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She falls.
It is a second of blur and then a long, long time. She just lies there, on the edge, with the burning smell rising from beneath.
She feels nothing but pain — her knee, her elbow, and she doesn’t try to guess how hard they have bent. She doesn’t want to see the bruises, nor blood on the tiles.
She doesn’t want to see anything.
Fingers enter her field of vision. They are hers, safe; a Portal Gun rests inches from them. She doesn’t reach for it.
One move, and she could fall. One step, one shiver, could throw her in the abyss. There would be no turning back.
She feels the floor, inch after inch. It is sturdy. Her teeth clench on their own.
Her muscles beg to stay — right now, a cold floor can keep her together better than anything else. It just feels right, the solution to a trauma.
The portal is still open. Blue light, washing all over the limp leg, reminds her. She has somewhere to be. To get up now, or to stop;it is her choice.
Misty eyes wander on the chamber. This is her place.
This is her task and her goal; for every failure, there is one more reason to go on. She is a prisoner, and more than that — she is stronger.
Slowly, with the passing of minutes, the Portal Gun returns to her grasp. It feels smooth, familiar, the touch of security.
When rolling on her side gets her out of immediate danger, it is her first thought; with a fluid movement, she shoots towards the chamberlock.
Then — aching, bent, but still whole — she gets on her feet.
It is a second of blur and then a long, long time. She just lies there, on the edge, with the burning smell rising from beneath.
She feels nothing but pain — her knee, her elbow, and she doesn’t try to guess how hard they have bent. She doesn’t want to see the bruises, nor blood on the tiles.
She doesn’t want to see anything.
Fingers enter her field of vision. They are hers, safe; a Portal Gun rests inches from them. She doesn’t reach for it.
One move, and she could fall. One step, one shiver, could throw her in the abyss. There would be no turning back.
She feels the floor, inch after inch. It is sturdy. Her teeth clench on their own.
Her muscles beg to stay — right now, a cold floor can keep her together better than anything else. It just feels right, the solution to a trauma.
The portal is still open. Blue light, washing all over the limp leg, reminds her. She has somewhere to be. To get up now, or to stop;it is her choice.
Misty eyes wander on the chamber. This is her place.
This is her task and her goal; for every failure, there is one more reason to go on. She is a prisoner, and more than that — she is stronger.
Slowly, with the passing of minutes, the Portal Gun returns to her grasp. It feels smooth, familiar, the touch of security.
When rolling on her side gets her out of immediate danger, it is her first thought; with a fluid movement, she shoots towards the chamberlock.
Then — aching, bent, but still whole — she gets on her feet.
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A little drabble of encouragement I wrote for a dear friend, and, in a way, for myself. These truly are bad times.
© 2013 - 2024 altairattorney
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If this is a drabble to you, I'm pretty excited about reading the rest of your work.
Poor Chell, assuming it is her, although one can't help but admire her strength to go on. I have always wondered if there was some falling distance that the Long Fall boots just couldn't handle. It's nice to see somebody write about it!
Poor Chell, assuming it is her, although one can't help but admire her strength to go on. I have always wondered if there was some falling distance that the Long Fall boots just couldn't handle. It's nice to see somebody write about it!