💀 (oh no silver, what did you do)
Send 💀 to walk in on my muse killing someone.
He wishes he could say it was necessary; that there was no other way to ensure the dead man on the ground told no-one that he’d recognised Long John Silver; that he had no choice. But there’s always a choice. Silver knows this. There’s always a third option.
Silver has hated violence his whole life. He abhorred Flint for this kind of behaviour, once; senseless, cold murder, when there were so clearly other options available. He abhors himself for it now.
He abhords himself even more when he realises that Thomas has seen everything. Thomas, who already hates him; who no doubt recognises him as a corrupting influence, one that rots everything it touches; Thomas, who Silver sincerely doubts has ever raised a hand with deadly intent in his life.
Silver’s expression remains utterly calm as he tucks his gun away again, readjusting his grip on his crutch. If this were another time and place he’d have Flint to help him hide the body. Now, he doesn’t, and there’s no chance of him moving it alone.
“It would be best,” says Silver coolly, “if you pretended you never saw him. He’s unlikely to be missed by anyone, but you never know. Please don’t follow me.”
He could explain himself, but it would do him no fucking good, and he knows it. The closest he can get to redeeming himself for any of this is to just fucking leave.
He turns to go, pauses like he might turn back and say something, then keeps going. The dead man lies where he fell.
