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transemacabreTitle: Brother
Fandom: Terminator Salvation
Rating: G for General
Note: Part of a series for Marcus Wright, with each vignette based off an Alice in Chains song.
Roses in a vase of white
Bloodied by the thorns beside the leaves
That fall because my hand is
Pulling them hard as I can
This is the last living memory Marcus Wright had of his brother. He remembered Elliot screaming that it'd all gone wrong, and firing wildly. Plaster shredding under bullets, the shrieks of the bank tellers, cops swearing. Marcus was knocked off his feet and slammed down face first by several burly police officers. He remembered seeing bullet casings on the ground, and beside them, Elliot, in a pool of blood.
Marcus Wright did not attend his brother's funeral.
He was busy sitting in a tiny concrete cell inside of a maximum-security prison, staring at a blank wall. Lawyers paraded in and out, droning in American monotones about this or that legal procedure, each with a different set of papers they wanted him to sign. Cops snarled in his face like pit dogs, hungry for a piece of the cop-killer.
He didn't dream much in those days, which was a mercy. When he did dream, it was one memory over and over, black and white: him chasing after Elliot back home in Perth. He's eight-years-old. Elliot's eleven. There's no one he wants to be like more than his big brother. Wait for me, pleads Marcus. But even as he runs after him, reaching for him, Elliot runs further from his reach until the sun is blinding him, engulfing him. And then he wakes up.
Their mother brought dried roses from Elliot's funeral to the trial.
Fandom: Terminator Salvation
Rating: G for General
Note: Part of a series for Marcus Wright, with each vignette based off an Alice in Chains song.
Roses in a vase of white
Bloodied by the thorns beside the leaves
That fall because my hand is
Pulling them hard as I can
This is the last living memory Marcus Wright had of his brother. He remembered Elliot screaming that it'd all gone wrong, and firing wildly. Plaster shredding under bullets, the shrieks of the bank tellers, cops swearing. Marcus was knocked off his feet and slammed down face first by several burly police officers. He remembered seeing bullet casings on the ground, and beside them, Elliot, in a pool of blood.
Marcus Wright did not attend his brother's funeral.
He was busy sitting in a tiny concrete cell inside of a maximum-security prison, staring at a blank wall. Lawyers paraded in and out, droning in American monotones about this or that legal procedure, each with a different set of papers they wanted him to sign. Cops snarled in his face like pit dogs, hungry for a piece of the cop-killer.
He didn't dream much in those days, which was a mercy. When he did dream, it was one memory over and over, black and white: him chasing after Elliot back home in Perth. He's eight-years-old. Elliot's eleven. There's no one he wants to be like more than his big brother. Wait for me, pleads Marcus. But even as he runs after him, reaching for him, Elliot runs further from his reach until the sun is blinding him, engulfing him. And then he wakes up.
Their mother brought dried roses from Elliot's funeral to the trial.
