He doesn't understand, can't understand, not now and maybe not even in th'best of times, when he’s thinkin’ clear and not clouded with pain, blood, bein’ somewhere he weren’t just a minute ago, when his head ain’t spinnin’ from dead and then not. He stares at her with eyes wide’n’confused, nothin’ makin’ sense quite the way it should ‘cause why th’hell should she give life t’him? He didn’t ask for it, an’ even if he had...
He shakes his head once, slowly, makes a try like he’s gonna reach out an’ touch her, hand coming forwards and not quite makin’ it, fallin’ t’the ground so that his fingers pick at dried dead grass soaked in blue blood. It ain’t quite an invitation but it’ll do, maybe. Tellin’ her like it’s okay, like maybe he needs th’touch of a hand on his, own fingers still cold and stiff and dirty. Ain’t sure entirely what to say so maybe he’s silent a beat too long, just thinkin’, but soon enough he speaks.
Any anger that was there, or fear, it’s all but gone now. He’s just tired, just so fuckin’ tired. Of everythin’. “Didn’t have to, Mizz Barlow.” He blinks slowly, eyes stayin’ shut for just a beat longer than they really gotta. “I didn’t - didn’t ask you for nothin’. Thank you, but.” His lips twist. He looks down, back up, and maybe it’s exhaustion that’s t’blame for why there’s nothin’ hidden, now, emotions out an’ plain to read in his face.
Softly, “But y’shoulda just let it go.”
“Shoulda let me die.”
They’re child’s eyes, open and honest, been away a long while and grown up some but he’s just a boy inside, a boy who grew up too early and too fast and can’t even begin to understand this new and alien idea that somewhere, somehow, someone might care if he lives or dies.
no subject
He doesn't understand, can't understand, not now and maybe not even in th'best of times, when he’s thinkin’ clear and not clouded with pain, blood, bein’ somewhere he weren’t just a minute ago, when his head ain’t spinnin’ from dead and then not. He stares at her with eyes wide’n’confused, nothin’ makin’ sense quite the way it should ‘cause why th’hell should she give life t’him? He didn’t ask for it, an’ even if he had...
He shakes his head once, slowly, makes a try like he’s gonna reach out an’ touch her, hand coming forwards and not quite makin’ it, fallin’ t’the ground so that his fingers pick at dried dead grass soaked in blue blood. It ain’t quite an invitation but it’ll do, maybe. Tellin’ her like it’s okay, like maybe he needs th’touch of a hand on his, own fingers still cold and stiff and dirty. Ain’t sure entirely what to say so maybe he’s silent a beat too long, just thinkin’, but soon enough he speaks.
Any anger that was there, or fear, it’s all but gone now. He’s just tired, just so fuckin’ tired. Of everythin’. “Didn’t have to, Mizz Barlow.” He blinks slowly, eyes stayin’ shut for just a beat longer than they really gotta. “I didn’t - didn’t ask you for nothin’. Thank you, but.” His lips twist. He looks down, back up, and maybe it’s exhaustion that’s t’blame for why there’s nothin’ hidden, now, emotions out an’ plain to read in his face.
Softly, “But y’shoulda just let it go.”
“Shoulda let me die.”
They’re child’s eyes, open and honest, been away a long while and grown up some but he’s just a boy inside, a boy who grew up too early and too fast and can’t even begin to understand this new and alien idea that somewhere, somehow, someone might care if he lives or dies.