cherrydiversion·:
the bowie knife that had once been an unnoticeable weight against her thigh now became a comfortable weight and protection that she kept gripped in her right hand. her fingers folded around the hilt and she’s thankful to whatever entities live above that she’s kept it sharpened all these years. it was certainly not just for show. in her other hand is a candle that’s beginning to melt, the wax sliding down to meet the metal base.
it was stupid, really, to be gripping onto the shred of light. it dulled her ability to see beyond the scope of dim light the candle provided. yet, it provided her comfort, a shred of control over the situation. she now wielded the basic weapons needed to survive, fire and metal. she hears a door shut further down the hall and it causes her pause. the footsteps are audible even on the carpeted floor and she wonders if anyone in this place has been taught to walk quietly, has ever needed to.
macie’s heart thundered when she was alone, though she would seldom admit it. it’s when that voice calls out from the other end of the hall, she’s certain that walking through the door into that shitty motel was a mistake. this was a mistake. her heart stutters, pulse stopping for just a moment, and her lungs seizing. her grip on the bowie knife becomes white knuckled as a flood of emotions race through her at once, but the only thing that comes from her lips is a broken “ rohan. ” because she knows that voice, even now, better than anyone else’s.
MAC INCHED FORWARD, still squinting until the light of the candle bathed both him and the woman before him in its warm, dull light. the flame flickered, sputtering from some unknown draft. he tilted his head, studying her face ––– it was strange, because he’d been here quite a while ( or had it only been a mere matter of hours? ), yet he’d never seen her before. had he? and stranger still, there was something familiar about her. something in the freckles scattered about her features, the curve of her nose. he couldn't place the familiarity, but something tugged at the edge of his mind, hanging off the tip of his tongue. then, she spoke his name, and it was like a wave crashed over him. all the air flew from his lungs in one fell swoop, as if he’d fallen from a great height, and his bones seemed to jolt and lurch within him like something out of the cartoons he used to watch as a kid. he could see it in his mind’s eye now, a cartoon mac getting electrocuted, his bones momentarily jumping out of his body. mac’s bones probably wanted nothing more than to jump out of his skin and run far, far away. he didn’t blame them. his legs tensed for a moment, as if preparing to sprint at a moment's notice –– but his feet, his treacherous feet were rooted to the floor. “–––no,” he finally choked out, once his lungs began to fill again. “....no. no. no, you’re not here. you’re not here. you’re d––” he stopped, a mangled laugh tearing free from his throat. “this isn’t happening, see, because you’re not–––” she was dead. but was she? were they both dead? had they died that night, under the blinking neon glow of the motel’s vacancy sign? no. he had the remnants of poison ivy blisters on his shins to prove it. the only logical explanation was that she was a ghost, but.. she looked... older. “..you’re... i mean, i’m...” he stopped, shaking his head. then he scrubs at his eyes and tries again. “i’m sorry, but you’re not here. i’m having a nervous breakdown. again.”
