Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prodigalwatcher) wrote2006-12-08 11:18 am
prodigalwatcher) wrote2006-12-08 11:18 am
Entry tags:
Artistic License - Memory (December 2006)
Title: If you prick me, do I not bleed?
Prompt: "Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it." - Michel de Montaigne
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: Description of violence and injury.
Pairing: None
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 813
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
The edge of the sword catches the light for a moment, a glint in the otherwise gloom of the darkened apartment. Wesley hefts the weapon, turning his wrist over and over, trying to become accustomed to its unusually light weight. Although he has been assured by the craftsman that fabricated the item that the collapsible sword would stand up to the rigours of its intended use, he was not a man to take things on faith. At least not anymore.
Flicking the blade upward, Wesley brings it into the classic vertical salute position. Fencing has always been one of the few athletic pursuits at which he's ever shown an aptitude, something for which he recalls his father being greatly thankful.
He runs a thumb over the edge of the blade, the more polished sheen of those few millimetres contrasted to the matte finish of the rest of the metal. It's nearly razor sharp, another detail upon which Wesley had insisted. Emile had protested on the grounds that such an edge would be too difficult to maintain and was unnecessary on a melee weapon.
But Wesley is a man who expects his instructions to be followed and his demands met. But more that this, he is intimately familiar with the efficacy of a finely honed blade.
He remembers. Wesley remembers with horrifying clarity.
The blade, in his memories, is cold. Even though it has been concealed in a sheath inside Justine's clothing, the metal is still cold to the touch, although he understands that the sensation is magnified by the fact that he feels it pressed directly against the side of his throat. The collection of blood vessels combined with the relative thinness of that area combine to create a particularly warm spot.
The blade is cold. The flesh is warm.
The blood is hot.
There is none of the sting of a paper cut, or of those clumsy accidents when he has nicked his thumb or index finger while cutting vegetables in his kitchen. A serrated edge, he knows, creates a great deal of immediate pain-- a fact to which anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves with a steak knife can attest. Skin and muscle being torn and shredded in that manner, the body all but explodes with pain messages, broadcast from ragged-ended nerve ending to spine to brain.
No, the sensation is far, far stranger.
When the edge begins to part the side of his throat, there is only the feel of the knife and of his own thundering pulse against the metal. He can feel the blade traveling, across his neck and slightly downward as Justine traces a furious red line halfway around the front of his neck.
The blade is cold. The flesh is warm.
And at last, he feels something new. Wet and sticky and moving quickly down from his neck to his collarbone. Wesley feels the stuff seeping onto his shirt.
The blood is hot.
The next sensation is dizziness, leading into a puzzling nausea, as if he had been spun 'round and 'round instead of standing absolutely still, frozen to the spot. Still no pain, not really, just the frantic and random cascade of impulses brought on by the rapidly failing system that is Wesley's body.
A weight is taken from his arms, which are now useless.
The ground is chilled by the night air, the barest traces of moisture clinging to the blades of grass, and harder than he expects as Wesley collapses to his knees. He feels the ground and the grass through the knees of his trousers. The ground then rushes up to meet him, and his mind calls it falling.
He can still feel the knife on his neck, even as the pain itself at last rears its head, though it is almost a distant echo-- an afterthought in the wake of everything else he has experienced in the few seconds preivous.
In the present, a mouthful of scotch blurs the recollection.
Wesley turns his wrist slightly, just so, and the sword folds in on itself, finally becoming short and compact enough to fit into the spring-driven sheath on the inside of his right forearm. He is satisfied with the working of the mechanism and briefly shrugs on his leather coat to ensure concealability under the sleeve.
Replacing the jacket in his closet, Wesley unbuckles the straps holding the new weapon to his arm and hangs the entire assembly from a peg on the inside of the closet door.
More scotch chases its predecessor into his chest and his core.
