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week 8 - thursday
"Lady Shelly, I—"
Finally, he has the courage to express what his pride won't let him. He looks up from his balled up hands with a desperation that verges on innocent in its earnestness, but when he looks at her, she's changed. Her eyes are sunken and closed, her skin sallow and sickly, and there's no rise and fall of her chest any longer.
Ah, that's right, he thinks distantly, She's dead.
In a distant corner of his mind, he knows that this is a dream, but not enough to steal back the awareness to stop it. Instead, he bows his head to accept this, as he has many times before. Somehow, loss had become a part of his life. Objectively, he thought that this should make it easier to dismiss, and yet each time he's confronted with something like this, a hollow, heavy grief settles in his chest all the same. It would be easier if he wasn't such a hypocrite, he knows. For all he talks and teaches to throw away useless emotions, he's never really been very good at it himself.
He sighs in a way that's tired, and he starts to get up from his chair. In his dream, he thinks that he needs to tell someone that she's passed. There are preparations that need to be taken care of. A small hand reaches out from behind to grab his wrist and stop him, and Break flinches sharply, since he was sure that they were alone here. He expects Sharon, and his heart breaks to have to comfort her on this, of all things, because how we he supposed to ever explain anything like this? But the face he turns to see is distorted.
It's difficult to focus on the little girl's features, but he recognizes her in other ways. It's the short hair and the doll she clutches in her arms, and that freezes him in his tracks. He's not sure why he can't see her face, but the warm voice full of life repeating a name he hates is more than enough to push away any suspicion.
"Kevin, you're not going to leave it like this, are you?"
"It's not-" he starts to plead with desperation in his tone, but another hand grabs his other wrist to pull between the two of them. This hand is larger, but he feels the slick warmth of blood, and that gets Break to close his eye. He doesn't want to see who this is, but it's just as unfortunate that Gilbert's voice is just as distinct.
"He won't. Break's an idiot that hasn't learned a damn thing."
Of course, that sparks a wholly different reaction. The girl whose face he can't remember anymore is one thing, but Gilbert's insult gets Break's eye to snap open. He looks his way with a sharp retort on his tongue, but it dies quickly as he stares in horror at Gilbert's headless torso. Now he tries to pull away, since this is too much, but he trips, stumbling over what's missing. He tries to keep his gaze from drifting down, because he knows, and that's why he doesn't want to look. But the messy dark hair on that missing head is unmistakeable, and as he spills back onto the bed, he doesn't realize that Shelly is gone. The dread and fear that bubbles up in him overtakes that logic, and he closes his eyes again with a pained expression. He murmurs a quick plea for them to stop, but as he regains his balance, a pair of arms wraps around behind him in an embrace that's frighteningly tender.
"It's fine," Miata says, but before he can look back towards her, one of her hands shifts up to cover his eye, "Even if you know it's wrong, you can't help yourself, can you?"
He kicks and struggles, but Miata is able to hold him just as rigidly as Lucifer had. He spits out curses now, but as he swings and struggles, but those hands reach out to grab his again. Gilbert and that little girl hold his hands tenderly, as if they were trying to comfort him instead of hold him in place, and he feels the fight die away. He's not sure if it's a spell or if it's his own feeling of being resigned, but he still chokes out a despairing, pained noise either way.
"I know!" he spits out angrily and bitterly, then one more time, "I know, but I still..."
He knows that this is wrong, and he knows that trusting anyone that would promise him that the dead could return to life was completely foolish. He had justified it with logic, and he still could. But the hands holding his feel as cold as corpses, and he also knows what that's supposed to mean. Yet even so, he grips them back desperately. It as if he feels that if he just tries hard enough, then maybe he could do something right, for once. Maybe he could save just one person he cares about. Maybe he could do something right.
But Miata whispers in his ear again, just like the devil had before.
"How does it feel to know that he was destroyed because you actually believed that someone would take a surprise party at face value?"
He opens his mouth to retort angrily, but she stops that with something terribly familiar. He feels the pressure first on his eye as her fingers press down, and he tries to move back, now pressing back against her, but there's nowhere to run to.
