you hate the crash, but you love the rush
Flora stares at him, eyes wide and unblinking, the world narrowing abruptly until all she can hear is the slow, steady drag of his cigarette and the hammering pulse roaring in her ears. Something sharp splinters in her chest—cracking open painfully, spreading cold and fast like ice spiderwebbing across glass. It's the kind of chill that aches, that stings, settling deep and unshakeable, like plunging into dark, freezing waters without taking a breath first. Because it isn’t just what he’s telling her, though gods, that's bad enough—it's how he says it, so casual, as if he’d merely made another deal, another trade, another meaningless handshake. Her thoughts are a tempest, a storm surge of hurt and confusion swirling furiously, pulling her under, choking her. The betrayal tastes bitter, sour on her tongue, even if she knows (because she knows Jack) that it isn't betrayal to him. Not really. Just another price, another business exchange.
It's only a child.
It's only Safrin.
Flora swallows thickly, pulling her knees up sharply to her chest, hugging them tight, suddenly small and brittle beneath the blankets, golden curls tangling around her shoulders like a noose. "What was your price this time?" she asks finally, and her voice is bitter, hollow, and quiet in the emptiness of the cabin. She thinks distantly, that at least this time there hadn't been sex involved (lol); at least he hadn't fucked Safrin to make this child—interpreting Safrin getting Jack's attention as merely making him an offer—as if that somehow made it better. But the thought is cold comfort—no comfort at all, really, just another layer of numbness over the hurt—and she squeezes her legs tighter, eyes glittering with tears that refuse to fall. She fixes Jack with a hollow, aching look, wondering what the fuck good it would do to slap him now, when everything was already said and done?
It's only a child.
It's only Safrin.
Flora swallows thickly, pulling her knees up sharply to her chest, hugging them tight, suddenly small and brittle beneath the blankets, golden curls tangling around her shoulders like a noose. "What was your price this time?" she asks finally, and her voice is bitter, hollow, and quiet in the emptiness of the cabin. She thinks distantly, that at least this time there hadn't been sex involved (lol); at least he hadn't fucked Safrin to make this child—interpreting Safrin getting Jack's attention as merely making him an offer—as if that somehow made it better. But the thought is cold comfort—no comfort at all, really, just another layer of numbness over the hurt—and she squeezes her legs tighter, eyes glittering with tears that refuse to fall. She fixes Jack with a hollow, aching look, wondering what the fuck good it would do to slap him now, when everything was already said and done?
