Re: Marta / Seven
[There is a cruel sort of sharpness hiding within the soft touches and warm breaths that pass between the two - a fierce, biting memory of Marta's fingers curling into his palm and the smell of liquor rising to his nose, hooking against the inside of his tender ribcage so that he might be yanked back to a night where her blood feels fresh and hot against his fingers and the scotch has gone straight to his head. A dizzying presence of phantom children, terror thick in their mouths as they huddled together in the hallway.
He couldn't save her, and he will never forgive himself for it. That knowledge is there in each exploratory brush of her fingertips, sliding from his chest and up, around, to the place where his broad shoulders curve into his neck. And it's there in the way that she presses against him while up on the toes of her flat shoes, and he feels like every touch is killing him. Like there is a leaded chain around his neck and choked down his throat that wants to push his undeserved air away, pulled tight with each quiver that runs the length of her body. He couldn't save her.
And the sound she makes in his ear, small and wounded like a creature with fragile bones, held in his palm, that might just be it. The nail in his coffin. Because it wrenches at something inside of him until it snaps and all of the marrow spills out, flooding his bloodstream and going straight to his head to turn the lights out. Everything he has, it's focused on the spot where her mouth brushes against the stubbled line of his throat. And then his voice sounds all frayed and falling to pieces.] I'm confusing myself, Marta.