↳ @sharpmercy from here . ❛ we can’t do this forever. ❜
her words make him sigh, body crouched over that of someone who has passed on by his own hand. fingers sort through the stranger’s pockets, and when he’s unable to find anything more than a pack of cigarettes and a lighter ( which he’s very thankful for, don’t get him wrong ), he goes for their backpack. a strong arm rolls the body over, calloused digits finding the two zippers touching at the top of the bag to pull them in opposite directions. there’s not that much in there, either. a bottle of water, some canned food-- some blunts. ❛ oh, shit, ❜ he laughs, moving to stand upright with the small jar of pre-rolled fun, ❛ come to daddy. ❜ he’s more ecstatic than he should be, and it isn’t until a few moments later when he’s trying to open the jar that he remembers she’s actually spoken.
head turns, body following, and he faces her. we can’t do this forever. the words echo in his mind, and he knows them to be true, it’s just that it’s getting to the point where he doesn’t always mind it. the violence, the fighting-- it’s the one thing that makes him feel alive-- even when it shouldn’t. when he has blood on his knuckles or another notch under his gun it isn’t a warning sign for danger, it’s a reminder he’s done something, that he’s won. he’s protected himself, he’s protected her. it doesn’t occur to him that one day there might not be that many people left to kill, as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing and the dead keep eating all they’re eating.
it doesn’t occur to him that he is contributing to the problem.
❛ i know. ❜ spoken almost bitterly, he hates admitting he’s wrong. he shouldn’t find enjoyment in killing, but he does, and even if there’s a part of him deep down that wants to crawl out of this dark hole, he can’t get far enough out to scream for help. ❛ -- we ain’t gonna do this forever, ‘licia. we’ve just.. gotta get our foot in the door, find a good place. ❜
