#like ha ha very funny but now give max his belt back you fucker

[westofessos]

Oh my god Cardblade has a cardbelt

[harringrooves]

Inspired by the #cherrylanechallenge day 1 prompt knife but this is not spooky at all so technically this is just a random little ficlet! AO3

The chair outside the principal's office is already taken when Billy gets there. He lets his eyes follow the trail from the clean, white sneakers up the impossibly long stretch of denim clad leg and even further upwards over the two toned striped polo shirt to the moles peeking out from just under the collar.

Steve Harrington glances up at him, then grimaces. Sighs.

"Jesus Christ," Harrington mutters.

"What are you doing here?" Billy grunts. There's no where left to sit, so he flung his jacket onto the linoleum and drops down onto it, back resting against the wall directly opposite Harrington.

Despite the distance of the entire width of the hallway between them, when Billy stretches his legs out the scuffed points of his boots almost touch the edge of Harrington's sneakers.

"Waiting for Mrs Reyes."

"Yeah, no shit."

That earns him a glare from Harrington. Billy's stomach turns a little at the disdain in Harrington's dark eyes, but it's the curiosity shining through that makes him squirm. Like an ant under a magnifying glass.

"Why're you here?"

Billy rolls his eyes, letting the familiar motion draw out the equally familiar sneer. "Same as you, dumbass."

Harrington huffs and turns away again as they both fall silent, glancing at the door every so often as the minutes tick by. It's not at all a comfortable silence. Harrington's not looking at Billy so Billy shouldn't be looking at him. But the walls are blank and the only other remotely interesting thing is the name plaque on the principal's door.

So Billy traces the letters dutifully, keeps going even when he gets nearer to the end of Reyes and stripes creep into the very edge of his vision. Even when he hears Harrington shift in the chair, moving his legs under him onto the seat then over the arms than back down to the floor. Even when Harrington asks, "You go crazy on some kid again?"

Billy goes round and round the shape of the capital R. "No. The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Harrington laughs. It's loud and braying, and not what Billy would've guessed King Steve's laugh would sound like. He imagined something smooth and dark, something that would exude effortless charm with an undertone of something mysteriously rich and out of reach.

It just sounds like a teenage guy laughing, if a teenage guy was also part donkey. Billy would find it funny, if Harrington wasn't laughing at him. "What?" he repeats harshly.

Harrington eventually quiets. "What do I mean? The night at the Byer's, you went like, fully psycho. Your eyes were fucking dead. Did you get like that again, is that why you're here?"

Finally, Billy tears his eyes away from the plaque and meets Harrington's head on. "No," Billy says firmly. "I didn't fucking- no."

Harrington shrugs. "Whatever. Wouldn't surprise me if you did, sooner or later."

That stings. In California he was good at skating and surfing and babysitting and he was top of his class in English and History. Even after she left everyone knew him as Rosaline's boy (never Neil's), with the blonde hair and the yellow surfboard and the white smile that was a little too charming for his own good. Here in Hawkins, he was the Hargrove kid, the one who fucked and ditched, the one who fought and drank.

Maybe Billy's fine with everyone else thinking that about him, but not Harrington. Billy won't let himself think about why, but he wants Harrington see him. To look at him and think he's better than that night.

"I got kicked out of shop class," Billy bites out quietly. Harrington blinks at him.

"You got in a fight in shop-"

"I didn't get in a fight, for fuck's sake!"

Harrington holds his hands up in mock placation, bobbing his head mockingly. "Alright, alright." He stretches his leg out and lazily nudges at Billy's foot. "What'd you do then?"

"Made a knife," Billy mumbles, eyes back on the plaque.

Harrington laughs again. "You what?"

"I made a-"

"A knife, yeah." Harrington cocks his head like a little dog, some of his fringe flopping into his eye. "You know that just makes you sound even crazier, right?"

Billy just shrugs and lets his head fall back against the wall. "Wasn't for me, it was s'posed to be a gift. For- for Max." Harrington freezes.

"You were gonna make Max a knife as a gift?" It sounds like Harrington's struggling with every implication of that sentence. That Billy would gift Max something. That a knife was an appropriate gift. That Billy would care enough about anything to create something hand made.

"Yeah." He can't help but let a little bit of defensiveness slip into his tone. Billy kicks Harrington's foot away, probably a bit harder than necessary. "It was a replica of that one her character has in that stupid game her nerd friends play. Demons in Dungeons, or whatever." Dungeons and Dragons. Billy's not that stupid, but he's also not that shameless to admit to knowing what it's called. "It was a full scaled up one, even got the pattern on the handle half done."

"That's- cool," Harrington says hesitantly. "Didn't know you cared, Hargrove."

"Shitbird's birthday soon. Thought she'd like it." Billy glances over to Harrington, who's watching him with narrowed eyes. Billy coughs, shifting his shoulders a little to roll off the weight of the scrutiny. "Doesn't matter, that fucker Morrison confiscated it anyway."

Silence falls again, still just as awkward as last time but lacking a large amount of the hostility. Harrington's still watching him. The plaque's lost it's draw and Billy resorts to tracing the seams of his jeans with a fingernail.

