HIS BREATH BARELY REGISTERS, chest hesitant to rise and fall. the scent of blood is still slick on his palms, smell of burning flesh still clouding his nostrils, though he knows his mother is merely dust and bone. flames still lick the twisted metal frame of the once-car, and neil --that’s his name now, he has to remind himself-- digs his teeth into the innards of his lip ---- biting back the tears and the vile taste of bitter fear. there’s nowhere to run. sand stretches for miles and he isn’t familiar with the woods that border the beach to the north; getting lost beneath its canopy of braided leaves isn’t the way he wants to die, so he stays put, digging the heels of his hands into the sand, shuddering with the urge to pull a knife from his pack, be his father’s son, kill this guy before neil’s the next body in this unending war ----
but he doesn’t, he can’t, a rigidity like rigor mortis tensing his shoulders at the blinding red thought: i can’t.
he flicks his eyes upward, blinks furiously at the dryness of his contacts, hoping that it’s steel that sets his expression and not fear. “walk the fuck away, before you don’t have the option to.” // @constantwar
