"For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti" - Sufjan Stevens
"Well you sure as hell didn’t tell me who you work for."
"This is because I’m my own fucking boss - and what I get do with it isn’t your problem, buddy. Did you get what I asked of you? Those fake ids?"
[[Still getting earthquakes here, so probably not going to be online.]]
[[wait…. earthquakes? D= It’s everything all right there? D=]]
I’M GOING TO BE SO BAD AT TWAU
HAVE A HARD TIME BEING BAD
I WAS THE SOFTEST BIGBY EVER
BECAUSE I CAN’T BRING MYSELF TO BE MEAN?
(but he also wasn’t so big nor so bad in the HQ, so I think we’re fine?)
There was a breath of humor, however brief, in which Murphy caught himself how promptly he would react to her calling his name. Not a conscious action – it was instinct, pretty much just like a well-trained dog.
And like a well-trained dog, he stood still, listening to her even if he couldn’t really make out half of the words she said, confusion showing in his frown.
For a moment, he thought of the few promises he made through his life, wondering if he had managed to keep at least one of them. Judging from where he stood now, both guilty and innocent blood in his hands, it seemed unlikely. But still she demanded an answer, just as intense as she had been when she was still set on killing him, and he found himself scoffing lightly.
"Alright, I––" He paused, looked around, weight shifting from one leg to the other when there was nothing else left to do. He had never been a people person anyway, but it was particularly complicated when you have to deal with someone who doesn’t know a thing about you, and yet knows everything. “Okay. Promise.”
Not that he was sure what it meant – not throwing his life away was a little vague. Was that what he had done with the life he had before? Seemed so. But when? At what point did he mess it up so badly there was no return?
"So, uh… Which way?"
Maybe he could keep that one. For Frank.
"Good." Was her simple answer, a smile finding its way among all that melancholy. It was as automatic as to breathe, everytime she thought about her father, she would catch herself smiling. Sometimes, her smile was painful, rusty, but was still a smile. To think about everyone that special man touched with his warms hands, the way even Pendleton couldn’t turn away a promise made in his name… sometimes she just wish she had died in his place, the world would be a better place.
Flattening her coat and taking a long breath, she stood over a large rock near the lake, looking at the sun and the clear sky just for a second before pointing to a path between some fallen trees, away from the damned bus.
"You go that way, away from the patrol looking for me. You go to the next town and you go to the third motel you find in the yellow pages, okay? I’ll meet you there after they rescue me, ha, what a joke!” She laughed through her nose, shaking her head. “And here, take my cellphone with you, I’ll text you later so you know it’s me. Now go! And find fucking civil clothes to wear, this jumpsuit is lovely but the color doesn’t go well with you.”
She was and horrible person and she knew it the same way she knew she couldn’t let him disappear.
I once was better.
I put off all my grief.
So I go to hell, I wait for it,
But someone’s left me creased.
He had no idea how long they had been trapped in that hellhole, but it wasn’t that long ago that Officer Cunningham had him on his knees, ready to be executed – or that one time when she did pull the trigger. He wouldn’t forget that; he wasn’t entitled to.
The same way he would never forget forgiveness and gratitude, even if he didn’t deserve those. Or how she wouldn’t think twice before embracing him, once she learned the truth.
(Not that it made him any less guilty.)
"Hey, it’s alright," he murmured, voice low and wavering, a moment of hesitation before his hand found her back, tapping it lightly. "It’s alright." The lame attempt of lulling her, keeping her in his arms longer than he was supposed to, was half due to the fact that she probably could use it, but half due to his own weakness. But he managed to let her go, at some point – he had to let go.
One step back, then another; just enough to see her face, even if avoiding her eyes.
"I, uh–– I better get going. Bird’s gonna be here any minute now," he reminded her, pointing towards her radio with a brief nod. "You better not be seen with a dead convict."
Another step back, legs still faltering. Sometimes walking away was a bitch.
One of the strangest feelings in the world was to be comforted by the arms of the man you tried to kill. What was happening to her, anyway? She wasn’t that meek and trembling shrimp crying of relief on someone else’s shoulders, no, she couldn’t be. She was Anne Colleridge (dammit her ex-husband surname, she was changing it back to the name of the best man to even walking under the sun!), and didn’t matter how many times she fell, she was always going to stand on her feet again, she was never giving up.
She was the woman who pulled the fucking trigger.
But, at the same time, she was a lost little girl who could never properly mourning her father and didn’t know where to go from there. What she did have left? Nothing. No husband, no father, no family, no friends and she wasn’t sure if she could ever put her foot on a prison again without being assaulted by visions of those monsters. What she did have left on that life? Vengeance? Justice? Truth? Just a hollow where should have been her soul.
She was the woman who pulled the fucking trigger. What was she so afraid of right now?
"Pendleton!" She called again, raising her arm to his chest, stopping him once again, just like the first time they met. "You’re taking wrong path, you know it? Come, I’ll show you the way out of this shit hole." She give him a smirk, a strange light on her green eyes. Then, she gripped his jumpsuit, as if this way she could retain something from him, anything "Don’t throw away the life my father gave for you. Promise you won’t, you owe me this much."
No, he didn’t - she owed him everything, a new life even, everything. But they both owned something to Frank’s Coleridge’s memory: to live, doesn’t matter how easier it would be to just die.
"Promise or you’ll wish your ass was back in this hell before I end with you!"