Aurelia
How come silence is so loud in the shadows?
I wanna scream 'til it's on
I wanna scream 'til it's on
Aurelia has no more patience left in herself for Rigby. She's tried, okay? She's tried to show him mercy when he stole from her, tried to offer him her help in more ways than one; in friendship, in training, in a person to relate to and talk to. She knows full well what it's like to be nothing more than a street rat. She knows. He thinks he's so fucking edgy and shit, though, somehow gets it twisted in his head that he's so much better. So she'll actually help him, just this once. Not try. She will, by showing him that he's his own worst enemy.
His stumble to the ground is hardly noticed as she turns and carves her way down the path, snapping out insults he could probably only barely hear. She wants to remain rigid in her decision to leave him there, to let him flounder and struggle to get back to safety. If he's not an idiot, he'll make it. But then he shouts for her to wait, says please, and she can hear the sting of tears in his broken voice. She halts with a deep-rooted sense of guilt that starts to swirl and bubble like water in a pot.
Pursing her lips, she whirls back around and marches up to him. Her bow, still in hand, is slung over her shoulders. Her eyes narrow down to the arrow in his leg, her arrow. "This is rich," she barks out coldly, cruelly, glaring down at his face and crossing her arms, "so you only want my help when it's convenient for you? When you have no choice?" She bites back any further venom when she spots his tears.
With a reluctant sigh, she kneels down beside him to grip the arrow. "Hold the fuck still, this will hurt," one hand grips the base of the arrow near his thigh, holding it fast and tight, to leave it as a block for the wound. The other hand reaches up and snaps the rest of it off. Dismissively, she lets go of him and tosses the broken piece, having little care for any pain she's just inflicted. In the long run, this will help. "Let's go," she mutters, hooking her arm beneath his shoulder to support him and help him to his feet.
His stumble to the ground is hardly noticed as she turns and carves her way down the path, snapping out insults he could probably only barely hear. She wants to remain rigid in her decision to leave him there, to let him flounder and struggle to get back to safety. If he's not an idiot, he'll make it. But then he shouts for her to wait, says please, and she can hear the sting of tears in his broken voice. She halts with a deep-rooted sense of guilt that starts to swirl and bubble like water in a pot.
Pursing her lips, she whirls back around and marches up to him. Her bow, still in hand, is slung over her shoulders. Her eyes narrow down to the arrow in his leg, her arrow. "This is rich," she barks out coldly, cruelly, glaring down at his face and crossing her arms, "so you only want my help when it's convenient for you? When you have no choice?" She bites back any further venom when she spots his tears.
With a reluctant sigh, she kneels down beside him to grip the arrow. "Hold the fuck still, this will hurt," one hand grips the base of the arrow near his thigh, holding it fast and tight, to leave it as a block for the wound. The other hand reaches up and snaps the rest of it off. Dismissively, she lets go of him and tosses the broken piece, having little care for any pain she's just inflicted. In the long run, this will help. "Let's go," she mutters, hooking her arm beneath his shoulder to support him and help him to his feet.
Tell my feet they should run
but they don't follow
but they don't follow
