Her ears were still ringing. She was too aware, trapped
in that finite space with an infinite number of consequences before her. She
was playing with fire, she knew it by the way hazel eyes turned to ice, losing
their focus. Her breathing stuttered as she retreated; she had hesitated a moment
too long trying to understand.
"Were you even listening?" She must have held
her breath a moment too long. His voice was harsh against her ears, still ringing
from the last blow; his words were gravel and salt against raw skin, thin skin.
Her tongue ran off with her temperance in a hot spur of anger.
"I would have been if I could hear you. I have better things to do,"
she stood. The world wavered, her face throbbed, her jaw ached in the shape of
his fist, her lips bruised in the shape of his.
"No, you don't, you're nothing," he stood, trying to cage her in atop
the bleachers as his hulking body blotted the sun out.
"So you've been doing nothing," she smirked at him, beyond caring how
many punches he threw as the spurred anger caught on in the kindling of her
soul. She slipped back, out of his choking reach, long legs taking her up two
rows of the old wooden bleachers, up to the area of the railing he had broken
last week against her ribs. The throb of cracked bone that hadn't healed was
nothing new. The fire, this was new to her, the desire of retaliation.
"You know, I could have had any girl in the academy, but I chose
you," he reminded harshly.
"And who's fault is that? Theirs for having standards?" A meaty fist
swung at her head and she dodged, dancing up the steps to the cracked rail. She
doubted he remembered it; she doubted he registered how high up they were.
"Don't make me hurt you," he warned.
"You never needed me to make you, you just did it you bastard," there
it was, the trigger word, the thorn in his side, the blinding rage. She danced
up the last steps, into the cracked corner.
"You'll regret that," he warned. When she said nothing, merely
smirking at him, his anger bloomed, "Speak bitch!"
She was too aware, trapped in that finite space with an infinite number of
consequences before her. He barreled up the stairs, chasing her along the top
row. His legs were longer, stronger, carrying 300 pounds of caged rage. She
feigned a weak block, only to throw herself down against the bench seat at the
last moment as he threw his punch. His anger changed as the cracked rail gave,
and his momentum betrayed.
She glanced up in that moment; he was, for the first
time, the one afraid. One foot in and one foot over the grave, his arms an
unsteady windmill failing without a breeze. She became the wind, threw herself
against the rail, shaking the rickety stands, panicked as his hands caught
hold.
No! She was so close to free!
He must have mistaken her movement, her stand for a hand
up, as her hand was out.
He grabbed, even as she shoved him away, failing to deflect his grasp, her
muscles straining as she ended up suspending him over the edge where nobody
cared to look. Frantic and human, he looked up at her like she was salvation.
She realized that indeed, in a moment of foolish altruism, that she had grabbed
him; the act leaving her to wonder… why?
His hand slid down her arm as her shoulder screamed in the socket, and she
looked him in the eyes.
"I don't think there's room for regrets now, is there?" Dread filled
his gaze, her hand falling slack. Her leg had hooked firm under the seat, and
for a moment she saw hope in his eyes as she brought her other hand around. The
look drowned, swirling into dread when she held the very knife he had given
her. He held on though, vain and perhaps praying until she leaned down. Where
his arm screamed, soon too did he, the blade cutting and slow down against the
bone, "You always said you tried to avoid the tendons for a quicker suicide,"
she felt his grip waver, his hand slick with sweat, her head throbbing as the
blood rushed to it, "What a shame it is then, that you tried again,"
she brought the blade up to where his strength betrayed, the tendons there strained.
From the base of his thumb, she slashed down and soon the tendons frayed at the
lightest brush; there was a red gush, his weight vanishing, and then a wet,
delayed crunch.
Her breath shuddered as she retreated from the edge, then found herself racing
down, scrubbing the handle of his knife in his shirt, in the dirt, putting it
in his limp hand.
Weak eyes, dying, flitted to her, neck at an angle absurd. She could see his
skull against the pavement, part had flown off in the crash. She saw his truest
colors; pale pinks and fresh reds.
"Were you ever listening?” she knelt beside him, “No, because you are
nothing," she whispered in his ear, her words harsh on broken skin and
shattered bone, "I could have had any girl in the academy, but I chose
you. I'm going to make you regret that," she sat back, she could see bone
beneath the fabric of his jeans, the pulsing throb of red in the tattered and
torn spaces of them. She could hear death rattling in the air, in his lungs
sucking air through his ribs with a watery sound as tears welled weakly in his
eyes, and she leaned again over his ear, "Speak bitch," she mocked,
sitting back. His mouth wavered, making a gargled sound as his head fell slack
to the side, red trailing from twitching lips, "I have better things to
do," she stood; the world wavered, her face throbbed, her jaw ached.
She took in the sight, gravel and salt against raw skin, thin skin. His breath
shuddered, and a red bubble burst on his lips like a split. She thought of her
own, still bruised in the dying shape of his as she held her breath a moment
too long, "I don't think there's room for regret now, is there?"
Her ears were still ringing. She was too aware, trapped
in that finite space with an infinite number of consequences before her. She was
playing with fire, she knew it by the way hazel eyes turned to ice, losing
their focus. Her breathing stuttered as she retreated; she had hesitated a moment
too long trying to understand.
