Post by slate • d9f • zoë on Feb 20, 2017 2:03:31 GMT -5
"He's gone, kiddo."
A grin, split with teeth and the same old joke. "Oh yeah?" "Kiddo..."
Snap -- a neck. A spine. Reality.
And he should have known.
That burns a branding in the front of his skull at overturned furniture, an empty bed, a broken window, missing bullets. He swears - violently, kicking over raided wooden drawers and punching a hole in the wall.
("Say you won't."
"Fuck off with that kid shit, Q."
Swig of a bottle, he spills his own. Fucking typical.
"Alright, alright. I won't go. Fuck.")
He's not Radley. He never will be. Good, yeah. Great, even. But nothing like Radley.
There's tears in his eyes when they first hand him a gun. They spill silently, alone, at the reflection in the mirror. Wipes them away with the back of his hand, breathes in sharply through his nose. Punches the mirror, lets it shatter, picks the glass out of knuckles and washes his blood down the sink. Swallows his pride. Swallows his pain.
Mother fucker never needed anyone but himself.
And he should have fucking known.
“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”