not unpunished

James Dashner, The Death Cure

     “You were the one pulling.” His volume only climbs with the accusation from a whisper to a normal speaking voice. Hamlet begins to distance himself from the problem at hand by taking a step back ; the less involved he looks, the better. True, the blame cannot be staked solely on her, but he can damn sure try. “And you’re the one holding it.”

     Ooh! That asshole! Taken by a hot rush of anger, she balls the dress into a clump; chucks it right at him! 

     If he had been wired up to a heart monitor, it would have briefly flatlined hearing the fabric tear. Hamlet expels a sharp, wounded breath as though he’s been stabbed and, wide eyes meeting hers, lets go. Now that it’s torn, it’s all hers. He wants nothing to do with this anymore. In a harsh whisper, “Great going.”

    She stumbles back, stands with it in her hands and looks down at the thing, feeling a faint flush of embarrassment crawl up her skin. But it isn’t just embarrassment -- it’s anger, too. A magic warning tingle, pins and needles, warms her fingers. “I --what do you mean,” she hisses back, twice as loud as he. “’Great. Going?’ As if you’re free of blame?”

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