solichor.
summer’s hands are white-knuckled. the pads of her fingers are digging their way into the soft skin around a man’s mouth, her elbow is tucked tight, tight around his neck. the crack of fine bones resound the further she winds her grip, a subtle undercurrent of noise, something to settle beneath the muted echo of his angry, panicked breathing. she should have kept a grip on the man’s knife – it lays on the ground as a shining reminder, waiting patiently in the distance that yawns between brandon and summer. she blows her hair out of her face.
‘ are you going to help? ’
brandon answers with a stuttering release of breath and a smile that can’t decide between unfettered childish glee or sly recognition of summer’s own demons. it flutters like pages in a flip book, some-teeth no-teeth all-teeth, and slows him down even after he’s elected to be of assistance.
he collects the knife, skates the blade along a stripe in the man’s suit until he can feel those hard-working lungs hitch beneath his touch, and knows that it’s here that it should lay. a reminder of his doom, dare he inhale.
‘ i... i must. say. ’ brandon’s eyes catch hers above the body. they all but twinkle. ‘ i am impressed. ’
