#writ;

[yxjxn-blog]

ms. frizzle always said to take chances, make mistakes, and get messy - i don't think she envisioned the sort of lives some of us have to lead.

[lajuxtaposition]

do you hear them screaming?

He saw it in the darkness of her eyes before he felt it in the imprint of her flesh on his. Her decision leaked out of her sclera and onto his lips in fat drops, a waterfall forged from madness itself, drowning him for a split second in which the dust of the cabin froze in midair, the earth halted upon its axis, and his heart paused its frantic, aching, insane beating, trapped, locked, suffocating in the depth of empty nebulae. And then she was shoving him backwards, turning around, walking away. Away from the edge, away from him. (A thin ringing slicing his ears, his fingers drawing blood from the surface of his hollowed palms. Nobody walked away from him.)

He braced himself - but there was only silence. Silence where there should have been screaming, burning rage - as much pounding hatred as his shriveled amygdala was capable of releasing. He should have been ripping her limb from limb. But instead, there was, for the first time in his life, a sense of utter and complete nothingness. It spread its greasy tendrils across him in slow manic swirls of never-ending signals, pinpricks tiptoeing through his very being as if a child out of bed after hours, quivering with fear of waking up daddy. She was walking away. And he was feeling nothing.

Like all things, however, the moment passed, ran away laughing its head off with glee, leaving him to suddenly and acutely become aware of the crushing force of his own blood against the swell, the tightness, the acid burning its way through his wholly deflated lungs. The absence of heat on his chest where her heart was just beating (badumbadumbadum) soaking him to the bone.

Within a millisecond of his revelation, with just a glimpse of the back of her head, her hair leaving a trace of rage and sweat and blood and tears falling apart in his mouth as easily as flesh under teeth, his voice ripped out the hum of words, the hissed whisper sharp enough to slice bone, the final lullaby of the night. 

Oh no you don’t, dear-

His arm, flexed and tense and raw wrapped itself around the porcelain of her neck, and with a press of his lips to the side of her head, the syringe made contact with skin and the contents ate at her resolve within just seconds. A rag doll slumped over his arms. Completely at his mercy.