ext_10837 (
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in
31_days2005-09-29 11:00 pm
[Sept. 29] [James Bond] On Borrowed Time
Title: On Borrowed Time
Day/Theme: Sept. 29 - Thoughts of a dying atheist
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG-13
Look through a faithless eye -
are you afraid to die?
- Muse, "Thoughts of Dying Atheist"
I take a step into the room, and I am dead.
I shove the clip into place and cock the gun and take a breath, and I am dead.
Dead, I creep through the room, and dead I punch in the security code which was so dearly bought. My breath is cold, spreading frost on the window. I am nothing more than a ghost, a poltergeist, laying my frigid hand on earthly things and causing them to move.
I can almost taste the formaldehyde coursing through my veins.
I can still feel her lips on my skin. Didn't she know she was making love to one already dead? Scoff at the necrophiliacs, dear - with your posh lipstick and your posh eyeliner. You are one.
Dead feet - bones on the floor. Strange I can't hear them rattle.
The prize is tucked away, under the dead arm. I creep, so much like a spectre, back from whence I came.
All shrouded in black, I keep on sidestepping my way to the door, only visible to the few cursed with a sixth sense. Back out the door - back out the window.
Sunlight and grass -
I'm alive again.
I've survived one more impossible situation; I won't take it for granted, in fact, I can't. I was a dead man when I walked through that door, and I live now only on borrowed time. Tomorrow, perchance, I will die again.
And, if I'm lucky, be resurrected.
Just to live once more on borrowed time.
Day/Theme: Sept. 29 - Thoughts of a dying atheist
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG-13
are you afraid to die?
- Muse, "Thoughts of Dying Atheist"
I take a step into the room, and I am dead.
I shove the clip into place and cock the gun and take a breath, and I am dead.
Dead, I creep through the room, and dead I punch in the security code which was so dearly bought. My breath is cold, spreading frost on the window. I am nothing more than a ghost, a poltergeist, laying my frigid hand on earthly things and causing them to move.
I can almost taste the formaldehyde coursing through my veins.
I can still feel her lips on my skin. Didn't she know she was making love to one already dead? Scoff at the necrophiliacs, dear - with your posh lipstick and your posh eyeliner. You are one.
Dead feet - bones on the floor. Strange I can't hear them rattle.
The prize is tucked away, under the dead arm. I creep, so much like a spectre, back from whence I came.
All shrouded in black, I keep on sidestepping my way to the door, only visible to the few cursed with a sixth sense. Back out the door - back out the window.
Sunlight and grass -
I'm alive again.
I've survived one more impossible situation; I won't take it for granted, in fact, I can't. I was a dead man when I walked through that door, and I live now only on borrowed time. Tomorrow, perchance, I will die again.
And, if I'm lucky, be resurrected.
Just to live once more on borrowed time.
