‘is it my fault?’ (dxjlnmhjsj I'm really trying to come back here ;;)
soft angst starters
There’s a part of her that wants to scream at him. She’d thought he’d known better. Thought he understood. She was getting better, yes, but this… It was too much. Too soon.
Her grip on the broken handle tightens even as her hand moves to place it on the table, soaked palm resting alongside the other shards of porcelain strewn across the wooden surface. She ignores the hot liquid covering her right hand, hardly even noticing that the tea has started to mingle with dark red that now streams from her fingers. The redhead is too preoccupied with her thoughts to even care honesty, narrowed eyes fixated on the space between them.
He doesn’t have the right to ask that question. Doesn’t get to care for her now after talking about him like that. Jack didn’t know anything. None of them did. And even if a small part of her whispered that she, in fact, very likely never actually knew him either, Aki can’t bring herself to stop seething. And she hates herself for that.
How is it she still gets so angry on his behalf? Still couldn’t bring herself to hate him, despite everything that he did? Why did she still act this way, even after everything that she’d come to understand he’d done to others, to her, that she felt the need to protect him?
It makes her feel sick. Disgusted. But still, it was there. No matter how much she tried to exhaust it with stone cold facts, that corrupted sense of loyalty still lingered.
And she hated that Jack was making her face it.
I can't do it. Not now. A childish voice pleaded within her mind, the shreds of her past still clinging to her subconscious like a child to it’s mother. The better part of her, the side where she knows and acknowledges these things as something she needs to move past, wants to take over. Encourages her to breath, to apologize and, hopefully, put this behind them.
But she can’t. Doesn’t have that strength within her quite yet, and instead she finally looks to the blond, brown eyes ablaze with misguided anger.
“Get out.”
It’s a whispered demand, one that borders on the edge of her breaking. She’s ready to burst into a shaking scream, of self loathing and anger at him, and HIM and, most of all, herself. Because she can’t take the truth. Can’t face it when her heart has already been smashed to pieces, and not with someone she’d only just learned to trust.
