SINCE HE WAS YOUNG his mind had been blotted with apocalyptic scenarios, chaos played out on the dark screen of closed eyes. he hadn’t imagined it anything like this, he hadn’t imagined feeling like this. the perpetual fear that struck him, barely balanced on the teetering edge of colossal change. no one prepares for the end of the world, that’s what this is, isn’t it ? the future coming to stake it’s claim and all he can do is pluck the strings on his guitar, the annoying twang of open chords played over and over, remiss of a beat. boredom, which was once a cozy melancholy, is spiked with trepidation. he catches himself outside of himself, with a lost stare, there’s a gruesome death somewhere, in the future, in the reflection of glassy eyes. she pulls him back, he takes a deep breath. ❛ hey. ❜ his voice cracks, a splinter down what’s already fragile. he’s so fucking scared. crafted not from brimstone and fire but cowardice upon cowardice. ❛ i was gonna text you, but … ❜ he nods towards the phone, it’s been dead for a couple of days now. and before that … cowardice, that’s all he is. it’s gonna be okay. that’s what he’d said to her. ❛ are you scared ? ❜ he masks the tremor in his tone, but looks for affirmation with pleading eyes. he can’t think, but it’s nice to see her, really.
THE REALITY HAD YET TO SETTLE IN. their world , now one of sci-fi films and novels, unfathomable to a girl whose worldview was shared in equal by religion and science. although feeling as if having stumbled into a world of FICTION, sawyer had failed to let passivity take charge. she pays attention, closely and with intent, awaiting ways to prepare both mentally and physically. her ventures into the woods with ELLIOT MOORE were a task of both, skills picked up as well as the occasional slip of mouth. it added purpose to her days, even when these events were few and far between. it was nightfall she worried of – thoughts unobstructed by menial tasks, penetrating a wall of disbelief and sawyer winds up fearful, feeling helpless. she thinks of death again and death thinks of her. if they are to meet in the middle, at least she’ll be ready. whatever that entailed. ARE YOU SCARED? terrified. but like when ferris wheels sends a charge of butterflies through her stomach, sawyer is reluctant to share. she hasn’t cried yet, not mourning her neighbors in atlanta nor the life she once knew, and if her worries were vocalized, she was sure to. tiptoeing into the room, caution lacing her every move, sawyer settles at the edge of his bed. the look he gives her, despondency speckled in dark eyes, forces a PRIDE to settle down – and maybe, if her own gaze wavered, she’d keep the tears at bay. ‘ … all the time. , confession slipped, her focus on the sheets beneath. ‘ and i haven’t slept since–– , since the ships first showed up in the city skyline, or when the news broadcast played on her phone. must’ve been a week now, of nothing but fleeting half hours and dry eyes. cutting herself short, sawyer gifts her attention to the one who deserves it. ‘ what about you? , a tone softened, gaze even more so. ‘ are you okay? , call it impulsivity, or inhibitions worn thin, but her hand reaches for his.
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
