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Theres a certain beauty to be found in what went on during these torturous rounds; something that you wouldn’t see with fresh new eyes, an oddity that strangely pulled you in and kept you close.
And fuck, Guest hated it.
Hated that it drew him in soo… close, just to be ripped away within seconds.
It wasn’t fair, could he not earn a simple pass to keep something here in hell?
Blood.
Deep, deep Bordeaux and Crimson reds.
Stained.
It’s everywhere, swears it is, all he can see is the mess of it.
Elegant and beautiful ; Horrifying and alarming.
It seeps through the cracks in the coarse dirt, like the earth has been deprived of water for far too long to care about what it in-takes.
He could lay down now and here, surrender himself to the mock earthy dirt, and be more content with himself than the cabins awaiting back ‘home’.
He is drained of energy, health, and willingness to continue this battle that’ll surely get him killed in the end with how he carries himself now.
It’s just him now anyway.
Him and the glint of a blood stained machete that smiles at him like a snake.
Eventually, it’ll coil around his insides and kill him, he knows the outcome is in vain for himself no matter what.
It’s wielder; a man he not yet knows of, but so desperately wants to try and learn of, only grows closer with each step.
He can barely hear those thudding boots, the blood rushing in the ears of an injured soldier is not an outcome he has yet to experience, no, it’s something he lives with daily and despises it.
Would a god so kind ever bestow him the honor of having the right to anything here in hell? He quickly decides not.
The eyes of the mans mask bored into his own, and for a split second Guest can only imagine what it would be like to know the real eyes behind the false ones. To truly know and befriend the man before him, to give one eye for another.
Projection; is what he defaults to for Slasher.
He can only imagine, and imagining was truly no use when his sick old mind only wanted to replace an old, dead, best friend with someone that vaguely resembled him.
A religious man Guest was not, never much cared for the antics of praying forever to a god he could never know truly real or not.
But nonetheless he found himself praying, kneeling, and hoping for anything.
Not once did Slasher give the blue haired man anytime to think, their battle was something he chased after and needed to be a constant, a repeating cycle with no end. However, just this once did he let the man kneeled before him wallow in his pain and tears, take the time to think and register.
And when those tears subsided, and the eyes of a broken man stared back at his?
The shine of his machete met with the his head, and severed it like a chicken.
Death always came quick, and both were grateful for it.
Less pain, and less agony.
Somewhere, maybe they knew each other better than their roles of predator and prey, but Slasher would not entertain that thought today.