I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.

It rips through him like a solar flare.
It arrests the air in his lungs.
Tightens that crushing vise around his windpipe.

The fury.
The rage that strobes the edges of his vision, softens them, turns them blood red. It makes him quiver. He clenches his jaw so tightly that it aches, twinges, but he is too angry to notice. He tries to draw in a breath and fails. His muscles tremble and he wonders – quite abstractly – if he has ever known fury with teeth this sharp.

How savagely it claws at the pulp of his heart. But he cannot bear his teeth and spit his venom. He is not like her or the child they created. So, for the moment, he simply stands there and glares at her across the space that separates them. Finally, he drags in a staggered breath. And then he swallows thickly and shakes his head.

The fury does not dissipate. But it looses its grip on his throat and order is restored to his vision. He could fight. He could rage and spit and fume, gasp for breath and choke on his vitriol. Instead, he goes on looking at her for a beat longer. His throat is tight, still. But he looks at her and he shakes his head a second time.

And then, there in the furthest corner of his mouth, is a smirk. It is a cold thing. Hard. And he exhales what might have been a laugh had there been any warmth in it. Alas, there is not and it’s nothing at all as his smirk dissolves around the barbed edges of something cruel and dark. “You’re such a fucking martyr,” he says, slow.

He tilts his head at an odd angle then, narrows his eyes as if in concentration. “What would you do, Adna?” he asks, the tone measured, “what would you do if you couldn’t play the victim?”

BETHLEHEM

I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.