Sing to me, I am not doing well
Getting tired of my own words
Too dizzy to stand, she wiped pointlessly at her nose and watched the blood stain her fingers just like the snow. The shadow looming over her was dreadful enough to bring weight to his words about the true Butcher. Was this not bad enough? How could it be worse? Getting tired of my own words
The mention of the man, the way he implied he might not have stepped in, brought the whole scene back to her in stark clarity. The smarmy voice, those questing hands, the way her head had been brought back down so easily, preventing her from getting any strength into her spine – the shudder passing through her was visible and visceral. It was too easy to picture the way it would have gone if given enough time. And the knew Asta was right. The way those eyes had followed her all night, there was every indication that he would have been back. Maybe even followed her –
A sob wrecked her thin frame, dry and painful sounding. Was the shock setting in or finally letting go? She didn't know. Somehow it didn't feel right that saving her excused all Asta had done afterward. But what if he was right that she was blind to any perspective but her own? Was she so wrong to be horrified over his violence, over the raw brutality in what she had witnessess? Gods, but she didn't know anymore.
"It feels wrong," she protested, weaker this time. Less certain. "How can it be right to eat people? We can talk to each other, reason - why do you have to be like that? You could have just killed him. I don't... I don't understand the fun in hurting anyone."
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself
through the loudness of my own hurts
through the loudness of my own hurts
base inspired by Odd <3
