#lonelyhunt

   what  are you  on the  run  from,    cowboy ?    perhaps a  past that  never  existed.    they’ve  found  themselves  deep   in  the woods,   weary  from riding  and  sore  as  all  well,    walking alongside  their  horse  (  who doesn’t have the  privilege of having a name,  either  )  and  listening to the  sole sound  of  branches  snapping  beneath  their  boots.    it’s  when  they  smell  a  bit of  smoke  and  burning  meat  that  the  slightest  of  warmth  enters  blondie’s  chest  :   someone  nearby.  

SILENCE HANGS TOO LONG IN THE AIR.   the fire doesn’t do as much to swallow the question as he’d have liked and he takes his time answering, reasonably distracted by what’s left of the stew in his dish.

“doesn’t matter, does it?”   it’s not the first time he’s heard the question, but it’s one of the few times he doesn’t immediately balk at it.   the first time it was wielded as a weapon against him, an accusation he couldn’t substantiate, and he bears its sting to this day.   but this is different, the intent doesn’t seem to be hurt as much as it’s hollow, those late-night, star-filled questions that rise up when traveling with silent companions.   it always comes up, eventually.   likely always will.

SHE’S DRUNK ON HIS ‘SHINE and all the better for it given the weight of the words he’s just dropped in her lap.   blind accusations can be fun in the right context, but they’re less so when directed at her.   at least he’d let her start drinking before he decided to get all woesome, better that than when he turns up out of nowhere, shoulders set to brooding before anyone can get a word in.   sometimes she wonders if he’s ever been happy.   she swears she saw him smile one time, but no one believes her when she tells them.

the moonlight reflects up off the lake, highlighting the rocks that hide his stills.   she drinks deep from her jar just to put some more liquor between her and his words, but she’s still smiling when she glances over her shoulder at him, like she knows something he doesn’t.

HE SQUINTS INTO THE SUN SETTING ON THE HORIZON,   considering.   it’ll be dark soon, night creeping up into sky same as ever, likely dark and moonless if the night prior is anything to go by.   he tries to wet his chapped lips with an equally dry tongue and slowly turns his attention back to the stranger still sitting astride his horse.   not quite a stranger, but strange enough all things being as they were.   there’s not a whole lot to be said when he’s the one sitting his ass in the hot new austin sand, lasso biting familiar bruises into his wrists.

“ In his own country, Death can be kind. ”

many  have  experienced  some  kind  of  death.   a  murder,   really.   of  innocence  and   of  the  ideal  world.   she  had  never  seen  her  world  as  ideal,   nor  had  she  truly  been  innocent  but  ---  before  she  came  to  this  country ...  death  had  never  been  kind.   by  the  martyrdom  of  her  father,   the  sacrifice  of  her  mother.   and  every  soul  in  between.   death  had  only  been  merciful  to  one  person.  but  each  day  she  wonders  if  that  mercy  was  just  another  taste  of  suffering.   punishment  for  the  damned.

 ❛ 𝐢𝐟  𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡  𝐢𝐬  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡  𝐨𝐟  𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠,   𝒎𝒂𝒚  𝒉𝒆  𝒐𝒏𝒆  𝒅𝒂𝒚  𝒃𝒆  𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅  𝒕𝒐  𝒖𝒔  𝒂𝒍𝒍. ❜    

             “ I... have a surprise.” She said, awkwardly, broken English not quite fitting into her mouth properly. “Its not really for you. Its for me, but it’ll make you happy-- merde.” This was not going well. With a sigh, she opened the black plastic bag. Inside was a silver collar, with attached chain and padlocks. Red didn’t want to imagine the reaction of anyone eavesdropping on this conversation. “Its not one of those... Christian Grey things.” Her cheeks blazed the shades of her name. “Its for me, for the wolf.”