locketry
Her skull feels so small. So small and her brain is like the size of a raccoon so obviously things hurt and she'd very much like Edgar to hand her the spoon so she could pop out her eyeballs and give her mind some room to breathe.
Because that made sense.
"Do you even remember last night?" he asks because he doesn't have this existence obliterating hangover. He's not vomiting. No bile on his lips.
"Nooope."
He stared at the three packages and felt himself a useless man. Were he out to get a marker-- any marker-- the indecision would have had some merit. Were he only sent to procure a Sharpie-- any Sharpie-- he could also understand the frustrated tears coming to his eyes.
But to not be able to pick a chisel-cut Sharpie. To be hysterical over the matter-- now, that was low.
Chapped lips. Arms turning blue. The light reflecting off the snow was the worst, though. So damn bright his eyes stung and the deep hazel of them became something lighter and swamp-like.
"We're-- not going to get out. Are we? Alive. Are we?"
Tim wasn't hearing any of it, though his own toes had fallen into some permanent sleep ten minutes ago.
The bookshelf she owned didn't house merely the works of Shakespeare or his peers, but a collection of stuffed animals, scores of videogames (most of which she'd never bothered to pop into their machine of choice), and enough glass baubles that simply walking into her room would have seemed-- at first glance-- a chance to flirt intimately with disaster.
"Lemonade." He croaked the word as if he was dying of thirst. To be honest, he wasn't.
Still, he was poured and given a glass that had the allotted three ice cubes and just the right ratio of lemon, sugar, and water.
"Lemonade," he repeated, for no apparent reason, even after he was sated.
I look at the list of all those boys and girls and in-betweens nobody thinks about who are going to graduate this spring. Nice. All of them have gone through what I'm dealing with now.
Some of them will end up on rocket ships. Some of them will end up in pornos. You can never quite tell.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Huh?" Oh, right. Going glazed eyes in front of those sheets of black on white probably makes me look like a freak. "Nothing."
"Yeah. Sure."
Some people have none.
His teeth grit. His calves ache. His arms don't want to rise farther than a few inches away from his sides.
He's determined to win, regardless. The sweat can bead on his brow and slide down his neck. He'll taste like salt for the next few weeks, but what he's hoping for is a garnishing of victory and 'why I never!' His opponent is taller and fiercer-- it's always a risk.
He believed their hearts were connected. Sometimes that enough. Often, it wasn't.
"Have strength, men, for this is the dawn of--"
"I am about to cut you. I am-- I am so close. To just. Doing it. Really. I swear."
"This is how fun you are. This amount. See that?" His thumb and finger were held extraordinarily close together.
"Not really."
"Point. Made."
All right, so he was joking about the cutting but the suckerpunch still hurt.
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