new york mining disaster 1941 / vrm, day 3

The world fell quiet as Maia did. Bone-grey branches and a jacaranda flower, the last bloom to have held on - I watch silently its slow and dying descent.

When you grow up near an orchard, you get used to the cycle of life and death, of bloom and rot. It's inevitable, it's incredible, and it's on an industrial scale. You die for something else to live, and something else dies for something more to live. I don't disagree with that.  

But severed heads and splintered chests, the scent of blood on a linoleum floor, the scent of blood warmed by steam and water - all that shit is brand new. They make my stomach churn. I am glad it does. It means I still haven't lost it completely, even despite the fact that Elias now speaks clearly to me.

Roe's words blend with my father's, but they both taste bitter. 

I affix my blank stare on him, deadpan.

A few seconds pass. 

Then, "I'm sorry." I don't know if I am. Not at the hose. And the next words I utter, I don't know if I'm telling Roe or myself: "I'm sorry someone wasn't there to help ice all your old bruises." My voice cracks near the end. I hold up a hand before anyone says anything else. 

"Don't." I swallow pinpricks.

"I'm going to bed."  

It takes less than a second for the blaze to completely die down. Then it takes less than a second for it to catch alight again. The flames lick higher and higher and turn into an inferno, smoking out all their good sense.

"Izar," Roe growls, "Don't you walk away from me."

The abandonment - it's not what it looks like.

He storms right past Vin, grabs Mateo too fast, spins him around too close - his depth is still off. All those fine motor movements still move a little out of synch, hammers out of alignment. Mateo's skin fucking burns him and Roe does a worse thing than recoil.

He gets a fist in the collar of Mateo's shirt and they land on the long greenhouse table, making all the plants jump and rattle in their pots.

He remembers this last time - picking a fight just for fighting's sake.

There's that pressure from Roe's elbow against Mateo's neck; there's that cold burn from Mateo's knife pressed to the edge of Roe's ribcage. There's Vin watching, peeling them apart with surgical precision.

"You've got a fucking attitude problem." Roe bites out, spitting dirt and leaves and sending a pot smashing to the floor.

"Stop fucking moping-" pay attention is what he really means; knuckles in his back, trying to get better purchase, his skin is like magma, "-it's gonna get you killed."