#t: thread

                              Evan’s faintly aware of a pressure against her back, not like that of a steady hand urging her forward — urging her to take one step. Then another. And another. The pain in her side has subsided to a dull ache ever since she’d wrapped it (poorly), but she can feel a light wetness soaking into her shirt. A mess of ripped flannel and fabric stained with blood is the only proof that she’s actual injured. Or had been injured. The patch up is haphazard and messy at best but she’ll live. And the ache is a distant reminder of why she’s so tired and growing more exhausted by the minute. Just a graze, her mind repeats. It’s just a graze. Still. That fact doesn’t make it hurt any less. Or extinguish how she’d sustained the injury. It’s a miracle she’s even made it to the city but, then again, she’s been moving on autopilot for the past few weeks (can’t stop moving, need to get away, stop and you die).

                              An above ground root catches the toe of her shoe and Evan stumbles forward, off balance. For a moment she’s sure she’ll pitch to the ground but she’s saved by the wall of a building, her shoulder thudding into the brick with enough force to turn her vision a sharp, sharp, white. She can suddenly feel everything. The ache in her joints, the fire spreading from her side, the crust of blood against her palm — she can feel it all and with a groan she nearly slumps to the ground. But her resolve (stubbornness?) stays strong and with a grunt the young woman straightens with gritted teeth, eyes hard and determined. Evan puts one foot in front of the other and continues forward down the street.

                              As time progressed Evan found herself growing more and more accustom to the area designated to the allies --- and where it ended. It didn’t lead much for looting, most of the surrounding area had been scoured and picked clean while places she didn’t dare venture (mostly the area where her and her brother had been ambushed) were practically unknown. Food. Medical supplies. Weapons. They all seemed increasingly hard to find and yet... there were diamonds in the rough.

                              “I, uh -- ” Evan offers the worn book out, glancing up briefly. Literature couldn’t save your life (though that’s debatable) but it could save your sanity. “I found it on the outskirts. I’ve, erm... I’ve read it already. Way... way back when. But I, uh...” she licks her lips. “Thought you could, uh. You might want it?”

“N-NO. I mean maybe. I think so.” He didn’t know how much she’d seen, if she knew his secret or what, but he was frazzled. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? You look really pale. Come here,” she moved forward and tried to loop her arm in his elbow, “you need to sit down.”

kidnapped/imprisoned starter sentences

"Thank you... But are you proud of me? I want you to be proud of me, not those people that don’t exist.” Charlotte said, tilting her head up slightly to look Rachel in the eye. She needed her sister’s approval, it was what she had lived on for the past few years and it was all that mattered to her. Shifting in her seat, a strand of her dark hair fell out of her tight bun and she immediately brushed it behind her ear, hoping Rachel wouldn’t notice the slight imperfection.

There wasn’t much going on in Charlotte’s schedule now that it was winter break. She had gotten all of her school work done, her doctors’ appointments had all be gotten over with, and she was sitting at home with her cat with nothing else to do. Knowing her, she’d find something. As she crossed the foyer to get a snack from the kitchen, she heard a noise in the basement. Her black Armani flats squeaked as she turned on the ball of the foot so she could aim her confused frown at the basement staircase. Charlotte’s curiosity lured her forward and she stopped at the base of the basement staircase.

This noise was quieter but nonetheless, it was suspicious and needed thorough investigating. She made her way down the staircase one step at a time, her hand gliding over the railing in case she needed the help. There was a bit of hesitation as she rounded the soft corner leading to the expanse of the basement but she took the step and found what looked like a bad exhibit at the zoo with a man behind the glass.

“Whatever it is you’re doing, you’ve been making a lot of noise. Now who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing in my basement?”

It certainly hadn’t been Charlotte’s brightest idea but it was the only option she had left. Her pain had worsened over the past month, it spread from her knees up through her legs and hips. Some days it was painful just to walk down the stairs to the kitchen. Her mother was against prescribing medications to Charlotte because she was quite a stickler for following ethical codes and guidelines. As much as she wanted to help her, she didn’t want to prescribe anything more powerful than what Charlotte already had in her medicine cabinet.

The situation forced her to find another way to get the pain medications that she needed. After a few stops around town, she had found a drug dealer willing to give her what she needed. Little did she know, a few cops were right around the corner and they weren’t exactly big fans of spoiled little rich girls buying drugs off the street. She ended up in a cell downtown and she used her one phone call to call her mother who was still in Europe. Naturally Marion was upset but put in a few calls and told her that she’d send someone to take care of it.

And so there she was, lying on her side in a small ball of frustration, her face occasionally wrinkled and contorted in pain. The metal bench made the pain worse but she knew that asking the officer on duty would do nothing but make them laugh at her misery. The shuffle of feet in the corridor made her look up and a small smile appeared on her face when she saw Paula’s familiar face.

“You’re not exactly what I expected from the military. I thought Paul would’ve been a clone with all his muscles and crap. You’re not very muscly.”

