KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
The world was a blur of blue and white. A rare sunlight pierced the clouds and set the snow ablaze in dazzling rainbow hues. The sky above was high and the snowstorms a mere memory. Though the cold remained brutal, the change in light drew more than one cabin sick person outside, for fresh air and a change of scenery. There were even a few smiles and laughter could be heard, tentative yet still ringing clear above the rooftops.
It was beautiful. It was lovely. Life in the Citadel was picking up and moving on.
Korbin hated it. Resented the light and the colors, the way everything kept going on even though his own life had ended. How could the sun shine when Weaver was gone? How dare they laugh as if there was anything left to be happy about?
The world was a blur. He staggered down the back alleys on his way to the old tavern. Even though the day was still young, he was already roaringly drunk. Plastered, in ways he had always avoided in the past. But the liqour had become the only thing that knocked him out. It numbed the pain, numbed the numbness, made him drop off - eventually - and descend into a dreamless state where not even grief could touch him.
It was a slow method, but at this rate it would end him as sure as any dagger. Korbin did not mind. Loren couldn't stop him like this. Kiada couldn't nag. Noah couldn't interfere. Look, he was still alive, right? What more did they want?
Winding his way on feet that could barely carry him, Korbin bumped into a stack of planks that stood leaned against a wall. They crashed and tumbled to the ground with a deafening clatter, and though one of them smacked into his head hard enough to cut a gash in the skin, all the boy did was mutter a few curses and stagger on. A runnel of blood trickled down his face, stinging the eye; he wiped it with the back of a hand.
It was beautiful. It was lovely. Life in the Citadel was picking up and moving on.
Korbin hated it. Resented the light and the colors, the way everything kept going on even though his own life had ended. How could the sun shine when Weaver was gone? How dare they laugh as if there was anything left to be happy about?
The world was a blur. He staggered down the back alleys on his way to the old tavern. Even though the day was still young, he was already roaringly drunk. Plastered, in ways he had always avoided in the past. But the liqour had become the only thing that knocked him out. It numbed the pain, numbed the numbness, made him drop off - eventually - and descend into a dreamless state where not even grief could touch him.
It was a slow method, but at this rate it would end him as sure as any dagger. Korbin did not mind. Loren couldn't stop him like this. Kiada couldn't nag. Noah couldn't interfere. Look, he was still alive, right? What more did they want?
Winding his way on feet that could barely carry him, Korbin bumped into a stack of planks that stood leaned against a wall. They crashed and tumbled to the ground with a deafening clatter, and though one of them smacked into his head hard enough to cut a gash in the skin, all the boy did was mutter a few curses and stagger on. A runnel of blood trickled down his face, stinging the eye; he wiped it with the back of a hand.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
