various storms & saints [groot.ratts ; blitz]

g a r r e t t.

Living came in a pistol cycle with them now, holding a loaded gun in the back of his throat as long as his mind was awake. It was living with a needle in his neck, an itching in his throat that never bit; Margaret was gone, but the words were not. Those words were haunting, feasting, gunpowder residue on his vocal chords. He hated the silence that was at her grave. Garrett hated the empty air that took hold of him and the flowers and trees when he held hands with the first person he lost - the air grew stale and his knees to his chest only made the solemn beats more noticeable. The five of them weren't built around filling holes, all they did was make holes, that's all assassins and thieves were made for, and the forest around him wasn't made to fit an empty tomb.

Magnolias, roses, daffodils, petunias - flowers robbed from his garden decorated the tombstone and himself. He hated the silence, but of the month if since her absence, he's found himself asleep with Margaret. Never had he been good with death, even in the simplest form of dying flowers. Dandelions and weeds lined his hair and hydrangeas wrapped along his finger; anything to separate himself from the tombstone he took his leaves of absence at. 

He was made for flowers, for mother nature and for life, not grave hugging and an empty tomb.

After a week of isolation too much, Ratts tagged him along with her hits, leaving him to pet the family dog and wrap flowers together while she made her small pocket. The outcomes were never grand - notably less of the sport it had been three months ago. Nothing more than a break from sleeping at Margaret's false tomb, it was never something to look forward to. There was a knowing of lacking that Garrett manifested, a wooden plank and a flower patch was no bed for Margaret. It wasn't built around Margaret, but her death, and every night he spent with the tomb was time he spent with her murder. 

And surprisingly, stealing Margaret's casket was Ratts' idea first.

It came to a point of hating that goddamn flower clearing, sitting alone with just a grave; not Margaret. It was no remembrance of her, and however decayed, his friend was in whatever state his friend more than wood and a few flowers. Ratts' suggestion for a real funeral, hosted by the five of them, came with relief, a real burial. Real Margaret, once again. Her last name was their's, not DuBois, and with a family made of the same heartbeat she belonged to them, the belonged as five. First, they only had to retrieve her. Ratts drew the plan herself, all Garrett had to do was show up at the regular crosswalk. And with dandelions and weeds lining his hair, he picked at the grass between the concrete waiting.

Gunpowder fixed onto his vocal chords, he breathed the silence around him.