He wakes up when her fingers press into his eye.
Finally, he has the courage to express what his pride won't let him. He looks up from his balled up hands with a desperation that verges on innocent in its earnestness, but when he looks at her, she's changed. Her eyes are sunken and closed, her skin sallow and sickly, and there's no rise and fall of her chest any longer.
Ah, that's right, he thinks distantly, She's dead.
In a distant corner of his mind, he knows that this is a dream, but not enough to steal back the awareness to stop it. Instead, he bows his head to accept this, as he has many times before. Somehow, loss had become a part of his life. Objectively, he thought that this should make it easier to dismiss, and yet each time he's confronted with something like this, a hollow, heavy grief settles in his chest all the same. It would be easier if he wasn't such a hypocrite, he knows. For all he talks and teaches to throw away useless emotions, he's never really been very good at it himself.
He sighs in a way that's tired, and he starts to get up from his chair. In his dream, he thinks that he needs to tell someone that she's passed. There are preparations that need to be taken care of. A small hand reaches out from behind to grab his wrist and stop him, and Break flinches sharply, since he was sure that they were alone here. He expects Sharon, and his heart breaks to have to comfort her on this, of all things, because how we he supposed to ever explain anything like this? But the face he turns to see is distorted.
It's difficult to focus on the little girl's features, but he recognizes her in other ways. It's the short hair and the doll she clutches in her arms, and that freezes him in his tracks. He's not sure why he can't see her face, but the warm voice full of life repeating a name he hates is more than enough to push away any suspicion.
"Kevin, you're not going to leave it like this, are you?"
"It's not-" he starts to plead with desperation in his tone, but another hand grabs his other wrist to pull between the two of them. This hand is larger, but he feels the slick warmth of blood, and that gets Break to close his eye. He doesn't want to see who this is, but it's just as unfortunate that Gilbert's voice is just as distinct.
"He won't. Break's an idiot that hasn't learned a damn thing."
Of course, that sparks a wholly different reaction. The girl whose face he can't remember anymore is one thing, but Gilbert's insult gets Break's eye to snap open. He looks his way with a sharp retort on his tongue, but it dies quickly as he stares in horror at Gilbert's headless torso. Now he tries to pull away, since this is too much, but he trips, stumbling over what's missing. He tries to keep his gaze from drifting down, because he knows, and that's why he doesn't want to look. But the messy dark hair on that missing head is unmistakeable, and as he spills back onto the bed, he doesn't realize that Shelly is gone. The dread and fear that bubbles up in him overtakes that logic, and he closes his eyes again with a pained expression. He murmurs a quick plea for them to stop, but as he regains his balance, a pair of arms wraps around behind him in an embrace that's frighteningly tender.
"It's fine," Miata says, but before he can look back towards her, one of her hands shifts up to cover his eye, "Even if you know it's wrong, you can't help yourself, can you?"
He kicks and struggles, but Miata is able to hold him just as rigidly as Lucifer had. He spits out curses now, but as he swings and struggles, but those hands reach out to grab his again. Gilbert and that little girl hold his hands tenderly, as if they were trying to comfort him instead of hold him in place, and he feels the fight die away. He's not sure if it's a spell or if it's his own feeling of being resigned, but he still chokes out a despairing, pained noise either way.
"I know!" he spits out angrily and bitterly, then one more time, "I know, but I still..."
He knows that this is wrong, and he knows that trusting anyone that would promise him that the dead could return to life was completely foolish. He had justified it with logic, and he still could. But the hands holding his feel as cold as corpses, and he also knows what that's supposed to mean. Yet even so, he grips them back desperately. It as if he feels that if he just tries hard enough, then maybe he could do something right, for once. Maybe he could save just one person he cares about. Maybe he could do something right.
But Miata whispers in his ear again, just like the devil had before.
"How does it feel to know that he was destroyed because you actually believed that someone would take a surprise party at face value?"
He opens his mouth to retort angrily, but she stops that with something terribly familiar. He feels the pressure first on his eye as her fingers press down, and he tries to move back, now pressing back against her, but there's nowhere to run to.
He wakes up when her fingers press into his eye.