Isaac makes a keening, choked sound like a wounded animal. Maybe he is a wounded animal. He's being crucified with the only tools he could trust. There's irony there. He doesn't notice it, but it's there.
The pain wells up, a tidal wave of visceral red, red he could never, ever capture (not that he'll ever get the chance now), cadmium red and naphthol red and quinacridone red and red oxide and colors he doesn't even know, blends and cocktails that he wishes he could have used somewhere, somewhere. The detachment is starting to set in; the pain is too great for his body to handle, and his brain is just pulling away, drifting away. It's almost a relief. It means relief is coming, anyway. The angel of death is on his way, Gabriel, the Left Hand of God. There's no escaping his sword, and Isaac hopes for it. It's what he's been chasing all these years, after all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2007-06-10 08:28 pm (UTC)The pain wells up, a tidal wave of visceral red, red he could never, ever capture (not that he'll ever get the chance now), cadmium red and naphthol red and quinacridone red and red oxide and colors he doesn't even know, blends and cocktails that he wishes he could have used somewhere, somewhere. The detachment is starting to set in; the pain is too great for his body to handle, and his brain is just pulling away, drifting away. It's almost a relief. It means relief is coming, anyway. The angel of death is on his way, Gabriel, the Left Hand of God. There's no escaping his sword, and Isaac hopes for it. It's what he's been chasing all these years, after all.
"You can't fight the future," Isaac rasps.