COASTLINE

sometimes it takes chiyo so long to react it's like she hadn't been listening at all. a beat passes; then another.  ‘ a lot of rules? ’ 

a question she knows the answer to. certainly, she's out of the woods when it comes to the conflict in her own life, but it was there, constant and smothering, for many years of her existence. empathy is easy, even for her, when met with such a phrase. it's more difficult for her to swallow that feeling, to let him go when he decides it's time, rather than bundle him up in soft blankets and give him the spare room.

the soup is what he accepts, so it's that which she forces herself to be content with, for now. it isn't the first time she's tried to keep a child away from the terrors that linger beyond the walls of her home; it's doubtful it will be the last.

@gutwrenched 

the food industry is a day-to-day gamble. milagros never knows what the customers will look like when she clocks in for a shift at mo’s ; never knows how many of them will break her balls just because someone else made them feel powerless somewhere in the slog of their own routine. unfortunately, this turns out to be one of the harder evenings, and by the end of it she’s on edge. enough so that she offers another waitress — jack is her name — a ride home, more for her own sanity than her coworker’s.

rain is coming down in sheets by the time milagros tears out of the parking lot with jack in tow. bob seger is blasting from the car’s cheap stereo system, and from the way they’re jiggling, you’d guess the dice hanging from the mirror were dancing to the music. for a moment that’s the extent of the activity in the vehicle : milagros is silent, one hand gripping the wheel and the other providing an acrylic nail for her to nibble on. eventually, though, she makes an effort to break through the tension that’s spilled over from her shift.

❛ you ever been to florida ? they got sunshine year round. not like this dump. ❜

she would’ve been happy sitting in silence a little longer; the whole drive, if she had the option. the music is a blessing and a curse --- mostly the latter. the volume is overstimulating enough that it keeps her mind from other things:  thunder, lightning, the slippery surface the car now skates over as it moves through the city, the godawful customer she had right before the end of her shift. she struggles to listen to what the man is singing about.

‘ what? ’  interrupted, blinking herself back to reality.  ‘ oh. no. ’

the smoke from their cigarette catches in the wind as they speak,

eden / @gutwrenched

     a sunny afternoon, with a clement breeze just enough to carry the sweet scent of lilacs to the two sat under bright, endless blue. as he patiently packs his pipe for a smoke, woods seems unaware of the little leafy green inchworm finding it’s way across the expansive plane of his shoulder. occasionally it perches up to scout its route before inching along again, daring any witness to announce its journey.  “s’a lovely day, hm?” says he - but, woods, what of the worm’s day?

@gutwrenched / starter call . ( for chiyo !! )

this isn’t his world but he watches it anyways. people passing by, traveling from one screen to another. sometimes with a drink in their hand. sometimes they talk with another worker, sometimes they walk alone. he notes the migration patterns from office to office, watches the soft and neutral plumage of their work clothes. his armor looks out of place in this context, even though he’s told they work with metal here. 

someone finally comes, someone whose purpose is not to rush through the lobby to another room. her steps are too slow for that. the hunter tilts his helmet, noting the outlier.

“are you the one i’m supposed to talk to about this?” his gloved palm unfurls. a single data stick rests in the center of it, a shiny birdseed. presented like a trophy with just one speck of blood on it.

Chiyo can’t see the eyes inside his helmet. She simulates an expression she believes is appropriate:  faint curiosity, a hint of warmth. Some part of her may be concerned at the prospect of seeing a man with his skeleton on the outside, but it gives her some understanding of how vulnerable he must be beneath the armor.

‘Yes.’

The blood ought to concern her. It registers, though only just. Knowing and experiencing are not the same thing. Blood is just blood, it is not the actions that preceded it. Her understanding of hypotheticals only extends so far.