Mar 20, 2019
@griefknot.
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? ’