♥
thelostabigail
♥: how my character feels about yours
Almost like the swelling of a bruise upon him, the emotions that are invoked come in flashes of at first hesitation and then complete attachment. One that he cannot alienate himself from no matter how painful it becomes. He had seen her nearly die, had sat by her side for a long time. Just sitting, watching. Waiting, even if he wasn't sure what he would be able to say to her once she actually did wake up. 'I'm the man who killed your father'. It seemed horrible, an act that would need forgiveness he knew that he would never receive. And for a while he was broken in by that, taken over.
And there was Hobbs, always alive in his mind. If he looked at her would he recreate all those murders in his mind. Him and her playing all the parts. It almost made him sick.
Then she woke up. And there was relief. But he seemed to need to shelter her from himself. To create distance because his mind was an uncertain place. Too uncertain to form any sort of attachments. They might fall into the cracks and get suffocated underneath.
He wanted to save her from that, from himself, from the taints and scars that her father had cursed her with. He wanted to save her. Hold her hand and walk her through it, let her live at long last.
But he couldn't.
And there was nothing left now, only the decay of an impact that had never fully be disclosed, of a protection that had wore out and died with the splatter of her blood on his face. And there was only that, no more Abigail and that need he had had to love her, to take care of her. To patch her up as if she were merely a wounded bird that needed to learn to fly again.
He had failed her.
But she somehow managed to live in, in the breath inside of him. Living, propelling. And he knew that if he couldn't save her he would have to let her rest. Let her find peace some place. She deserved that. Peace. After everything.
But even in that he had failed her. Watching the blood once more seep through his fingers. He had loved her. But the definition, the feeling, seemed so much greater than the word. Love was the bruise, hemorrhaged with the feelings that would never die.
