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?
It seemed both cruel and selfish to Korbin, these interventions from the strangers around him. He had made it perfectly clear that he did not want to live, that he wanted no help, that all their supposed caring did not move him. It did not stir anything but frustration when they interrupted his descent into ruin, and for what? Arbitrary moral rules that said the living must stay alive. They didn't even know him. More than one person had admitted that this pain he was in would never go away and still they kept him from going. What was this, other than some cruel and unusual punishment?
Or torture, perhaps. Every time Chulane said Weaver's name, Korbin flinched like he had been whipped, and with every refusal he curled up on himself a bit more. Like a child he clapped his hands over the ears to block Chulane's voice out, but it didn't work well enough. New pain, fresh and raw flodded in, like bright blood welling from a wound that had barely even started to scab over, and soon tears were rolling from the corners of his eyes. Silent, hot, so accustomed these days that it didn't even register. Her image rose out of the fogs of the booze, wavering yet so clear, so beautiful. Smirking at him, like she knew all the secrets of the world and had a great time watching as he fumbled around in the dark for a glimpse of them.
It was so real that he actually turned, to see if she wasn't standing in the door after all. Arms crossed over the chest, leaning against the frame as she looked at him. But of course Weaver wasn't there. The door was open and the hallway beyond empty. The only person in the room with him was Chulane, and the eyes Korbin turned on him were red rimmed and hurt, the pain in him naked and raw as his loss was hammered out for him all over again.
"No! Stop it! She's gone, what more is there to say!?" Korbin's voice broke. Gasping for breath, the one he got down became a sob. Half choked, drowning. He had been for so long, yet he neither passed away nor surfaced.
This was his life now? Good fucking job saving him, heroes.
Or torture, perhaps. Every time Chulane said Weaver's name, Korbin flinched like he had been whipped, and with every refusal he curled up on himself a bit more. Like a child he clapped his hands over the ears to block Chulane's voice out, but it didn't work well enough. New pain, fresh and raw flodded in, like bright blood welling from a wound that had barely even started to scab over, and soon tears were rolling from the corners of his eyes. Silent, hot, so accustomed these days that it didn't even register. Her image rose out of the fogs of the booze, wavering yet so clear, so beautiful. Smirking at him, like she knew all the secrets of the world and had a great time watching as he fumbled around in the dark for a glimpse of them.
It was so real that he actually turned, to see if she wasn't standing in the door after all. Arms crossed over the chest, leaning against the frame as she looked at him. But of course Weaver wasn't there. The door was open and the hallway beyond empty. The only person in the room with him was Chulane, and the eyes Korbin turned on him were red rimmed and hurt, the pain in him naked and raw as his loss was hammered out for him all over again.
"No! Stop it! She's gone, what more is there to say!?" Korbin's voice broke. Gasping for breath, the one he got down became a sob. Half choked, drowning. He had been for so long, yet he neither passed away nor surfaced.
This was his life now? Good fucking job saving him, heroes.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
