#exherited

i will never take backthe words that i said then

10:49pm / a hotdog stand in castelia

She knows that he’s upset, and Skippy fails to cover it up with his ‘demeanour’. Venice can tell that he’s trying his best to paint a façade over it, to keep his cool, but she likes it that he’s making an effort. Something happened to their original plans for the night, with their seven-month union marking the night. He’s upset, and she doesn’t like when he’s upset because he’s not smiling — but she’s happy because it means he cares about her.

He’s mumbling in the accent she can barely understand, crimson rushing onto his cheeks and his gaze affixed on his hot dog. He’s lost in his own world again. But she’s with him in it.

“I love you.”

call you in the nighttimecall you in the daytime

10:23am / a clinic in virbank

Leaving this morning was hard. Especially when the man had his arms draped lazily on her and she was practically trapped beneath his entanglement of limbs. Somehow she managed, though at the cost of waking him up too. She left the apartment with him standing by the doorframe, lacking a shirt over his chest and seeing her off with a kiss on the forehead. She refused a real kiss, too, saying that he hadn’t brushed his teeth.

She arrives shortly at her workplace, a clinic three blocks away, and with perfect timing; she receives a phone call. It follows with a giggle after she answers the phone.

“Yes, I’m at work, and I’m all safe. Don’t worry about me. You’re the one getting shot everyday.”

i hope that i will always haveall eyes on you

8:19pm / a cinema in nimbasa

Skippy is laughing hysterically at the countless jokes being pulled in the comedy. People begin to stare, Venice included. Though the stares are different: they’re thinking of how obnoxious his laughter is, she’s thinking of how lucky she’s been to have such an oaf to be beside her — sharing laughter and grief. Her blue hues are focused on him, beaming when she sees him smile an even bigger orange-slice smile

They’ve worked her to the bone, and the ER has been endless flooding of dishevelled patients — wounds populating most of their chests and limbs. There are no questions asked: the radio screams answers to the nonexistent questions, ‘CRIME! CRIME! CRIME HAPPENING!’ at every ounce of static noise that comes along with old-fashioned radios and bad hospital reception. Merely exchanged gazes, also because if even a whisper is heard — they’re sure to be done for. Criminals fight regardless of the state they find themselves in.

Finally, through rolls of bandages and bottles of disinfecting alcohol — she’s let off the hook and slips through the backdoor of the hospital. Her wristwatch tolls three AM and when she reaches the cold summer night her body shivers, pulling her coat closer towards her, as if it would preserve her heat better. Not really, though, she thinks. It probably won’t do anything much, besides play psychological warfare with her confused and wracked mind. 

She walks a linear road with her tired feet dragging rather slowly, but her conscience tells her otherwise — especially with midnight rascals running about causing havoc. Wiping her eyes shut with her cold antiseptic-reeking knuckles, she travels about surprisingly safely for most of the night. Until, of course, the night takes a toll and she walks past something rather expected, though not acceptingly such.

If she hadn’t been looking out for things like that — she surely would’ve missed him. A body beaten to pulp. She would diagnose the body ‘dead’ except it whimpers and cries rather longingly. The inner coward within her scurries away three steps before her inner justice-fighter does a small moonwalk to study (and patch up) the almost-corpse on the ground, leaning on a wall in a position that looks horribly uncomfortable.

She feels as though she’s a dog, snooping into business she shouldn’t even think twice about jerking back from. There are ‘bad guys’ on the street, though they’ve left and one man singularly remains on the brink of life itself. Her knees lower to the ground so she can aid him — but the man’s eye (singular) looks oddly familiar. Albeit not the biggest problem at the moment, so she grabs his shoulders and lays him onto the cement.

Removing a man’s belt in the shadows of an alleyway is awfully sketchy, but within context of applying pressure in order to stop blood loss — it’s still not really okay, but still okay.

The ticking of the clocks and the silence of the room. Moonlight pours into the dark apartment, each and every splash lighting the tight spaces of the bedroom. He stands right before her, within arms reach. Yet he seems miles away. He's distant; he's not here. But neither is she. They are both lost worlds apart, with both begging for the other's presence but somehow they just don't feel it.

They can't feel it;          She can't feel him.

Four years since the incident, and still she's afraid of it. She's sure he's the one she wants to open up to, yet she's horribly reluctant. She doesn't mean to shut him out—but she can't help it. It's what she's been doing for a long time. She's grown accustomed to it by now. Her whole body is trembling as she leans against the wall, with her tears slowly creeping out of her eye sockets and down her cheeks.

He is standing right before her broken image, with widespread arms that are gentle and welcoming. She does want to be with him forever. But how does she know that it won't hurt? At all?

He takes another step towards her.And he envelopes her in his arms, in a loving embrace.

It's something she doesn't expect to feel. In a good way.

"Skippy—          —For some reason...                      ...I'm not scared anymore."

She sobs into his chest with her hands shivering to move underneath his arms.