“don’t you care about me at all?”
sad / heartbreak starters ;; ‘don’t you care about me at all?’
IT COMES OUT OF THE BLUE ; a lit match upon gasoline. Suddenly, it’s hot. So fucking hot it’s unbearable. If there’s one thing he doesn’t like, that’s being put up against a wall – of the literal or metaphorical kind, really. Being forced into saying, into doing, into…anything. Lack of control makes him feel unstable, and Theo has done nothing over the years if not construct a ground so solid he could never slip.
Ah, but there are those who enjoy dumping copious amounts of wax on his floor. Those who see the safety there and desire to make it slippery – a hazard to his self. He thinks more than one person would love to see him fall and break his back, shatter his neck. He just never thought Sky would be one of them. She’s always been a net. Something there to catch him. Her turbulent past could rival his own but there are clear differences between them now. Oceans. Like the fact that she’s clean. Like the fact that she scrubs at her hands daily until skin turns red and worn. Like the fact that she’s changing into something foreign, something better.
…like the fact that he refuses to do the same.
And in Sky’s new ways questions are asked, people are involved. In her life, connections are formed and thrive: water placed on a dying flower. Her new crew teaches her to be vulnerable – to be soft.
Softness is not an option for him. The times he’s felt it – the times he’s allowed himself to feel it –, it’s backfired. Vulnerability is a rigged game not meant to be won, and there is nothing Theodore Langley hates more than losing. He strays far from those feelings, those things. Those monsters that live under his bed and try to claw at his feet. He builds walls and levels and places trust like a carrot in front of hungry rabbits ( rabbits he will later have for supper ). He does not know how to fold, how to bend. The only way past the defenses is to break him, but whenever cracks start to show he disappears.
…that he does not use. Words are his forte and yet, they are so treacherous at times. He rolls his tongue into his mouth and makes sure they don’t slip past. ( They’ll have to shatter his teeth and force his lips open before he even so much as utters them. )
“Don’t you care about me at all?” Sky’s voice is sleepy; heavy with fever. Her cheeks are red and she’s covered in sweat. Still, despite the sickness there’s judgement in her eyes. And, maybe, a dash of hurt. When she asks the question, this is where he stands: he’s taking half – his half is far more generous – her Advil while she lays in bed running a fever for the third day in a row. He’s taking it ( and he doesn’t need it, but oh – he fucking might someday )…
Because Theo is more selfish than he is friend.
And because when the question departs her lips he feels more inclined to just take the whole fucking bottle, leave her to her luck.
And because he doesn’t know how to hold things unless he breaks them.
And, mostly, because not being alone is a concept so foreign it frightens him more than the hurt in her eyes or the curse she likely wants to spit or the wrath of her vengeance, should she decide to take it. Helplessness tastes acid on his lips when his tongue slides over his mouth; for a minute he’s five years old and he understands why his father left, why his mother’s palm stung his face. And then he’s twenty-three, coming home to an empty set of drawers and a vacant cradle. And then he’s this…and then he’s that…and then…and then…
…and then he just isn’t. The emptiness feels calm, and in the dark he’s not afraid to shatter, for in the dark no one cares. Not even he.
Without much tact he spits: “if you don’t want the answer,” one eyebrow arches in warning, “then don’t ask the damn question.”
