No One's Hero

A dark shadow of a chuckle is all that he earns at first, more than a little annoyed at being discovered and joined, at that. "I shouldn't." And yet she does, graciously accepting what he offers up, thankful for the distraction—something to do with her hands, something that'll stop her from picking at her cuticles 'til they bleed.

He didn’t laugh, not really, but something in him went a little sharp — a muscle pulled too tight. “Sure,” he said, dragging smoke between his teeth. “That’s the thing about ‘meaning well.’ Doesn’t cost much. Looks real good in the mirror.” He wasn’t looking for a fight. He didn’t think. Just needed something solid under his feet. A little friction to remind him he was still standing. “You set all this up?” he asked, though it didn’t sound like he needed the answer. “Lotta folding chairs. Lotta candles. Not much else.” There wasn’t any bite to it — just tired words, said flat. His gaze drifted toward the windows, where the church glow spilled out in flickers. Warm, soft. Hollow as hell. Then, eyes cutting back to her, one brow hitching — like he couldn’t tell if this counted as making conversation or lighting a match in a powder keg. “You always duck out like this, or am I just the lucky asshole tonight?”

The kick landed firm against his boot. He didn’t jerk or joke about it — just shifted slightly, enough to brush his knee against the underside of the table. Like he understood whatever she meant by it. Like maybe he needed it, too. She kept talking, and he let her. He liked the way she said things plain. No ribbons, no apology. Just sharp truths and spitfire teeth. Guilt. If they were all choking on it now, what the hell did that make him? His eyes drifted past her again — to the scorched flyer, the rust-bit corkboard. Nothing in particular. Just that grainy static his brain kicked up when it didn’t wanna land anywhere. She’d come to him that night. Eliza. Barefoot. Wild-eyed. Talking too fast, too loud, like fear was trying to claw its way out through her teeth. And he’d barely let her in. Just told her to rest. Told her to go home. Told her— His jaw clicked. He dragged hard on the cigarette, the exhale slow and sour in his throat. “Not sure I’m goin’ either,” he said finally, voice low. “Figure I should. But hell, I don’t know what good it’ll do.” He glanced at her then, finally. Not for answers, just to see if she was still with him. Still here. That was more than most. “You?”

open: anyone location: first assembly baptist church during the vigil

He didn’t mean to startle her — just hadn’t figured out how to say hello without making anything worse. But when she turned to him, all small smile and shaky grace, he gave a faint nod. Folded the pamphlet once. Then again. Then one more time, like his hands needed somewhere to put the rest of him. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the quiet settle between them. “Been meanin’ to come by. Or… somethin’. You know.” A pause. “Not sure I do.” He looked past her then. Toward the far wall, where the candlelight trembled in the corners. Where the dark gathered in places the light couldn’t touch. Paul should’ve been here. He would’ve known what to say. How to carry this moment in a way Rory could hold onto. But he wasn’t. And Eli was the one left standing there — shifting his weight, creasing paper like it might make him useful. Like showing up might count for something. Still, he stayed. Uncertain, silent in a way that didn’t press. Told himself it was better than nothing.

closed starter for @dccaying, at first assembly baptist (during eliza's vigil)

“Would’ve bet good money on it,” he said, eyes skimming over bowed heads and flickering flames. “Smoke, fire, the works.” His voice was low, a little hoarse — like it didn’t quite belong in a place like this. Like he didn’t. Not really. He stuck out, and he knew it. Figured that was half the reason the bulletin had said everyone was welcome — because of people like him. Faces they didn’t expect to show. Loretta, on the other hand, looked like she belonged. Like the candle fit her hand the way it was supposed to. He could swear he’d seen it before. He scratched at the side of his neck, suddenly aware of the heat in the room. How thick the air was with wax, old wood, and dried tears. He didn’t come to church anymore. Hadn’t in years, not unless he had to. The last time had been for Paul’s funeral — all low murmurs and candlelight, the kind of grief that echoed in your bones. But the rest of it — the way the light trembled, the way sorrow seemed baked into the walls — reminded him of something further back. Another vigil. One he’d barely remembered until now. He must’ve been just a kid, but everything about tonight scraped against the edges of that old memory. The same ache. The same silence pretending to be peace. “Didn’t think I’d stay long,” he admitted, finally glancing at her. “Still not sure I will.” He paused, let his eyes flick back toward the altar, the crowd, the careful quiet. “Figure I’ll wait to see if the floor gives out under us first.” A beat. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You hear any creaking, you run. I’ll follow.”

She smelt him before she saw him. That familiar acrid scent of burning tobacco and dried alcohol-tinged sweat. She lifted her head from the ground, eyes darting toward the voice and narrowing in on his face before lowering to re-focus on the ground again. Eli. The boy who was going to bring glory to this town. She was older than him by almost a decade but she still remembered the billboards with his smug smiling face on them. His name plastered over every available marquee sign "BRING HOME THE GOLD, ELI" As if he was a one-man baseball team. "Cigarettes kill almost five hundred thousand Americans every year," She said, continuing her walk to the church. Her sparkly K-Mart sandals crunching the gravel beneath each step. "Leading cause of preventable deaths." She added, stopping near the entrance. Murmurs spilled out from inside, a real reminder that there were hoards of people in there. "You aren't?" She countered, eyes still focused intently on the door as if trying to assess just how many people she would have to dodge just to get to a seat inside.

Preventable deaths. He didn’t snort, not exactly, more like a quiet huff through the nose. A sound that said you don’t know the half of it. Cigarettes, vehicular crashes, falling off a roof with a bottle in your hand — he’d danced close enough to death to know the line was blurrier than most liked to admit. You either went or you didn’t. Everything else was just borrowed time. “Of course I’m goin’ in,” he said, brow raised. But the words landed thin. Not disbelief, exactly. More like a man trying to convince himself as much as the person he was talking to. A gust kicked up. A folded pamphlet skittered across the gravel, flitting past his boots. He stepped on it, bent to pick it up, and held it out to her. “Here,” he said, dry. “Figured you’d want it for your collection, or whatever.” Inside, the voices had dipped to a hush. A new one had just taken the pulpit. Eli squinted toward the doorway, trying to place it, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the gravel without watching it land. Didn’t crush it. Didn’t step forward. Not yet.

∞ Open Starter ∞ "The Dread Shakes"

It felt like a cruel joke — his niece, howling about voices the last time he saw her, and now the voices of a hundred hypocrites roaring inside the church, while a storm grumbled in the distance. Bone Gap was a sleepy town stuck in the middle of nowhere, true. But it was never silent. The cherry of his cigarette flared against the darkening bruise of the sky, a dull ember swallowed by the coming storm. He leaned his shoulder against the weathered siding, like he was holding the church up or maybe letting it hold him. Smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, bitter and steady. He spotted her the second she parked the Buick, curiously watching her until she finally stepped out — like seeing a ghost in broad daylight. It would appear everyone had come out of hiding tonight, drawn by candlelight and communal grief. Grief, the church’s richest currency. “Took me fifteen minutes to get outta the truck,” he said without looking at her. “Lit a smoke, told myself I’d just drive on by. Then lit another.” He lifted the still-burning cigarette between his fingers. “This makes four.” He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the stained glass glow spilling through the doors. “You going in?” His voice was low, rough. Not a challenge. Just a question from a man who hadn’t decided himself.

you fucked up