Wesley finds himself wishing that he did not have the memory he does, if only so he would never have to recall that particular moment. But it is all in sharp relief, in vibrant colors and stereophonic sound. And he gets to live and relive it every day.
Prompt: "Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it." - Michel de Montaigne
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: Description of violence and injury.
Pairing: None
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 813
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
The edge of the sword catches the light for a moment, a glint in the otherwise gloom of the darkened apartment. Wesley hefts the weapon, turning his wrist over and over, trying to become accustomed to its unusually light weight. Although he has been assured by the craftsman that fabricated the item that the collapsible sword would stand up to the rigours of its intended use, he was not a man to take things on faith. At least not anymore.
Flicking the blade upward, Wesley brings it into the classic vertical salute position. Fencing has always been one of the few athletic pursuits at which he's ever shown an aptitude, something for which he recalls his father being greatly thankful.
He runs a thumb over the edge of the blade, the more polished sheen of those few millimetres contrasted to the matte finish of the rest of the metal. It's nearly razor sharp, another detail upon which Wesley had insisted. Emile had protested on the grounds that such an edge would be too difficult to maintain and was unnecessary on a melee weapon.
But Wesley is a man who expects his instructions to be followed and his demands met. But more that this, he is intimately familiar with the efficacy of a finely honed blade.
He remembers. Wesley remembers with horrifying clarity.
The blade, in his memories, is cold. Even though it has been concealed in a sheath inside Justine's clothing, the metal is still cold to the touch, although he understands that the sensation is magnified by the fact that he feels it pressed directly against the side of his throat. The collection of blood vessels combined with the relative thinness of that area combine to create a particularly warm spot.
The blade is cold. The flesh is warm.
The blood is hot.
There is none of the sting of a paper cut, or of those clumsy accidents when he has nicked his thumb or index finger while cutting vegetables in his kitchen. A serrated edge, he knows, creates a great deal of immediate pain-- a fact to which anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves with a steak knife can attest. Skin and muscle being torn and shredded in that manner, the body all but explodes with pain messages, broadcast from ragged-ended nerve ending to spine to brain.
No, the sensation is far, far stranger.
When the edge begins to part the side of his throat, there is only the feel of the knife and of his own thundering pulse against the metal. He can feel the blade traveling, across his neck and slightly downward as Justine traces a furious red line halfway around the front of his neck.
The blade is cold. The flesh is warm.
And at last, he feels something new. Wet and sticky and moving quickly down from his neck to his collarbone. Wesley feels the stuff seeping onto his shirt.
The blood is hot.
The next sensation is dizziness, leading into a puzzling nausea, as if he had been spun 'round and 'round instead of standing absolutely still, frozen to the spot. Still no pain, not really, just the frantic and random cascade of impulses brought on by the rapidly failing system that is Wesley's body.
A weight is taken from his arms, which are now useless.
The ground is chilled by the night air, the barest traces of moisture clinging to the blades of grass, and harder than he expects as Wesley collapses to his knees. He feels the ground and the grass through the knees of his trousers. The ground then rushes up to meet him, and his mind calls it falling.
He can still feel the knife on his neck, even as the pain itself at last rears its head, though it is almost a distant echo-- an afterthought in the wake of everything else he has experienced in the few seconds preivous.
In the present, a mouthful of scotch blurs the recollection.
Wesley turns his wrist slightly, just so, and the sword folds in on itself, finally becoming short and compact enough to fit into the spring-driven sheath on the inside of his right forearm. He is satisfied with the working of the mechanism and briefly shrugs on his leather coat to ensure concealability under the sleeve.
Replacing the jacket in his closet, Wesley unbuckles the straps holding the new weapon to his arm and hangs the entire assembly from a peg on the inside of the closet door.
More scotch chases its predecessor into his chest and his core.
Wesley finds himself wishing that he did not have the memory he does, if only so he would never have to recall that particular moment. But it is all in sharp relief, in vibrant colors and stereophonic sound. And he gets to live and relive it every day.