#bulletdrop

the  night  cries  out  like  all  truly  damned  things  do ;  silently ,  without  hope  for  help  or  reprieve.  it  is  a  cry  that  is  killed  before  it  can  reach  the  conception  of  the  throat.   a  cry  that  does  not  exist  anywhere  except  in  a  better  place.   a  kinder  place.   but  not  here,  never  here . . . not  in  a  place  where  cries  only  exist  as  a  calling.  a  beckoning.   an  invitation  to  the  altar  from  the  lamb  to  the  knife  ;  from  the  throat  to  the  teeth.  and  so  the  night  sits  quiet  under  their  gaze.  too quiet. the silence is broken  only  by  the  sounds  of  bugs  on  the  bayou  and  the  rustle  of  joel’s  jacket  as  he  shifts. the night watch has been uneventful but that doesn't bring any relief. only a restless tension that rolls through his shoulders like a storm that has brewed past the point of bursting. antsy or anxious ? he isn't sure. not anymore. just that there's an unpleasant itch under his skin.

the  rhythmic  footfalls  of  a  familiar  gait  settle  over  him  like  a  shroud.  as  tommy  settles  in  next  to  him ,   joel  releases  a  breath  he  hadn't  even realized  he  was  holding. it  feels  like  his  ribs  are  yawning  open  to  welcome  back  one  of  their  own. like he'll never be able to breathe correctly without tommy in his sight. he has been his brother's keeper from the first & he'll be it until his last.

then  tommy  breaks  the  silence , continuing  an  earlier ' discussion '  without  the  weight  of  prying  eyes  and  greedy  ears.   ❝ survivin'  isn't  livin' ❞   tommy  says without preamble ,  and  joel  wishes  he  wouldn't. he wishes he could clutch the words in his fist and pull them from the fragile memory of the air ; to crush them under the heel of his boot as easily as the head of a snake.

he  scoffs  ,  something  bitter  in  his  throat.  it  feels  like  he's  leading  the  breath  free from  his  lungs  on  a  tangled  string  of  barbed  wire.   his  tongue  tastes  of  blood  and  rust.   of  anger  and  something he doesn't want to name. something that could almost taste like fear. that kind of attitude is more dangerous than any old bastard's bullet. tommy is holding his hand in the fire and thanking it for the warmth even as the skin melts from his bones. he's looking for the good , too goddamn blind to see that it's been gone long enough for them all to go cold. that he's clutching at the comfort of corpses. making wishes on falling stars without realizing that all the lights are just the smoldering ash of everything they used to love. the days of living are over. they died in his shaking hands outside austin. there's only survival . . . that is , there's only survival until there's not.

❝     you  don't  get  to  pick  and  choose.     ❞   he  glowers ,  tone  carved  from  something  granitic  with the coldest of tools. he's harsh. harsher than he means. just another beast weaned on the brine of desperation. a dog with a nervous bite. he wants to grip tommy by the shoulders , to meet his eyes and show him the truth in his own. that this is a road of misery and grief. a road with only one end & a short horizon. if he keeps talking like this , the sun will be bleaching both of their bones by next sundown.