like the bullet you never saw coming; beth

[adna]

one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing
one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling
one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide

Finally—finally—she gets a hint of his anger.

And then, the storm of it.

It takes the wind out of her sails and leaves her silent, her serpentine eyes widening slightly and her jaw snapping shut. Part of her almost rises against it again—almost lashes out because it is the only thing she knows how to do—but she remains quiet. She takes in all of his rage and pulls it deep into her chest. She lets it sit there, lets it rot, because she knows that she deserves it. She knows that she has earned it.

But nothing stings more than when he tells her he doesn’t owe her anything.

Because he doesn’t.

Not her—not this child.

For a second, she drops her head, the curls of her forelock dropping down to skim her nose, and she hates herself for the few more tears that fall. Hates herself for the weakness in how quickly she folds.

Hates herself for not walking away from him—leaving him alone—when she had the chance.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice small, and the tremors racing up her spine. She doesn’t know how to even begin explaining to him why she is the way that she is so when she looks up, all of the anger has bled from her face and in its place is just shame, just grief. “There is something very broken inside of me.”

How could she ever explain the marrow-deep misery she felt in his absence? How terrified she is of the feelings that swell in her when he looks her way? How it is easier to drive him away than try to face it?

She can’t and so she doesn’t even try.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits, feeling the faintest stirrings of life in her.

“I should never have bothered you.”

ADNA