Kaisel
Don't need a sign, nothing divine's gonna save me
He'd been too quiet.
He let her talk, looking anywhere but at her—fussing with his wraps, his glass, tapping absently on the table. He'd nodded along with her at times, permitted a smile to ghost its way forward once or twice, and all the while he'd said nothing more than what he already had. Then the quiet settled between them, her breath the only sound. She had cast something off, then tried to yank normalcy back with an airy question. He finally looked at her again.
The lethal calm he'd settled into broke.
"No harm done?" His laugh broke sharp, too high, unsteady. "What do you call that?" he gestured towards the spot where her twisted scar would be, leaning sharply over the table. His palms slapped the table as he surged to his feet. "They fucking harmed you." His voice spiked, raw. "And you're blaming yourself?" Each word rose, his outrage untethered, spinning wild.
For too long, he'd ground his anger under his heel—nothing more than the fading glow of an old cigarette. Part of him understood. They'd killed her. Her return couldn't have been easy. He knew the kind of fear they left behind—the kind that burrowed deep, that never let you go. He recognized it; they were terrible in every sense of the word, a force that they could not resist, a force that could, and had killed them. Because of that his anger burned hotter. He could feel the hope being ripped away from them—just another way of killing them all.
"We should make the family beg to apologize, not whatever the fuck this bullshit is." He would rather die than sit here and let them kill him day after day, watching the town and the people he loved turn into wraiths.
He let her talk, looking anywhere but at her—fussing with his wraps, his glass, tapping absently on the table. He'd nodded along with her at times, permitted a smile to ghost its way forward once or twice, and all the while he'd said nothing more than what he already had. Then the quiet settled between them, her breath the only sound. She had cast something off, then tried to yank normalcy back with an airy question. He finally looked at her again.
The lethal calm he'd settled into broke.
"No harm done?" His laugh broke sharp, too high, unsteady. "What do you call that?" he gestured towards the spot where her twisted scar would be, leaning sharply over the table. His palms slapped the table as he surged to his feet. "They fucking harmed you." His voice spiked, raw. "And you're blaming yourself?" Each word rose, his outrage untethered, spinning wild.
For too long, he'd ground his anger under his heel—nothing more than the fading glow of an old cigarette. Part of him understood. They'd killed her. Her return couldn't have been easy. He knew the kind of fear they left behind—the kind that burrowed deep, that never let you go. He recognized it; they were terrible in every sense of the word, a force that they could not resist, a force that could, and had killed them. Because of that his anger burned hotter. He could feel the hope being ripped away from them—just another way of killing them all.
"We should make the family beg to apologize, not whatever the fuck this bullshit is." He would rather die than sit here and let them kill him day after day, watching the town and the people he loved turn into wraiths.
Here only the strong survive
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
