#thrd.last argument

           there aren’t many wounds that ever heal            all the way, and there are some that hurt more with every day that passes.                                                                                  — j. abercrombie ( @idjunhai )

                                                                       ★

how could you do this to me?

the words ring loud and clear in her ears---albeit, from her own mouth, but still; nonetheless, she is met with silence on the other end, must deal with the static and muffled sound of breathing instead of a straight answer. and so she scoffs, can’t help herself from the (understandable) frustrated huff that parts her lips, stems from the base of her lungs until it reaches caught throat and dry tongue.

and then, she repeats herself. “how could you do this to me?”

for the sentence is shaky, yet laced with emotion---something she has far too long hid from the person on the line. and she knows the risk---has lived her whole life knowing them, remembers full-and-well that she was born into risks---of threatening to deal with this situation herself, to confront him head-on.

and she’ll admit, she’s never been more terrified in her life.

but twenty years of settling into fear---into tolerance, into obedience---has slowly reached its ends, has gradually faded as a stronger mindset infiltrates her head, her attitude, her well-being. which has led her to here, hidden corridor in the kbs building to make a phone call---one she would never expect to be answered. so she clenches fist, silently heaves a deep breath and starts again.

“father--- how could you do this to me?”

before she knows it, before she can understand it, she’s crying; soundlessly, she stands there, petite frame shaking as she blinks once. twice. and the tears fall, slowly but surely, down porcelain skin and quivering features. it’s salty, she thinks, daring to sniffle into the microphone at the thought.

and then it hits her, it’s salty.

the cries grow louder in volume, thumb barely hovering the ‘end call’ button as vacant hand rises to rub at two clouds of hazel; she’s hot---humid even---and she feels as if she can’t breath, as if she’s drowning, as if she’s caught in a storm. for lightning bolts and rolls of thunder consume her being, have her body act as if the ground right beneath her is quaking; her legs grow weak, and she’s suddenly stumbling to the floor, grip on cellphone being replaced with the sensation of the cool tile as she hears the clank! of metal upon impact.