@brooklynislandgirl has attempted to destroy us with://
[sleep deprivation]: "Look, I know, I know I know you need to sleep but I'm telling you, that you really can't. This place is cramped. Cluttered. Dust and grime and you know that's a breeding ground for all kinds of bacteria. And what kind of person would I be if I allowed you to live like this, knowing you could get sick or lose a limb or even be kicked out of your apartment if someone who doesn't care about you sees your place like this? And just imagine what your mother would say." There is barely a breath taken between words. The distinct lack of that soft pidgin in her voice more noticible than the sound of neoprene gloves being pulled on and the soapy bleach-bucket being hauled a little sloppily toward his kitchen. At three a.m.
He wants to scream. Just to hear someone take a breath. Until the windows shatter. At Beth. But he has done so before and witnessed how it works on her, the way the volume of his voice alone can leave her bedridden for weeks. Instead, he listens, thrumming like a tuning fork with every word and quirk in her cadence, the shapes of her vowels, each layer of tone, of meaning, the mother; the shark; the holy nurse. Instead, he claws at his eyes. "Okay." Ben finally breathes. When he speaks, he can hear the breaks in his own sentence. "Okay, then / let's not stay here / until I get it sorted." The rest of July may hinge on a line. It may hinge on the way he looks at her, whether his mouth becomes another line or comes undone. The bucket sloshes; the soles of Beth's feet blanch. He watches her disappear again. From the doorway. "We can go to your place for now / so you don't have to mop." His mouth becomes a line. "Beth. Look at me." He becomes a long, narrow shadow throwing itself onto bleached kitchen tiles. "If you aren’t the person who will allow me to live like this, your job is to get me somewhere safe. Now." He is bartering. They should go to a hospital.
{ from this meme /always accepting }
