09-09-2021, 05:50 PM
YOU'RE WALKING IN THE SHADOWS OF YOUR FEAR AND YOU'RE HEADED
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
He does not shift for the exact reason that she has shifted—it is easier to be angry in that form. And even though she has done absolutely nothing to earn his anger he is afraid it would become impossible for him to see that should he let that feral side of him take over. He does not want to imagine the cruelties his tongue could speak, does not want to find just how hard he would twist that knife into her simply to make sure she didn’t hurt him back. He has already done enough damage, and it is a miracle he is not stupid enough to make it worse by turning this into an all out fight.
So he stands there, watching her with eyes such a harsh color that even when dimmed with sorrow they still appear sinister. He doesn’t think that she can see the pain that hides there, or the regret. She will never understand how much he wishes he is not the way that he is, that he had never gone into the underground and turned into the beast that he is.
Her words sting, but he deserves it. If he could wipe her clean of him he would do it, he would release her from this infinite cycle he has trapped her in and let her go. But he is far too selfish for that. Even now when he watches her tremble with an anger that is so unlike her, with a voice so much harsher than the whispering lilt he had grown to love, he knows he cannot—will not—let her go.
He is destined to break her over and over, until she finally gets the strength to walk away, and there is nothing he can do to change that.
“I told you,” he begins, his voice still a quiet rasp in the dark, “I told you I couldn’t promise that I would never hurt you.” He can’t stop the way that towards the end the words grow sharp, but he catches himself, realizes it is unfair that he is shifting the blame onto her. So he settles back, reins back in the darkness that tried to creep into his mind and voice. He swallows it away and turns his eyes back to hers, daring to take a step towards her. “I don’t love anyone else,” because he doesn’t; there is only her, has only ever been her. “But I fucked up.”
So he stands there, watching her with eyes such a harsh color that even when dimmed with sorrow they still appear sinister. He doesn’t think that she can see the pain that hides there, or the regret. She will never understand how much he wishes he is not the way that he is, that he had never gone into the underground and turned into the beast that he is.
Her words sting, but he deserves it. If he could wipe her clean of him he would do it, he would release her from this infinite cycle he has trapped her in and let her go. But he is far too selfish for that. Even now when he watches her tremble with an anger that is so unlike her, with a voice so much harsher than the whispering lilt he had grown to love, he knows he cannot—will not—let her go.
He is destined to break her over and over, until she finally gets the strength to walk away, and there is nothing he can do to change that.
“I told you,” he begins, his voice still a quiet rasp in the dark, “I told you I couldn’t promise that I would never hurt you.” He can’t stop the way that towards the end the words grow sharp, but he catches himself, realizes it is unfair that he is shifting the blame onto her. So he settles back, reins back in the darkness that tried to creep into his mind and voice. He swallows it away and turns his eyes back to hers, daring to take a step towards her. “I don’t love anyone else,” because he doesn’t; there is only her, has only ever been her. “But I fucked up.”
T O R R Y N