"Blythe?" Sasha's voice is barely more than a thin stream of water in the depths of the forest, as she approaches her; something folded in her arms. One of Mike's jumpers, which she had planned on returning to its rightful owner, until she saw Blythe looking rather defeated, slouched over a drink in the mess hall. A moment of hesitation, and Sasha drapes the jumper over Blythe's shoulders. She is the senior, and Sasha the rookie; doesn't mean she cannot look out for her too.
She lost count of how many hours she’s been sitting here, staring down at one part of the table--one hand grasped around an almost empty bottle and the other holding onto a pair of dog tags, cleaned of the blood and other fluids. They feel heavy in her hand, a painful reminder that half of her soul has been viciously taken away from her.
He’s dead, she thinks, the words still cut through her like a blade and honestly, they hurt more than the time she nearly lost her legs--more than the time she spent enduring those experimental surgical procedures to piece said legs back together. Someone could stab her at this moment and it would hurt less compared to what she’s feeling.
Her grip on the tags tighten, the edges pinching deep into her skin.
And people wonder, she thinks, why I can’t remember most of the people here. Not that she would forget him, she would hold onto any memory of him like a vice, use them as a means to keep on going until she meets her own end.
So deep in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the call for her name until a familiar weight drapes over her back, causing her to look up. Blythe was sure that she must look like quite a sight, eyes red and slightly puffy, hair unkempt and in disarray. Sasha, her mind reminds her, one of the new recruits that Mike had taken a shining to and she as well as a result. The two often conspiring to steal clothes from the taller man, his jumpers being the most sought prize in their efforts.
For a moment, she doesn’t speak, Blythe instead briefly focuses on the jumper, how a bit of his scent still remains despite being washed. It provided her a brief respite, one corner of her mouth twitching upwards at the rookie’s actions.
“Did…?” She started off, her voice still slightly hoarse from the crying and yelling she endured only hours before. “Did Mike ever tell you how we met?” Not waiting for an answer, the brunette motions for the younger woman to take a seat, ready to share the memories of the man that boldly stepped into their lives.
@jaegeriin. ( & @libartes too )
