiced all the damn time before this day. Even in front of Jack.
I wish Jack was here. Here so he could tell me everything was alright. Here so that he could hug me and comfort me. "It's alright to cry, Hudson," he'd say.
But he isn't here to say that.
The pastor is whispering something to me. I think.
He places a hand on my shoulder.
Don't touch me.
"Are you alright, my son?" He asked.
Do I look alright?
"She's in god's realm. Resting peacefully," he assured me, his hand still resting calmly on my shoulder.
God's realm, my ass.
"Would you like to say a prayer for her now?"
I clenched my fists.
No.
...
I swung my fist, my vision still blurred.
Thud. Gasps. Yells. Heavy breathing.
Two men drag me away from my arms before I can finish the job.
Cassidy's telling me to stop.
Clifford looks horrified.
Florence is sympathetic.
And Jack would probably be disappointed.
They're yelling at me. The men behind me. Their grip forceful as they drag me off stage. Away from the pastor, who's also being dragged away. Not for the reason you might think.
I try and shrug their hands off my shoulders, thrashing as something streams down my face.
I'm crying. Yelling. Screaming.
She didn't deserve to die. She couldn't be dead.
My lungs are begging for air and my heart is still enraged.
My throat burns.
. . .
I̵̢̛͖̩̖͛͝ͅ ̵̧͖̩̹̦̰̲̆̃͑͘͜ḽ̸̢̣̘̭͓̉́̈́͊̇ö̷̢͕͓̘̲̤͇̱v̵̝̙͉̦̘͇̥̈́́͑̄e̸̟̲̼̼͉̜̠͚͛̑́ ̴̗̻́ý̷̨̭̥̲͉̳̦̓̎͑͗̐̂͘͜ơ̶̡͙̻̱̟͔̒ṷ̴͉͕̱̜͗̀͝ͅ,̷̼̭̐͌̃̀́͗̉̕ ̴̞̲͍͕̜͙͋̀͊̈́͐̎̏͑C̶̢̈́̈́͐͐h̴̦̥̻̎̏̌̉̅̏͛͘ä̸̦̬́̈́̏̇̂̌͜r̴͉̲͈̱̞̮̆̽̀ĺ̴̟̳̠̦̱͙͊̔̄͗͂͐̉i̴̧̝̞̺̤̰̩̦̐̇̆̇̄̔ȩ̴̻͎͕̂.̸̮̥̥̖̬̔͌̀͋ ̸̢̰̻̬̩̯̪̗͒̀͋͑͛̈́̐̕ ̸̨̎̓̈́͛̋̒̿͌A̷̞͇̰̓̆͒̕n̴̜̿̄̄͒̚͘d̸̫̪̺̰̟̐̈́̈́̔ͅ ̸̻̅̓̽́͝͠I̷̧̢̳̦̟̾͆̈́̀'̴̤̠̤͆̏̒̑̌͑̒͝m̸̮̓̐̂͑ ̷̺͛̈́s̸̢̈́̀̇̕ơ̴͍͓̜̜̐̀̾͑͋r̵̞̤̹͍͍̠̅̏̓͛̒̅͝͝r̸̡̥̯̘̠̖̼̜̆͌͝͠ÿ̶̖̖̳̜̥̼̜͉̾́̀̕ ̵̡̣͖̪̰̔I̷̝̅̌̿͋̌ ̴̼̭̽̽̓̑̿̽̒͛ŕ̴͖̗͈͓̈́̈́̋̑ų̴̧͕͚͙͎̥̆̂̊ì̸̧͕͓̳̻̪̘͐́̌̇̾̿͜n̷̜͔̙̩̠̞̳̑̊̏̆̚ė̵̤̤͜d̵̨͔͉̜̫̜̽̅͋́̀̂ ̷̟̲͇̓ͅe̵͉͐̉̈̽͑v̴̬̰̊̔͊͘ḙ̷̞̽̑̈́r̶̗̣̣̄͊̈ý̵͓͆͝t̶͙͓̠̼̞̟̦̐̂̍͛͠h̵̡͖̦̻͍̄̋͑̆̽̌i̵̮̱͂̈̅͑n̶̯͓̈́̏͂͒̈́́̇g̵̝̟̃͛͌.̵̳̲̳̭̇̈́ ̸̻̲̅̾͊́̈́̒͘ ̶̤͐̔̐͋͌͆͝E̷͌̕͜v̸̭̲̳̀̊̄͜͠e̶̘̙̦̱͐̃̆͌̕̚͝n̶̡̠͎̮̂̈́̂̇͂͒͝ ̵͖͈̙̗͈̖̍͆͝y̶̢̹͚͇̯͘o̸̢͋̑͗̎͐͐̃͝ǘ̷͍͓̭̼͔̠̈́̐̐̎͝r̸̖̞̩̱̆̊͗ ̸͖̲͙͈̦͈̀̿́͛͊̎́̑o̷̡̬͍̞̰͔͚͆̽̽̅̆̔͝w̸̰̲̖̲͂̊͛̈͛̒͂̉ń̷̡̙̬͖͎͖̎ͅ ̸̥͎̎͒̑̏̍̓͝f̴̩̦̭̬̳̣̜̗͒͑̑̎͋ư̴̪̏̐́̽̍͑ń̷̨̜͓̟͓͉̠͎͗͛͆̓̕e̴͓̔͋r̵̳͍͇̿͌͐͝a̷̻͌͑̈́̎̑̚l̶̙̅́͝͠.̸̳̘̯̝̹̼͓́̐͋̉̅͝͠
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(Gift for @creationandcalamityau . Inspired by our recent rp. @thelocalmoth 's Jack is mentioned as well)