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  • Beqanna

    version 22: awakening


    GHAUL -- Year 209


    "(souls are not meant to live more than once — death was not meant to be temporary, and she is so sure that every time her heart starts to beat again that irreversible damage is further inflicted)" -- Anonya, written by Colby

    all our searching, adna

    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?


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


    I will commit my soul to your door tonight, and I'll last 'til the gas fumes float on higher

    A victim.

    He has the gall to call her a victim.

    For a second, she’s stunned and it shows on her face. Her sage green eyes widen and her mouth drops open for a moment and she just stands there like that—trying to grasp for air. A victim. It cuts too close to the truth and she finds that the keen edge of it is more than she can bear; it simply cuts her open.

    “I shared things with you,” she finally manages, her anger and frustration bleeding into the confusion and the hurt. “I didn’t realize that’s how you saw me.” She had told him about the heartbreak of her parents and the confusion of her life and her struggle to come to terms with it. How she hated herself for being this broken when she knew so many others had so much worse—when she had no reason for it.

    And here he throws the exact word that carves her up.

    She bites her lip and looks up underneath her forelock, shaking her head a little.

    “I’m not perfect, Beth, but at least I try. At least I let myself care.” She takes a step back, and she feels something like sadness tightening through her heart. She feels it like a snake around her chest and she takes another step back, feeling that familiar, animalistic need to flee from the pain that confronts her.

    “All I’m doing is ruining everything,” she says and another step, dragging herself away. “I won’t bother you anymore, okay?” Then, finally, the tears come on her cheeks and she turns around and runs.

    in a dying love I'm nothing but a stone cold liar but, oh, I got an iron in that fire


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