The clothes go in first, just a few dozen t-shirts and jeans, underwear and socks, two or three classy button-ups, one fancy pair of dress pants. Shoes, two pair of sneakers, one pair of dressy ones. Then a few paperbacks, the pages well-worn with the colours at the edges faded to yellow, the covers sprinkled with white creases.

Not his Physics textbooks, though. Those he tosses into the dust bin without sparing a look, along with gifts and notes and letters, too many to count, the pages white and pink and lilac, adorned with hearts, written in an elegant female hand, sweet words cloaked in lies, perfumed paper now rancid with the stink of betrayal. He throws it all away, and he feels a little better as he does so, with each toss and gnash of his teeth, with each blink against the press behind his eye balls.

Next he packs the essentials: his cell phone, his wallet, brightly-coloured soda bottles for the first drive down to the motel that he rests on top of clothes and covers with a few bags of junk food. Three boxes of condoms go next, of course, always those, he’ll need them. Gerris zips his bags and turns around.

There’s still clothes in the wardrobe, but he won’t need those. Gerris might come back to pick them up after traveling with Jon, or he might not. Might just leave them there, swinging forlornly in a forgotten closet in a forgotten room, feasting moths and seating dust. Maybe he’ll come back to find them in tatters, years down the line, but none of that seems to matter right now. He’s taking everything that matters, the few books he loves, that shirt that he once got from his best friend; that and himself is all he’s going to need. All he’s ever going to need, from here on out.

His cell phone vibrates and he flips it open to check his messages. Jon says he’s here, waiting just outside of the gates of Northwestern University, here to pick him up, and not a second too soon.

Gerris has sent his professor the news that he’s quitting. Has told all the friends he’s made in Chicago that he’ll be gone. He snorts a little at ‘friends’ – they can barely be called that. Stuck-up yanks, the lot of them, a few smiles and manipulations and well-placed compliments in his London accent that they apparently like so much and they rewarded him with a flurry of bright-eyed affection. No, they don’t matter, he doesn’t feel bad about leaving any of them. His friends back in England are the ones who matter, and he would never have even come here if it hadn’t been for her.

He grits his teeth when he hoists the bag upon his shoulders and walks out. Some dorm mate of his greets him but Gerris just walks past. He’s got not time and if he did, he wouldn’t spend it on people who didn’t matter. People he never would’ve met if he hadn’t given up everything (his friends, his family, hislife) spurned on by some idiotic idea of love. He’d been as awed as a ten year old girl in a field full of daisies beneath the stretch of the blue, blue sky or some shit like that, had wrapped up his heart with a shiny golden bow and given it to her as a gift, and she’d rewarded him by devouring it and spitting it all over him once she was done, chunky pieces and all.

People part around him when he stalks the way down the dorms, spills onto the street. Spring is in the air, crisp and fresh, and students mill about. They keep a tightly-corded distance from him; the displeasure just might hover, the anger just might be etched in the tight lock of his jaw, the tendons in his twitching fingers. There’s a girl that Gerris recognises, a girl he used to be friends with (and never tried to seduce, because he was with Rhaenys and he loved her, he did, so much, how could she?), but he walks by as she raises her hand to greet him.

There’s something in the pit of his stomach, hard and round, like a ball of thrumming resentment and pain. He swallows and swallows, feels the thick saliva pull down his throat and into his stomach, but the ball won’t loosen. Every time he tries to ignore it, it seems to crawl up, slithery and malignant, settle in his throat, press against the back of his eyes.

He won’t cry. He won’t. Gerris hasn’t cried since he was six years and his mother left.

He really should’ve learned right then and there that women can’t be trusted. It’s better not to open up to them, it’s better not to care. It’s better to just take and leave, has he forgotten who he is? Gerris Drinkwater, the bright one, condensed charisma. Bright smiles and brighter eyes, a natural grace to his limbs. A love for adventure, hiking and surfing and football, scared of nothing and no one. He thinks back to when he was younger, when he used to drag his friends up mountains to dig for treasures, dived along the shores for ship wrecks, drove racing cars, dined with celebrities, worked up his way with one clever one-liner or smile or raise of his eyebrows at a time. What has he even been doing for the past year, since giving up that life and more for one single woman?

Nothing. Nothing. (Everything).

He spots Jon waiting by the car. Walking over to him, he feels his mouth twitch into one of his warm smiles, and he knows he looks good right now, lingering blue eyes, fond little smile. He greets his mate and he’s genuinely glad to see him, doesn’t have to fake his affection.

The tight ball of tension in his stomach loosens and gives. When he swallows, he feels a little lighter. An icy clarity descends upon him, cutting what he is, what he has done, what he’ll need to do into sharp contrast before the messy background of his past.

And when he stretches out his hand to give Jon a friendly clap on the shoulder, he knows that he’s saying goodbye to something, only he isn’t sure what. He wishes he could say with certainty that it was Rhaenys, but he fears it might be darker, more intrinsic than that.