@firebled
poison swallows down easy. beneath dawns eye it burns his throat when it jumps back up. basin-bottom regrets have nothing on last night’s occasion, though. for the youth, an excuse to blind themselves drunk, for the elders, a rare screening of genuine joy. a community tied together, cries from the heart with glasses tall, bound by a girl. vincent would lie to you. no, his thoughts never drifted to the prisoner last night--- not outside of acceptable hours, at least. see: seattle has a lot to say about young neve o’hara; all of it spat. with her capture, and with vincent’s role in the matter, they were equal objects of attention. for the boy reeking stigma for a decade ending last night, countless drinks were shoved his way. for a boy reeking stigma for a decade ending last night, understand the flighty hands from the bottles to the ---- the stranger stirs in her sleep, he hears it first then catches glimpse through the bathroom mirror. he doesn’t know her name--- not because he’s an ass ( although, he is ) but because there wasn’t a whole lot of room for conversation. best for both of them that he’s gone before she wakes. so he cleans himself up quick, and that persistent lie--- the one that he feeds about neve as nothing but a passing thought--- is eaten. the burnt friend means nothing to vincent. no, his eyes do not stray to the security building on his way to residential. no, every ache to his healing shoulder isn’t accompanied by bittersweet memories of a fly. no, the next eight hours till his security run aren’t spent in curious stewing. and then, in admin when he understands that tonight’s shift is second floor, in the cells... even then, no. vincent does not think of neve. he wears a tall face; a chin high, expression stoic. a woman like neve cannot exist in his mind. why? because she is pus and he has no wound. he is understood, finally, after a decade of being alone he is finally, finally----- celebrated. loved. the stairwell leads the soldier to the cages, unsuitable for any human to all but mould in, and there they lie. of course, vincent doesn’t glance in the direction of decay. up and down the hall, he walks, never once risking a peek towards that prisoner who--- astonishingly-- exists without the beat of a heart in her chest. do you ask of temptation? is there any? tight chest. smug smirk barely buried. the better ability to breathe when passing all cells bar one. no. never. not for neve.
