(You don't want that, said John, surrounded by horrified colours.
Maybe they're nowhere. Maybe they're somewhere better. Maybe he sent them somewhere even worse.)
He doesn't... know how to take knowing that Lorick went to the pits himself. When he could have gotten himself out as easily as he did Charlie. Trading himself for Charlie to be in a position to help Arthur and John, placing Charlie where they'd be to help them later. The more he learns, the less it seems like kindness and the more it seems like chess.
He doesn't know. He's glad Lorick isn't there any more. Learning in the same breath that Lorick was imprisoned and that he's free. Learning in the same breath that Sarah was alive and that she's dead. Wrestling away a bone after it cuts him. Grabbing a man's beautiful curls to slam his head into the hard dirt wall. Waking in a panic, already dizzy, lungs already convulsing. Biting warm, stringy flesh, feeling it dribble down his empty throat before he even swallows, and sobbing with relief.
The words he's just spoken back into existence, the people whose flesh he ate, are in his throat and behind his eyes. They're throughout him, taken in like a Trojan horse, unhappy with their fate and their epitaph. They're pushing outwards.
"That's good," he says. "Good." He's bent right over, one hand now on his face, his eyes and his expression obscured. But his voice is the sort of gruff that comes when someone is concealing that they've started to cry.
suicidal ideation cw
(You don't want that, said John, surrounded by horrified colours.
Maybe they're nowhere. Maybe they're somewhere better. Maybe he sent them somewhere even worse.)
He doesn't... know how to take knowing that Lorick went to the pits himself. When he could have gotten himself out as easily as he did Charlie. Trading himself for Charlie to be in a position to help Arthur and John, placing Charlie where they'd be to help them later. The more he learns, the less it seems like kindness and the more it seems like chess.
He doesn't know. He's glad Lorick isn't there any more. Learning in the same breath that Lorick was imprisoned and that he's free. Learning in the same breath that Sarah was alive and that she's dead. Wrestling away a bone after it cuts him. Grabbing a man's beautiful curls to slam his head into the hard dirt wall. Waking in a panic, already dizzy, lungs already convulsing. Biting warm, stringy flesh, feeling it dribble down his empty throat before he even swallows, and sobbing with relief.
The words he's just spoken back into existence, the people whose flesh he ate, are in his throat and behind his eyes. They're throughout him, taken in like a Trojan horse, unhappy with their fate and their epitaph. They're pushing outwards.
"That's good," he says. "Good." He's bent right over, one hand now on his face, his eyes and his expression obscured. But his voice is the sort of gruff that comes when someone is concealing that they've started to cry.