“I know when you go
down all your darkest roads
I would have followed all the way
to the graveyard.”
down all your darkest roads
I would have followed all the way
to the graveyard.”
She doesn’t think anyone has ever tried to purposely hurt her, emotionally. Dhumin had been cold and aloof, but she cannot recall him ever saying anything quite as scathing as Atrox does right now. Not even Carnage has ever come at her with words whose only purpose was to cut and scar. She finds that she would rather drown or have her throat torn open a thousand times than to withstand this sudden verbal assault. She isn’t sure what it says about her, then, that she is more prepared for physical pain than emotional – and that she is not equipped at all to handle the latter.
He launches insults at her like grenades, and they all hit their mark.
She is not as well practiced as she used to be, and she can feel her guard slipping. Though she clenches her jaw, she can feel tears burning in the back of her throat, and it is only because she lived a hundred years without eyes at all that the tears never reach them – no longer familiar with that path, it seems.
“Okay,” she finally relents, the word edged with the anguish she tries to conceal, and when she at last allows herself to look back at him she repeats herself, quieter this time, “okay.”
“I get it,” she continues, despondent and defeated. Her heart twists and clenches in her chest as she fights to keep her breathing even – fights against the panic and the flight that tries to override the sorrow and the want to fight with (for) him.
“I would always ask you to stay, if it were up to me,” she tells him around the ache in her throat, meeting his cold, granite-like face. “But it’s not. This – this, whatever this is – is up to you.” She shakes her head, looking to the ground, and when she looks back to him she is no longer trying to hide anything that she feels. It reflects in her eyes, in the dimming of her glow, and in every hushed word she speaks. “I’m not a fool. I know I don’t really have a say in anything, and especially not in how anything between you and I plays out.”
He launches insults at her like grenades, and they all hit their mark.
She is not as well practiced as she used to be, and she can feel her guard slipping. Though she clenches her jaw, she can feel tears burning in the back of her throat, and it is only because she lived a hundred years without eyes at all that the tears never reach them – no longer familiar with that path, it seems.
“Okay,” she finally relents, the word edged with the anguish she tries to conceal, and when she at last allows herself to look back at him she repeats herself, quieter this time, “okay.”
“I get it,” she continues, despondent and defeated. Her heart twists and clenches in her chest as she fights to keep her breathing even – fights against the panic and the flight that tries to override the sorrow and the want to fight with (for) him.
“I would always ask you to stay, if it were up to me,” she tells him around the ache in her throat, meeting his cold, granite-like face. “But it’s not. This – this, whatever this is – is up to you.” She shakes her head, looking to the ground, and when she looks back to him she is no longer trying to hide anything that she feels. It reflects in her eyes, in the dimming of her glow, and in every hushed word she speaks. “I’m not a fool. I know I don’t really have a say in anything, and especially not in how anything between you and I plays out.”
ryatah