. LEFTALONC .
footsteps halt when he offers his company, and sarah waits a beat before turning to face him. he looked different, almost like he used to. that was the face he made when he was trying to figure out what went w r o n g and then what could be done to FIX it. then as soon as that look appeared, it was replaced by remorse.
shit.he won’t look directly at her when she retreats back to him, so she unwraps one arm from her body and takes his hand into hers, giving a soft squeeze. her expression remains unchanged, still empty, but she nods once toward the door. “ let’s get out of here. ”
There was an immediate sense of relief upon contact. Not a balancing of wrongdoings, but a spark of hope. The black-clad man welcomed the gesture, despite the rush of images he would receive. On cue, the gallery of horrors she’d seen in her short years displayed themselves for him. They danced like malevolent felines, causing a deep ache as they waltzed behind his eyes. In a rapid flash he saw her, hiding in her bedroom while her mother chose her favorite vein, with the help of her lover, and dozed off into oblivion.
A myriad of lonely moments and painful, graphic events. The last, the unspoken theme. The reason behind his own death, and Shelly’s. She’d watched as they rolled her away. She’d witnessed her speak of herself, without noticing her present. She’d seen her, bloodied, hurt, dying. But Sarah had seen him too. Lying there, on the wet, dirty asphalt. Broken glass spread beneath. Blood seeping through the white of the sheet over him – over his body. She’d been too young for this. It’d been much too cruel, brutalizing. Yet, the desolation, the hollowing sense of abandonment, the solitude that came after, didn’t compare.
⊰ SHOULDN’AH DONE THAT, JUNIOR ⊱
the crow followed, mocking Eric from the distance.
Its small shadow trailing across bricked buildings as they walked.
Eric nearly let go of her hand, for a split second. His senses coming back in the nick of time, his palm and fingers covering the entirety of hers. As if sheltering it. Oh so gently. Quietly, as they walked along. Along through the cold of the night. Fumes and trash infesting the streets. The grotesque scent of liquor, nicotine and filth came off the buildings. Embracing the two, like a mother to its children. Eric allowed a moment to pass, knowing how she’d react if not so: she’d become distant again, more than she was now - perhaps joke and make light of her feelings, maybe even become angry and with an urge to escape. Eric couldn’t allow it. Not like this.
“Sarah-” he began, cautiously, carefully. Touching tender scar tissue was not easy. Hers was exposed to him now. “I didn’t mean to upset you back there.” he was honest, tactful. Unnecessary words to utter, he knew ( her youth did not shorten her of experience, intelligence or sensibility – he needn’t tell her he’d never hurt her ). But the words needed to be heard and spoken, if only to rectify the damage caused this evening. His hand remained in place, for safety if she needed it. “It’s okay to be angry.” his voice, like it was in life, held a comfort to its sound, to its tone. “And it’s okay to be hurt.”