An inferno seared the insides of the girl, she burnt so gloriously with endless emotions she only promised to destroy herself in the process. Flames licking from her tongue with each spoken word, the energy threatening to pour from her and burn any who stepped too close. Destruction too and by. She loved that game, coaxing the folks too close in town with that halo ridden smile her father branded on her face with wolf teeth blackened from charcoal. But with Fletcher, it wasnât that. She was that burning inferno inside the man as well, that honesty staining his throat and threatening to spill the emotions into the night air. Chuck simply helped him, pouring gasoline on the pile of bones and flesh, and sour things Fletcher pretended to be.
And she handed him the match.
Spilling into the air, the words orange flickering embers joined the swallowing mess of the night sky. Honestly. Sheâd skate closer, this time slowly, the gravel carrying the sound of her turning wheels and flooding the silence. With a tenderness, she stood close- perhaps this was the same thing her father did to those who came to church seeking guidance. But this man did not seek. And she was not her father.
I see you. She grabbed his bandaged hand, the red welling at the gauze promising destruction to all those that got too close. Chuck wanted to be in that firing range. With her hands made for prayer, broken knuckles healed over too many times, leaving silver cracks where exposed fractured bone once saw. Two hands grasping one, but without the age, they could have been the same hands staring at their future.
I see you, and I understand.
Looking up at him with divinity blue hues, âI only know how to destroy. But at least I donât destroy myself.â She knew what it was to swallow it all, to smother that flame and choke on the smoke. Only she never had that choice. It was one made for her.
âNo oneâs as good as hurting themselves than this- they can piece themselves back together again and continue their day like theyâre whole. Other people are good at that.â
Fletcher would never have self-described himself as wearing his heart on his sleeve. He did, sure, but it was more complicated than that â he wore a beacon of his pain, flashing out in some sort of depressing morse code for anyone who was just as tormented, just as suffocated as he was to read and understand. It wasnât something he was in control of. If he was, heâd have turned the damn thing off and turned his feelings into a closed loop circuit, or at least thatâs what he told himself. Because what was more painful than being known, truly and legitimately? Being alone. And Fletcher had grown up so alone he thought the silence that surrounded him would always be able to drown out the shouts of anguish that fucking emanated off of him like a heat wave.
But here was this girl who could see through it all. Who could get to the very core of him with one look, and he fucking hated it. For the longest time, he thought she had just been alarmingly perceptive, keen on picking at all his scabs just because she could, for her own twisted sense of amusement, but here, now, he was realizing she knew him, in and out, from the shape of every breath he took to the way he held his sadness in his palms like a prayer.
And then there was her hands. One on top of his bruised knuckles, the other flat against his palm, two of hers for one of his, and he felt something in him break, like a dam of truth finally bursting, emotion flooding through him. He was so fucking tired, so fucking beaten down, and her hands around his, it felt like someone, finally, was saying Iâll help you lift the load. He couldnât stop himself, taking his other hand, his clean hand, his pure, uninjured palm, pressing it to the tangled mess of their intertwined fingers, as though he was hiding them away from the world, and feeling the pressure of her fingers against the aching bruise of his knuckles, squeezing her hand tighter just to feel the way his hand throbbed in protest.
But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Because she could claim they were the same as much as she wanted â he knew the gleeful joy she reveled in whenever he unraveled. He couldnât muster that sort of sadistic pleasure out of someone elseâs pain, even if he tried. Not like now, not the man he was today.
Fletcher ripped his hands away from her, shoved them deep into his pockets, and fixed her with a sharp glare. âWeâre nothing alike,â he said, perhaps too emphatically. âYou enjoy this too much. If you understood me, really understood, youâd let me twist myself into whatever shape I need to make it through the fucking day. Not make everything worse just to prove a goddamn point.â
With that, he headed back to his cruiser, slamming the door behind him, like he should have done the moment he saw her. Because whether he wanted to admit it aloud or not, she was right, and sheâd burrowed her way under his skin, stretching long and languid, making a home for herself between his ribs, and part of him wanted to tear into himself just to root her out, but another part of him, a stronger, louder part of him, saidââ
No. Let her stay. This is what it means to be known.