bottled up; dahlia + elijah
It was early afternoon on a chilly day and, thankfully, things were steadily returning to normal. The sick had been cared for, their bodies on the mend, and the thick air, one that spelled death, that had encircled the city was clearing. Bodies bustled about, many glad to be free of the confines of the quarantine and, as Dahlia sat upon a bench, hands stuffed inside her jacket pockets, she took in the sight of Fall City’s residents. She was, per Frankie’s instructions, taking things easy - as easy as she could, though she felt utterly useless sitting upon her bench like some gargoyle. A heavy sigh expelled from the blonde and a breeze passed through the city.
Winter air bit at her, sending an uneasy chill through her body as she easily recalled the day she stood over Hunter’s body. Her breath hitched in her throat, images of the man, of how he lay on the ground, his body completely taken over by such a vicious sickness. The same sickness that had nearly taken her. The blonde swallowed thickly, wishing she could simply knock the thoughts out of her head. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not. They were stuck, as if caught in a web, forced to be analyzed, reels replayed over and over again in the quiet hours of the night or time spent ‘resting’.
She felt as if she were a hypocrite; telling those around her to face what was inside them, that it was alright to feel and to let themselves fall, to face whatever it was and to draw strength from their comrades. It was something she had learned to do, yet, in that moment, in the days following the ordeal, she could not. Just as she could not when her father died, when the guilt that so heavily weighed upon her shoulders ate her alive, so much so that she shoved it deep inside, capped it, and turned to numbing the pain, she could not bring herself to address her feelings, to crumble in front of someone as she so desperately needed to. She’d been standing on death’s door, with no control and it had absolutely terrified her. Spiraling further and further, deeper into despair and she had felt as if she were not herself.
Frankie, of course, her rock, had offered to talk. This, she was grateful for, but she could not yet verbalize it, to convey anything. What had happened, she wanted to move on, not to replay it. She did not want to recall her time on death’s door, actually believing that she would meet such a bitter end. She did not want to admit that she’d been defeated, that she’d changed into one who had given up. She did not want call to mind how out of control she had been, to relive the days, her fate hanging in the balance, where she was frozen, unable to do a thing to save herself or anyone else for that matter. Still, her staying silent, sweeping everything under the rug, it was toxic. Dangerous. It would ravage her from the inside out.
She needed a distraction, much like the ones she’d constructed for those inside the school during the quarantine. Until she could speak, vocalize everything, she needed to help her friends recover. She needed to be their pillar and, perhaps, when she was ready, they would be her’s.
It was then that her blues landed on a familiar face. Elijah. They were mere acquaintances, sharing a position on the council together, but Dahlia respected the man. The woman sprung from her spot on the bench, abandoning all thoughts of rest and being sick, focused now on anything she could do to help the fellow councilman.
“Elijah!” she called out, waving her arm to get the man’s attention, “Hey!” she jogged toward him, “Do you need any help?” she asked, slowing down to a halt mere feet away from him, catching her breath.
