[September the Twenty-Ninth] [Original] Beggars Can't Be Choosers

[mythicbeast.livejournal.com]

Title: Beggars Can't Be Choosers
Day/Theme: September 29: Thoughts of a dying atheist
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale
Rating: PG-13 for swearing.
Summary: Oh gods damn it, not again.

A/N: Fair warning: stream-of-consciousness fic.


Why do I always end up dead?

...Not that I'm dead right now. Just dying. Yep.

Least I took that rat bastard with me.

I wish people would stop sneaking up behind me to kill me.

It's really messy and I keep having to launder stuff after, if theres enough of them left to wear.

I wonder if it'll be for real this time.

Dying, I mean.

...Probably not. It would just be my luck.

'Sides from the messy bit, what is it about dying hurting so much?

Peaceful passing my ass. There's no dignity in dying.

Fish die. Dogs die. Pigs die for our stomachs every day. Hell, even fleas die.

What is it about people that makes dying so special, anyway?

...ow, that hurt. I hate coughing up blood.

Was that a piece of my liver that came up there too?

... nah, just my lunch.

... This is taking stupidly long.

I wonder if I can drag myself over to the sword that idiot dropped and stick myself.

You shut up. You know you could heal us both, but noooo, I've gotta die properly first.

Bastard.

Ow. Moving wasn't a good idea.

I'm sure one day I'll find some use out of knowing the fact that pickled eggplant tastes better coming up than it does coming down.

Ohnonono that's not where I wanted to -- STOP --

Wonderful. I aim for the ground and land in a river.

Thanks, body. It's been a real slice.

Well, there goes my kneecap.

...

Agh.

...

Oh no, that was my heart. I think I'm g--

.

.

.

Well, that was fast.

Thirty minutes of being dead and waterlogged at the same time. New world record.

Goddamit, still no holy lights and all that jazz. Not even a message from the dearly departed.

The gods don't hate me that much, do they?

Then again, I'd probably hate me too if I didn't believe in me.

Or something.

It's the loss of blood talking.

And maybe being facedown in what's most likely a cowpat but what I'm hoping is just some very gritty soil.

Not opening my eyes, nope. Reality's what you make it.

I'm in a bed. In an inn.

I've got dry clothes and ...

I think there's a fish in my pants. Ugh. Go away you slimy thing.

...Yeah, I didn't think that'd work either.

Right, what now?

Body check, yeah. Head, check, arms, check, lungs - barely check ...

...Crap. I think both my legs are broken.

How'm I going to get up now?

Hurry up, stupid healing reflexes. You haven't got all day.

I need to pee.