#justicism

❝ 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐓 ❞, flies out of her mouth before she can put a leash around her words —— instantly, she regrets it. but is it not right ? that the weight should be hers alone to carry ? sisyphus never asked for any help — therefore she won’t. and yet her declaration would entail a grand exit from the scene: she ought to plant her hand firmly on the table and prop herself up, turn around, leave with purpose in her steps. she doesn’t. freddie remains, sat across from this man she doesn’t really know, doesn’t really trust, but doesn’t really have a choice. in his eyes is a glassy shade of darkness, one she recognizes — one that speaks of regret and an implausible hold on morality. this is about all she can hold on to. 

her hands are on the table, almost joined in prayer — thumbs fiddling with each other, nervous. her eyes return to the table, formica stained with circular spots of coffee, of leftover condensation, crumbs of food. this place is filthy. this place makes sense. outside, the day is unusually bright, but cloudy: warm, but the few trees lined up on the street sway against an angry wind, announcing the forthcoming storm. there is a way out of texas, she thinks. there is a way out of this, but she can’t find one on her own: all this darkness, how does she find an exit sign ? silently, she pushes her thumb into a bruise, in the inside of her arm. it hurts, fred winces — this pain makes sense, too.