#mrcybite

# AN OLD, VERY OLD PROMPT // @mrcybite

   “       i don't need to be protected .   i had two years to figure that out ,     didn't i ?       ”          lucy is not one for subtleties ,     a fact substantiated through the pitch her voice takes :     a low ,     thunderous rumble saturated in bitterness .     she's never quite learned to tame the ferocity of her emotions ,     and now's undeniably no exception .     dredged up feelings can only be locked away for so long before the root sets the spark aflame .     and murphy  —  well ,     either the fact fails to settle in or he's willingly trying to pry past her righteous wrath .     regardless ,     this is apt to end horribly .     a recipe for disaster .     she fights back the lump in her throat ,     tears her sight to the dirt and rubble beneath .     even looking at him is too much .          “       if it wasn't for addy ,     i wouldn't be here .     she's more a protector than you'll ever be .       ”

   ❝   okay     ...     okay .   ❞     days have gone by   —   have swept through their temporary refuge found through threadbare seats and grimy windows ,   fingerprints old and new at a scatter   —   since their reunion ,   a reunion abundant with that persistent feeling of surreality .     there's moments like these ,   a pause to that everyday tumult ,   that keeps her on her toes .     always questioning the veracity of these circumstances ,   always wondering if she's stuck in some kind of dream .     cassandra's presence mitigates that possibility posthaste.

       trouble brews across a horizon illumined in courage .     just another ingredient for the impending ,   but a particular detail entirely overlooked when it comes to a gal the mere age of six and a half     (  the half an inclusion of her own making but really ,   who's counting ?  ) .     one might call it a heavy growth spurt ;   she thinks it simple normalcy .

       she's motionless at her father's side ,   watches with wide eyes and vast fascination at the view of his unceasing work coming to life .     he's been awfully quiet as of late ,   and a part of her questions if he's even aware of her presence ,   what with his seemingly unblinking stare through that cursed glass pane ,   sheen at a soft shimmer post - routine cleaning .     either way ,   she's long grown impatient .     there's only so much one can do when those she relies on for entertainment are sent off in fulfilling their share of tasks ;   yes ,   she's tired of waiting .     and this time ,   she's not taking no or 'maybe later' for an answer .

𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬      ———      @mrcybite

       a truth befitting of karmic justice .     the reality almost too fantastical ,   too much like a distant dream ,   whispers of a childish hope   —   you need to stop this ;   she's not the same ,   she'll never be the same person you knew !   —   a hope whose muted glow coruscates at the fount of her   ( long kept )   masked affections ,   alive and unharmed .     she ,   no longer some marionette for the self - proclaimed messiah to use as he wills it ;   she ,   rising from the ash of the seemingly impossible ,   the newfound epitome .

       for what feels like eons ,   she's at a standstill .     disbelieving yet with a yearning to reach out .     lay an outstretched hand forth ,   let the skin of her palm graze at a cheek unmarred .     but ,   she stops herself .     a pause ,   longer this time ,   before grimy leather seems to move on their own accord ,   purposeful .     her gait is slow ,   unsteady it seems ,   as if not to startle   —   whether not to startle cassandra or addy herself ,   she can't tell .

       when she stops ,   she's a mere breath away from her .     too long .     it's been far too long .     one year ,   two ,   maybe more .     another pause ,   this moment now a distinct kind of suspense that's weighty on the shoulders .     her mouth parts to speak   —   what's one to say after so long ?     what's one to say to someone that was missed so dearly ?   —   but the words catch in her throat .     the air between them requires not a single word to permeate its flimsiness ,   a fact easily solidified the moment a pair of lips touch her forehead. 

       it's the only sign she needs .     she brings her close ,   arms with a tight hold as she envelops her silently ,   a surge of hot tears splintering what composure she maintained ,   heat present within her cheeks .     she's back .     she's really back .

@mrcybite sent :    “was it a good drawing?” ( from murphy )

       ❝   she wanted you to have it .   ❞

       it's a crude depiction ,   blue pigments strewn across a crumpled piece of notepaper ,   reds and grays and even the occasional splash of black at a constant clash for the focal point .     she recalls the day well ,   the day its ownership passed on to her ,   lucy murphy's lasting piece of innocence stamped across every crease and fold .     now ,   it resides under new hands .     the hands of which it was originally meant for ,   maybe ,   but still providing her just the right amount of bitterness at this new reality .     her posture maintains a level of strain to it ,   shoulders burdened with the slightest show of a shrug before she eventually forces herself to recommit that drawing to memory .     goodbye back pocket ,   hello murphy .