( what's wrong with him. he'd have thought she could guess. isn't it what's wrong with both of them, after all? the unique unfairness of survival. whoever said it was a gift to survive was fucking full of it. they didn't really get what it was like to be left behind to drown in the aftermath. to remember what normal was like and spend every moment craving it despite knowing it was too far gone to ever return to. the delightful little swirl of guilt for not even being grateful to be alive when nobody else got that luxury. forever saddled with a lifetime of would've, could've, should've — stuck in an endless loop of too little, too late.
yeah, some gift.
but he can't just say that, can he. peel up the skin to show her where their scars look the same. not when he's determined to push her back with both hands. for her good or his, it's all so blurry, now, but the end result is the same. so, instead he says, )
Less lately, without your bullshit. So are we done?
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[ she saw you palling around (read: having passing conversation) with Cheryl, Leon S. Kennedy ]
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Yeah, well. Tell me something I don't know.
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which would explain a lot about you
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i just wanna know what's wrong with you
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yeah, some gift.
but he can't just say that, can he. peel up the skin to show her where their scars look the same. not when he's determined to push her back with both hands. for her good or his, it's all so blurry, now, but the end result is the same. so, instead he says, )
Less lately, without your bullshit. So are we done?