(no subject)
At first, it's simple. He is sitting on the couch of an office, apparently waiting, and then he checks his bag. For what? He's not sure, but it must be something terrible because he can feel his head swim and his heart hammer. He turns invisible, and creeps into the women's washroom where he sees...
The woman. The one holding his hand, smiling at him, laughing with him. She is hunched over a cell-phone, and a video is playing on it. On the video, a boy says, "You know. The situation. We killed our probation worker?"
The woman sinks to the ground, and when he's close enough, Barry turns visible.
"You shouldn't have taken my phone. Give me the phone." His voice sounds calm, almost too calm. His posture is different than before, straighter than before, stronger than before.
"You killed him," the woman whispers.
"We had to. He was crazy. He was going to kill us."
"Tony wouldn't hurt anyone."
"The storm changed him. It changed us all."
"We have to tell the police."
Barry tilts his head, and his voice changes to something far less calm. He is hurt. "You were just using me."
"No. [ ], no." The woman rises to her feet, and she looks petrified.
"This is what you were after."
"I had to find out what happened. This was the only way, I'm sorry. I know it wasn't you, it was them, wasn't it? You have to give evidence against them, I'll help you."
Barry shakes his head, brow crinkling. He can tell by the way his throat constricts that he is fighting back the urge. Voice strangled, he says, "Give me my phone."
"Why are you protecting them?" The woman retorts, still holding onto his phone. "You told me how they treat you. They ignore you. You told me you were lonely."
"I never said that to you," Barry says. The woman looks down, withdraws. Barry takes another step back, expression contorting even more. "You. You're shygirl."
"I loved Tony. I just wanted to know what happened. I didn't want to lie to you. You're not like them, [ ], you're not. But you're the only person that can help me. I need you. Would you do this to me? Please?"
She reaches out to carress his face, and he has to stare somewhere, anywhere but at her face, still struggling with the tears that threaten to escape. There is a moment of silence, of possibility, but that possibility is shattered when she shoves his face into the mirror. The mirror breaks, and pain blooms on the side of his head, but this pain is less intense than the way his chest is constricting, the way his throat is clogging up.
He turns invisible immediately and grabs ahold of a broom. He watches her swear and struggle against the doors of the community centre. He walks down the hallway and at every light, he thrusts the broomstick up to break every one of them. The woman sobs, terrified. Barry has never felt the sensation of anyone being scared of him before. The woman tries to use the phone, but he swats it out of her grasp easily. He has more muscle than he knows. He pushes her hard against the wall and turns visible once more.
Once more, he is calm. "I can't let you go to the police."
"[ ], you don't owe them anything."
"They're the only friends I've got."
The woman struggles forward to the phone, and he throws her off. They grapple on the floor for what feels like forever, her struggling to go forward and slamming her fists against him, him struggling to push her back. Her strikes wound him, but he can hardly feel him. In one last desperate move, he grabs onto her shoulders and slams her against the door. Not to kill, but to stop.
He threw her too hard, in the wrong angle. She utters her last breath, and she slides slowly down. The wound on the back of her head opens, and blood smears down the door. She goes still. Barry can smell the blood. He sits beside her, cupping her face and hyperventilating.
And finally, he allows himself to sob.
When he comes back to his own senses, he is almost surprised to find his face dry of any tears. He touches his cheek, hand shaking, and recalls the time when he did not remember the dull smack of her head against glass but the warm sensation of her fingers laced with his.
The woman. The one holding his hand, smiling at him, laughing with him. She is hunched over a cell-phone, and a video is playing on it. On the video, a boy says, "You know. The situation. We killed our probation worker?"
The woman sinks to the ground, and when he's close enough, Barry turns visible.
"You shouldn't have taken my phone. Give me the phone." His voice sounds calm, almost too calm. His posture is different than before, straighter than before, stronger than before.
"You killed him," the woman whispers.
"We had to. He was crazy. He was going to kill us."
"Tony wouldn't hurt anyone."
"The storm changed him. It changed us all."
"We have to tell the police."
Barry tilts his head, and his voice changes to something far less calm. He is hurt. "You were just using me."
"No. [ ], no." The woman rises to her feet, and she looks petrified.
"This is what you were after."
"I had to find out what happened. This was the only way, I'm sorry. I know it wasn't you, it was them, wasn't it? You have to give evidence against them, I'll help you."
Barry shakes his head, brow crinkling. He can tell by the way his throat constricts that he is fighting back the urge. Voice strangled, he says, "Give me my phone."
"Why are you protecting them?" The woman retorts, still holding onto his phone. "You told me how they treat you. They ignore you. You told me you were lonely."
"I never said that to you," Barry says. The woman looks down, withdraws. Barry takes another step back, expression contorting even more. "You. You're shygirl."
"I loved Tony. I just wanted to know what happened. I didn't want to lie to you. You're not like them, [ ], you're not. But you're the only person that can help me. I need you. Would you do this to me? Please?"
She reaches out to carress his face, and he has to stare somewhere, anywhere but at her face, still struggling with the tears that threaten to escape. There is a moment of silence, of possibility, but that possibility is shattered when she shoves his face into the mirror. The mirror breaks, and pain blooms on the side of his head, but this pain is less intense than the way his chest is constricting, the way his throat is clogging up.
He turns invisible immediately and grabs ahold of a broom. He watches her swear and struggle against the doors of the community centre. He walks down the hallway and at every light, he thrusts the broomstick up to break every one of them. The woman sobs, terrified. Barry has never felt the sensation of anyone being scared of him before. The woman tries to use the phone, but he swats it out of her grasp easily. He has more muscle than he knows. He pushes her hard against the wall and turns visible once more.
Once more, he is calm. "I can't let you go to the police."
"[ ], you don't owe them anything."
"They're the only friends I've got."
The woman struggles forward to the phone, and he throws her off. They grapple on the floor for what feels like forever, her struggling to go forward and slamming her fists against him, him struggling to push her back. Her strikes wound him, but he can hardly feel him. In one last desperate move, he grabs onto her shoulders and slams her against the door. Not to kill, but to stop.
He threw her too hard, in the wrong angle. She utters her last breath, and she slides slowly down. The wound on the back of her head opens, and blood smears down the door. She goes still. Barry can smell the blood. He sits beside her, cupping her face and hyperventilating.
And finally, he allows himself to sob.
When he comes back to his own senses, he is almost surprised to find his face dry of any tears. He touches his cheek, hand shaking, and recalls the time when he did not remember the dull smack of her head against glass but the warm sensation of her fingers laced with his.