gobeit
The editor was a hag. Ellie huffed, stomping step by step by step down to the street. She'd show her. She'd show them all.
The shutters crashed loudly against the side of the house. Rachael woke with a start, her heart pounding fiercely in her throat.
She couldn't be faulted for making such a mistake. Everything about him screamed rebel. Really, if he didn't want people pointing their fingers at him, he shouldn't have dressed that way, shouldn't have waved that attitude around.
Emma leaned her forehead against the wall, letting the cold, smooth stone ease the burning in her face. It would be alright. She breathed out heavily, anxious. No one would blame her.
She tried to concentrate, but again her attention was drawn to the hideous mustard-coloured blazer the woman was wearing. Idly, she wondered if she could burn the thing without being arrested for attempted homicide.
She could feel the weight of it pressing down around her, twining greedy fingers around her lungs. The hard knot in her chest refused to budge.
He turned from her then, taking steady steps away from her. Always going the opposite direction. Always treading where she couldn't reach for him.
She had mentioned to him once that she would never have known what to do in the same situation. That his bravery in those few seconds, just the beat of a heart, a fragile breath in-drawn, was enough to draw her to his side.
The accommodations were modest compared to Helene's house, but there was enough space for them to set everything up if they were careful.
The bourbon burned viciously on it's path from to her stomach, but it failed to erase the taste of whatever it was that had died in her mouth. She grimaced, blinking heavily in the dim light as she slid the glass across the surface of the table.
The wheelchair was a solid weight beneath her, wheels bent slightly from the beating she had given them, stubbornly still now despite her desperate need to continue moving forward.
They'd been tracking them for what seemed like months, morning and night melding together into a kaleidoscope of muted colours beneath the thick bowers of the trees. Autumn's firm grasp still lingered here, the reds and golds at odds with the frosted breath of Winter creeping along the forest floor.
load more entries
writing since 2011 · 24 entries · 23 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Sheila showed up.
11longest streak
23days written
0.1entries / week
the words Sheila reaches for
nowthickfaceeyesairfilledsilencefingersbeneathwordsstomachmindheartwasnstepred