prydon:Every sound became a thunderbolt, every smell my own burning flesh. The mere sight of the sky

prydon:

Every sound became a thunderbolt, every smell my own burning flesh. The mere sight of the sky was enough to speed my heart and fog my eyes for days on end. 

That kind of fear creeps inside and steals you away, piece by piece.

[ID: a digital drawing of sixteen-year-old nureyev facing forward with a single red tear streaming down his cheek. his long hair is messy, his clothes dirty and blood-stained. he’s back-lit with red, and the city of new kinshasa floats behind him, its lasers criss-crossing through the salmon-colored sky. END ID]