"I'd rather die as a person than live as your dog," he snarled. And this time, he meant it. He'd sunk low enough, knew there were lower depths to sink to still-- and he didn't want to go there. No matter what. He could imagine the others like Sephiroth, sick freaks bringing in their prizes on leashes, people debased so far they could barely remember their own families or friends or hobbies. No. He refused to be like that.
Shoving Sephiroth away as hard as he could manage, Mello turned from him. It was a split-second decision weeks in the making.
He was standing on his own two legs. He was uncollared. He was battered and worn, but his will was still his own.
And nobody was coming for him.
Right now, everything was bleak and hopeless and the only future available was that of slavery. Mello had never been suicidal or depressive, never favored the easy way out or condoned it; but things had changed. There was no easy. This was the only way out. He wasn't thinking straight and he didn't care, knuckles still stinging from the abuse earlier and he didn't care, breathing ragged. Nothing mattered.
He was already near the window. There were no weapons in sight and no time to be innovative.
He grabbed the lamp off the desk first, hurling it with all his strength at the window, hard enough with adrenaline and desperation fueling his actions to crack it substantially. And then he aimed to go straight through it himself. If the fall didn't kill him, there would be glass sharp enough to finish the job.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-06-23 11:46 am (UTC)Shoving Sephiroth away as hard as he could manage, Mello turned from him. It was a split-second decision weeks in the making.
He was standing on his own two legs. He was uncollared. He was battered and worn, but his will was still his own.
And nobody was coming for him.
Right now, everything was bleak and hopeless and the only future available was that of slavery. Mello had never been suicidal or depressive, never favored the easy way out or condoned it; but things had changed. There was no easy. This was the only way out. He wasn't thinking straight and he didn't care, knuckles still stinging from the abuse earlier and he didn't care, breathing ragged. Nothing mattered.
He was already near the window. There were no weapons in sight and no time to be innovative.
He grabbed the lamp off the desk first, hurling it with all his strength at the window, hard enough with adrenaline and desperation fueling his actions to crack it substantially. And then he aimed to go straight through it himself. If the fall didn't kill him, there would be glass sharp enough to finish the job.