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 sound of her footsteps picking up behind him was a crawl of demons beneath his skin, of snakes slithering along his spine, cold fingers poking and prodding and pestering until he wanted to scream and thrash and break something someone just to make it stop. It was madness, a ringing in his ears, rage a poison in his veins that infected anything it touched. Korbin fought to keep his hitching breath slow and steady, to channel the sizzling fury - sprung from helplessness, from pain, from grief and frustration but no less his own, no less his responsibility just because the source wasn't - into the increasing pace of his feet.
But she kept following even when he had made it perfectly clear that he Did. Not. Want. Company. At what point did this become self defense from a stalker? He began to gather his thoughts to shift, to fly off and save them both from this because it would never end well.
But her words, her quiet question made Korbin flinch like he had been struck, and the shimmer around his form died away.
"No!" he snapped, the response immediate. As instinctive as the revulsion whenever he recalled the feeling. His denial was so vehement it could only be a lie.
But it had to be true. He had to hate it, had to rage against it, or he would become the worst kind of monster.
How would he ever face Weaver again if he didn't remain at least marginally good, somehow, somewhere? He had killed, and he did awful things to the people around him in his attempts to reject their help... But if he ever started to enjoy the suffering he caused he would truly be lost.
But she kept following even when he had made it perfectly clear that he Did. Not. Want. Company. At what point did this become self defense from a stalker? He began to gather his thoughts to shift, to fly off and save them both from this because it would never end well.
But her words, her quiet question made Korbin flinch like he had been struck, and the shimmer around his form died away.
"No!" he snapped, the response immediate. As instinctive as the revulsion whenever he recalled the feeling. His denial was so vehement it could only be a lie.
But it had to be true. He had to hate it, had to rage against it, or he would become the worst kind of monster.
How would he ever face Weaver again if he didn't remain at least marginally good, somehow, somewhere? He had killed, and he did awful things to the people around him in his attempts to reject their help... But if he ever started to enjoy the suffering he caused he would truly be lost.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
