[ it's only been 24 hours. he can't stay away from this fucking place for more than a day. it both disgusts him and gives him an ironic sense of Belonging, of having found Home, and not because the place is inching clear of its final left-overs of gremlin gore, but because there's a fox curled up asleep like it's a real den
( ... )
[it's out before he can stop it. it's not malicious, or sad. it's exhausted. he's done with this shit (tonight, for now, until the next desert wind picks up and knocks him over)]
[ there's a pause when he looks over his shoulder, and the eerie calm (CALaMity) that's across his face is like a foghorn signal on a dark, dark bay. ]
[ his control is waning as quick as the tide. ]
If you don't stop, I'm either gonna rape or kill you tonight.
[the Undergrounder says nothing to that, body collapsing back into the couch, too bony too tired]
[he should leave. he should run for the fucking hills, maybe, but it's nothing they didn't know already, communicated by jolts of electricity in the air between them]
[the knife is tucked back in his fist, under the cushion, like a goodnight moon]
[ the front door creaks and it's when one foot is out the door when his body freezes up. the dried handprint on the door frame matches his filthy palm perfect, and he looks at it and thinks of what started the whole thing. ]
[ there's no hope here. they're doomed, both of them. it's a waste of energy, a waste of time, the long haul he'd sworn himself to completely fucking pointless with no reward. maybe I should just end this thing violently, right now, he thinks, as he looks at his hand in the redwood casket. ]
[ -- he can't stop the longing glance that gets flashed over his shoulder. ]
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[it's out before he can stop it. it's not malicious, or sad. it's exhausted. he's done with this shit (tonight, for now, until the next desert wind picks up and knocks him over)]
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[ his control is waning as quick as the tide. ]
If you don't stop, I'm either gonna rape or kill you tonight.
Reply
[the Undergrounder says nothing to that, body collapsing back into the couch, too bony too tired]
[he should leave. he should run for the fucking hills, maybe, but it's nothing they didn't know already, communicated by jolts of electricity in the air between them]
[the knife is tucked back in his fist, under the cushion, like a goodnight moon]
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[ there's no hope here. they're doomed, both of them. it's a waste of energy, a waste of time, the long haul he'd sworn himself to completely fucking pointless with no reward. maybe I should just end this thing violently, right now, he thinks, as he looks at his hand in the redwood casket. ]
[ -- he can't stop the longing glance that gets flashed over his shoulder. ]
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[ carefully placed words, more clearly placed intentions. ]
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