#blackmxssiah

she  doesn’t  want  to  be  alone  as  often  as  she  is       walter  doesn’t  seem  to  take  such  feelings  into  consideration, however. not  once. he’s  pushed  her  far  today, emotionally  more  than  anything  &  the  thought  of  being  alone  all  night  is  horrific. 

being  alone  with  her  thoughts  can  be  DANGEROUS. he  ought  to  know  that.

The color drains from her face. She takes a half-step back, over the threshold.

“O-oh?” Her voice breaks. The handgun sits heavy in her bag, a morbidly comforting sort of weight. She’s been taking it with her everywhere the last few days, even on short walks like this was supposed to be. The silver bullet sits in her locket, the metal warm against her chest. “Can’t-- can’t catch a break, huh..?”

Eddie opens his goddamn mouth. Listen, this is not a smart man. Well, some would say he’s a smart man. He would consider himself a smart man. But there are many if not more people in the world who would say he was not a smart man. That, in fact, Eddie Dean might have been the biggest dumbass they had ever met and that was really saying something. That Eddie Dean himself was not only the biggest stupid idiot that they’d ever met but that the shit that left his mouth would make you stupider by association. Or by diffusion. One of those things. 

Regardless, Eddie Dean opens his mouth. 

“You know what? I’m actually doin’ pretty peachy. Kinda chilly out here if I do say so myself, and I do say so, but it’s all in all fair weather we’re having. Could be worse, I always say. You know when my motha’ was a young lady livin’ out in Northern New York she would always get the worst of the cold out there. I mean it would get real bad. Her dad, my grandpa, bless his soul -- but honestly I think he was kind of a douche bag -- he got that uhhh, Frostbite! Yeah he got frostbite this one time. And she thought it was the end of the world for him and all but really he was just as well at being a giant dick on one foot than he was with two. 

“Anyways, how’s it hangin’ with my in particular? You know what? I’m not hangin’ much these days, I gotta say. Not a whole lotta monkey bars in Mid-World. Seriously lackin’ in em, if I do say so myself. And I think that’s somethin’ that people should probably petition for or somethin’ like that. You know what I mean? What kinda apocalypse did you all have and then not have any monkey bars to show for it? Disappointin’ really. 

“Hangin’ in more of a figurative sense? Not doin’ much of that either. I gotta say, Roland doesn’t make for good company and whenever you’re around him it’s less hangin’ and more just waitin’ for him to say somethin’. Sometimes he says some great shit. I’m convinced he was probably some sort of forlorn artist in some past life. But casual conversation with the guy does not work out. You ask him how the weather is and he takes about twenty minutes to answer you because he’s measuring the literal goddamn weather. It’s like, earth to Roland! I’m askin’ for your opinion on the goddamn weather, not for you to go the whole nine-yards!” 

There’s a thoughtful pause. 

And find nothing. Roland realizes only once he’s forced his head up that he’s fallen to one knee, and so the sight immediately before him is his enemy’s hips. The guns worn on those hips. That is all he needs to see. There is no sense in trying to find his balance with his head feeling like this and so he doesn’t - he pushes himself up instead, counting on pure momentum to close the distance between them. His arms reach out, their usual speed disturbingly slowed, as he moves. 

       Her head pangs. Tears threaten to slip by the corners of her eyes, and they remain untouched by quivering hands. Sucking in a shuddering breath, she blinks composes herself with effort. The force that entrances through each spell is not a forgiving one. 

      This building, it’s near. Right? 

     Her steps are hurried, uneven and with an erratic heart, she stumbles to find the man. Yet, just as he’s in her wake, her heels stop beneath her, and ineptly, Wendy crumples to her knees. With a sharp whine, her head tears up, and her eyes follow him, fearful. 

     This man; this being will meet his demise - and yet, words do not escape her. Familiar with his surreal abilities, Wendy backpedals from what cannot be rightly comprehended. “Y-you’re.” you’re not real. “You--” Her eyes close, still swimming in tears. 

      In another trance, she stops, compelling herself to face him. Words caught in her throat escape in something akin to a whimper. “Don’t go in there.” 

          ❝ i . . . ❞        

         this is the closest she has come to saying the unspeakable, to lying. [ is lying so bad when you yearn to say it aloud regardless? to lie is normally deemed to leave one feeling guilty. abra only feels apprehension ]  it hangs there in between them like something disgusting && demented monstrosity     something that should not EXIST.  

         he M I G H T tell her one day. might lie to her; comfort her. with all other emotions fading fast that is all the child has left to hold onto: hope that he does. to BELIEVE is essential in abra's world. without pretending that perhaps he cares for her, she's l o s t. to believe is to survive. TO GO ON another day.