a hand flutters against her chest, & she sighs softly to herself – so sad, so sad. “ - oh, mr. dewitt. ” all that PAIN in him, unbearable, untouched, amplified a thousandfold within himself. he was only just a man trying to bear the weight of the world. it wounds her so deeply she forgets to breathe. “ i… my SINCEREST apologies, mr. dewitt.” lips whisper against the rough skin of his forehead, & she sighs, sighs, sighs again, wishing she could take his suffering, wishing he was healed, wishing she was not so YOUNG & naive.
DID THE MAN make the war, or did the war make the man? an old, tired question; her voice barely registers on a conscious level, blood rushing up a fight in ears. white noise builds, a static buzz that can’t be anything but wicked. she is divine intervention, working against flesh that should be set alight with FLAMES at first touch. the devil was an angel once, too maybe this is where they meet anew.
he should shift, but he doesn’t. inveigle, they are a chasm too difficult to pull away from. ❛ nothing to be sorry about. ❜ fingers wrap around bandages, fixing & adjusting nature so calculated it conflicts the stir of thoughts looming behind viridescent eyes.
❛ & it’s booker now, c’mon. we’re burning daylight. ❜
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