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?
That was all everyone ever asked of him. Was he alright? Did he need anything? What could they do for him, would he like a warm meal, a hot bath, a soft bed, to be pampered and cared for and tamed back into the nice sweet dog he should be? He never needed any of that. Well... maybe he did, but he never got it when he needed it, and so by now he no longer had any use for it.
Korbin didn't move when she approached - he still didn't have a name for the woman, and didn't care enough to ask - but he tensed even so, prepared to move away should she try to touch him. He did not reply to the question, or to the offer to help, nor did he do anything to hinder or help when she added wood to the fire. Not enough; a single log would make no difference, would merely burn out without warming the air in the room noticeably. Amateur.
In the corner, Weaver had disappeared. Not her actual ghost then; his sister would have been all over this girl, to figure out what made her tick. She would be chopping herbs by now, talking and laughing, weedling all the secrets out of the blonde while sharing choice anecdotes until they could be mistaken for best friends. Efficient. Cunning. Using everything that was available to acquire whatever she wished. Saving the rest for a rainy day.
Could he be like that? Did he want to be like that? If he emulated Weaver, would that keep her alive? If he became like her, would others remember her more? Look at him and say, 'ah, yes. Just like his sister'.
Maybe. Maybe he could. But not tonight. Not yet. First he would have to pull himself together. Figure out who he was. Why he was. How to start feeling again. He didn't want to, but what choice did he have?
"You said you could show me. How to feel better, differently." It was a husky whisper, rough and gravelly. Barely audible. Not quite believing that he was saying anything at all.
Was he going crazy too, just like the girl?
Korbin didn't move when she approached - he still didn't have a name for the woman, and didn't care enough to ask - but he tensed even so, prepared to move away should she try to touch him. He did not reply to the question, or to the offer to help, nor did he do anything to hinder or help when she added wood to the fire. Not enough; a single log would make no difference, would merely burn out without warming the air in the room noticeably. Amateur.
In the corner, Weaver had disappeared. Not her actual ghost then; his sister would have been all over this girl, to figure out what made her tick. She would be chopping herbs by now, talking and laughing, weedling all the secrets out of the blonde while sharing choice anecdotes until they could be mistaken for best friends. Efficient. Cunning. Using everything that was available to acquire whatever she wished. Saving the rest for a rainy day.
Could he be like that? Did he want to be like that? If he emulated Weaver, would that keep her alive? If he became like her, would others remember her more? Look at him and say, 'ah, yes. Just like his sister'.
Maybe. Maybe he could. But not tonight. Not yet. First he would have to pull himself together. Figure out who he was. Why he was. How to start feeling again. He didn't want to, but what choice did he have?
"You said you could show me. How to feel better, differently." It was a husky whisper, rough and gravelly. Barely audible. Not quite believing that he was saying anything at all.
Was he going crazy too, just like the girl?
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
