[ it takes all of don's focus not to let her stomach join the rest of kromer's on the grass, adrenaline aiding in her crawl away from the other as she pulls herself from the entanglement of blood and bile, of guts torn loose. the pitchfork feels glued to her hand and it might just be, really--
the sound of kromer draws her attention back and don stares at the pained weeping form of a monstrous woman who never knows when to quit. who would gladly, gleefully in her search for the person she's after tear down and destroy all before her. every part of her wants to leave kromer to die, to rot in her own pain until death takes her. she'd deserve it. she'd deserve it for the half-alive state she had displayed effie in to them.
but they are not the same.
don raises the pitchfork up and drives it down into kromer's head, drags it up and does it again, and again, and again, 'til at last there's no sound, no movement, no shuddering last attempts at an attack, and don leaves it in at the last swing down, breathing heavy with exertion as she finally, finally falls back.
she waits for the consequence.
the consequence does not come.
the sun has set. the night is coming. don drags in an inhale, lifting a shaking hand, and hopes the rest of the month is as fun as this was.
she has to find someone to tend to the burning on her hands and face. someplace to change and wash her clothes. she can't go home like this. it can wait, just a bit, as painful as the acid it, as electrifying as the battle was. eventually she'll text someone, eventually. ]
cw lightly extensive head trauma
the sound of kromer draws her attention back and don stares at the pained weeping form of a monstrous woman who never knows when to quit. who would gladly, gleefully in her search for the person she's after tear down and destroy all before her. every part of her wants to leave kromer to die, to rot in her own pain until death takes her. she'd deserve it. she'd deserve it for the half-alive state she had displayed effie in to them.
but they are not the same.
don raises the pitchfork up and drives it down into kromer's head, drags it up and does it again, and again, and again, 'til at last there's no sound, no movement, no shuddering last attempts at an attack, and don leaves it in at the last swing down, breathing heavy with exertion as she finally, finally falls back.
she waits for the consequence.
the consequence does not come.
the sun has set. the night is coming. don drags in an inhale, lifting a shaking hand, and hopes the rest of the month is as fun as this was.
she has to find someone to tend to the burning on her hands and face. someplace to change and wash her clothes. she can't go home like this. it can wait, just a bit, as painful as the acid it, as electrifying as the battle was. eventually she'll text someone, eventually. ]