tombstoneshadow
her heart thumps raggedly in her chest; bile burns the back of her throat. he bares his teeth, shows the blood staining them red, the blood they share. his eyes are her eyes, the color their mother gifted them. she hates him; she loves him.
her hands shake. she bares her teeth, squeezing her eyes against the onslaught of images. her sister is dead. she is alive. her sister is dead. she wants to die. bile burns her throat, and her skin crawls. she wants safety, wants home. but she has neither, and her bones ache.
the gruel he pushes around the misshapen bowl is bland at best. it sits on his tongue, thick and sticky, and he forces himself to swallow. according to the wild-eyed woman sitting across from him, she had used the bowl to bash someone's head in. he doesn't doubt it.
she stands on the steps of the capitol, overlooking the crowd amassed before her father. time slows, and she looks at every face. she wonders about their husbands, wives, children - their hopes and dreams. her father will ruin it all. a small knot forms in her throat, and, suddenly, she is responsible for them all. they are her people, her responsibility.
a scream lodges in her throat, sweat beading on her brow. the noise grows louder, a sickening, slick whispering sound that dances down her spine in cold rivulets. she shudders hard, and she squeezes her eyes closed, wishing she could decipher a word.
Cold fingers slip through hers, fingertips brushing, a sensation that sends shivers down her spine. Ghosts of tears slip down her cheeks, but her eyes are dry. Her heart splinters, sending dreadful shards into her organs. This will kill her.
The body is heavy, industrious rubber heels carving lines through the sand. Sweat beads on her brow, and her shoulders bow under the weight of her guilt. She can hardly breathe, thankful for the cool ocean water swishing over her feet, sluicing away the blood. Her nails bite into the cool, dead flesh, and she swallows back her guilt.