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?
His own name sounded strange. Awkward. It was repeated over and over, with different inflection and tone color and weight, yet it wasn't until he heard Weaver's name that he truly reacted. And it was to flinch again, and scoot backwards on the bed where he sat, as through Chulane had said something foul, and the only way to not be tainted by it was to keep up the distance.
None of the things Chulane said brought the kid joy. Normally it should be thrilling and ego stroking to hear someone say these things. That he mattered. That he wasn't alone. That he was seen and heard and hands were outstretched and just waiting to catch him if he dared to stand up, just in case he were to stumble. It was stuff to bring a flickering, wavering confidence to full brightness, and though Korbin rejected all of it, even he wasn't immune to it. Words had power.
But they could do a lot of damage too. Throw a flashbang into a room of complete darkness, and what happens to the eyes that can't shield from the light?
Weaver is dead. We will not have you follow her. Out of everything, this was what rang loudest, what cut deepest, and it robbed Korbin of the way out. He couldn't argue the words, because hadn't people already acted that way? Loren, Kiada, Chulane.... others too. All on their own, uncoordinated, in various ways, they all intruded, interfered, as if they had a right to demand anything of him just because they happened to exist in close proximity.
They wouldn't let him die. But that was no comfort, and the ragged, heaving breaths that came quicker in a panicked frenzy said as much. They were condemning him to a pointless existence, a hollow nothingness, a ceaseless drowning that would never lessen. Korbin knew it. Not a day went by where he had not been haunted by it. The grief. The loss. The pain. Shadows of people he had loved and lost... and he had to go on like this? Because of reflex?
That reflex must be the real curse. The instinct programmed into the living, so deep that it affected them all. Vi was a cruel bastard, and Safrin a vicious bitch. Rae was no better. But worst of all was Caido itself, who set it up to be like this in the first place.
"What about my suffering? Who will take responsibility for that? Are you going to take it away? You're not even staying, as soon as the weather changes you'll be off with your precious gurl. Some nerve, to trap me here and then just waltz off.
"You say I have to live, but for what? What's the point? There's nothing left but pain. No one actually need me, you just think you owe it to Wea... to my sister.
"I get it, you're pissed because I was a jerk, but this is a bit much of a retaliation. Just hit me or something... don't make me stay. Don't make me have to keep going like this.
"Please. Please? It hurts. It won't stop."
His tone changed, gradually. From numb, spiteful, bitter, into something softer. Deeper. More fragile, as Chulane dug into the core of this boy's thoughts. It was brainsurgery with pickaxe and sledgehammers, crude and brutal. Was he happy now? Korbin sat huddled on the bed, arms wound tight around himself, tears streaming unchecked down a face twisted in agony. He couldn't breathe right, gasping and choking like a man drowning, and in his gaunt expression the blotches of bruise and swelling, of frostbite and heatflush and tears made him look older, younger, out of his mind.
None of the things Chulane said brought the kid joy. Normally it should be thrilling and ego stroking to hear someone say these things. That he mattered. That he wasn't alone. That he was seen and heard and hands were outstretched and just waiting to catch him if he dared to stand up, just in case he were to stumble. It was stuff to bring a flickering, wavering confidence to full brightness, and though Korbin rejected all of it, even he wasn't immune to it. Words had power.
But they could do a lot of damage too. Throw a flashbang into a room of complete darkness, and what happens to the eyes that can't shield from the light?
Weaver is dead. We will not have you follow her. Out of everything, this was what rang loudest, what cut deepest, and it robbed Korbin of the way out. He couldn't argue the words, because hadn't people already acted that way? Loren, Kiada, Chulane.... others too. All on their own, uncoordinated, in various ways, they all intruded, interfered, as if they had a right to demand anything of him just because they happened to exist in close proximity.
They wouldn't let him die. But that was no comfort, and the ragged, heaving breaths that came quicker in a panicked frenzy said as much. They were condemning him to a pointless existence, a hollow nothingness, a ceaseless drowning that would never lessen. Korbin knew it. Not a day went by where he had not been haunted by it. The grief. The loss. The pain. Shadows of people he had loved and lost... and he had to go on like this? Because of reflex?
That reflex must be the real curse. The instinct programmed into the living, so deep that it affected them all. Vi was a cruel bastard, and Safrin a vicious bitch. Rae was no better. But worst of all was Caido itself, who set it up to be like this in the first place.
"What about my suffering? Who will take responsibility for that? Are you going to take it away? You're not even staying, as soon as the weather changes you'll be off with your precious gurl. Some nerve, to trap me here and then just waltz off.
"You say I have to live, but for what? What's the point? There's nothing left but pain. No one actually need me, you just think you owe it to Wea... to my sister.
"I get it, you're pissed because I was a jerk, but this is a bit much of a retaliation. Just hit me or something... don't make me stay. Don't make me have to keep going like this.
"Please. Please? It hurts. It won't stop."
His tone changed, gradually. From numb, spiteful, bitter, into something softer. Deeper. More fragile, as Chulane dug into the core of this boy's thoughts. It was brainsurgery with pickaxe and sledgehammers, crude and brutal. Was he happy now? Korbin sat huddled on the bed, arms wound tight around himself, tears streaming unchecked down a face twisted in agony. He couldn't breathe right, gasping and choking like a man drowning, and in his gaunt expression the blotches of bruise and swelling, of frostbite and heatflush and tears made him look older, younger, out of his mind.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