"I'm failing English," Harrington offers abruptly. Billy's head snaps up, but for the first time Harrington's looking away as he speaks. "That's why I'm here. They're not sure if I'm gonna graduate."

"Sucks," Billy says roughly. Harrington nods slowly.

"Yeah."

Billy swallows, fingers clenching into fists atop his thighs. "I could, uh, give you my notes."

"Why would I need your notes?"

"'Cause you're failing English." Billy doesn't mean to say it like Harrington's an idiot, but those big brown eyes are wide and confused, like he's never thought about actually asking for help. "And 'cause I'm acing it."

Harrington's nose wrinkles in obvious disbelief, but he doesn't challenge it. He just sighs and lets his head loll to the side, propped up by his fist. "Yeah. Whatever. I'll do anything, at this point."

Billy nods silently. Harrington opens his mouth again, but he's interrupted by the click of the office door finally opening. Mrs Reyes pokes her head out.

"Steve," she greets him warmly. Her eyes slide over to Billy on the floor and her lips thin ever so slightly. "William."

"Hi," Billy says as obnoxiously peppy as he can manage.

"I'll see to you in a minute, after I've spoken with Steve." And then Harrington steps through into the office and the door swings shut once again.

Billy could get up and sit in the now vacant chair, but he stays right where he is until it's his turn to be called in. Harrington looks at him as he passes him in the doorway, but it's obvious that he's a million miles away, frowning at Billy but his mind no doubt occupied by something else.

Mrs Reyes doesn't ask what happened, just gives him a Friday detention and a lecture on how badly his behaviour is going to affect his record and how that's such a shame given his academic achievements. Billy lets it wash over him, not bothering to really pay attention. He's heard it all before.

When school lets out and Billy makes his way out the Camaro, he almost trips over his feet at the sight of Steve Harrington leaning against his car, twirling a knife in his long fingers.

"Here," Harrington says as soon as Billy gets close enough, holding the knife out to him blade first. Billy takes it gingerly and slips it into his jacket pocket.

"How'd you get it back?"

Harrington's chest puffs up in some god awful display of smugness as he smirks at Billy. "Morrison leaves his office unlocked during lunch. Everyone knows, it's like the number one place to make out. I was in an out, the couple in there didn't even notice me."

"That's disgusting. But, thanks, I guess-"

"Don't." Harrington holds up a hand, wincing a little. "I didn't do it for you, I think Max will really like the gift so if anything, I did it for her. And consider this payment for the notes."

"Payment?" Billy's brow furrows. "I didn't ask you to pay me." But now that Harrington's mentioned it, he definitely should have. Harrington's rich, everyone knows that. Billy could've got an easy $100 or some of the good weed Tommy's always talking about Harrington having.

"And now you don't have to," Harrington says smugly. "I give you the knife, you give me the notes. I don't want you asking me a month down the track to give you like $80 or a bag of weed or whatever in return. So there's the knife, aaaaand we're even."

Billy glowers as Harrington grins smarmily at him. "Fine. We're even. Now fuck off, some of us got places to be."

Harrington dutifully pushes off the Camaro, walking backwards towards his own car a few rows over. "Cool. Give me the notes whenever this week."

Billy doesn't say bye, just gets in his car and drives off, studiously not watching the fading image of Steve Harrington in his rear view mirror.

...

Max loves the knife. She doesn't hug him, but she nudges his shoulder with hers and declares that she's going to tie it to her belt and carry it with her at all times from now on. Neil goes purple trying to hold back his commentary on just how ladylike and appropriate for a young woman that is. Billy gets a cuff to the back of the head later, but it's worth it.

Harrington does get to graduate. He leans over from his seat beside Billy's (alphabetical order) during the opening speech of the graduation ceremony and whispers closer than necessary into Billy's ear, "Thanks, man." He doesn't so much as glance at Billy for the rest of the three hour ceremony, or during the party later that night that goes until daybreak the next morning, but it's worth it.

Billy bides his time. He can handle one more summer if it means getting enough cash to be independent when he leaves for college in a few months. Neil sucks as much as always, and driving Max everywhere cuts into the hours he's able to put in at the pool, but when she drags him to the new mall after his shift and right into the blissfully cool ice cream shop, Steve Harrington's eyes catch tellingly on the bare skin between the bottom of Billy's crop top and his tiny, red shorts and it's so, so fucking worth it.

[ilovehighhats]

Missteps, Mad Max short story

One wrong step can take you in the right direction. 

The story was written for the amazing @ihaveauseforyou , who bid on me (I’m still amazed!) in Fandom Trumps Hate auction.  Thank you.

And for the hundredth time, I’m really, really sorry it took this long!!!

Here’s a link to AO3, if you’d rather read it there. 

Under the cut the first chapter - with pics!

MISSTEPS

oOo

PART ONE:

PERIL AT NIGHT

oOo

Life is cheap in the wasteland.

There are things that kill you with their absence. Water. Shelter. Food.

There are also things that can take your life because of the sheer abundance of them, a gluttonous surplus, pointless and unproductive. Heat. Speed. Stupidity.

My own stupidity has threatened to kill me countless times. At first, I fought it tooth and nail, then I welcomed it, but now it’s been my companion for longer than I care to remember. It’s like a cup of coffee in the morning, waking me up with an adrenaline rush of realization. A last-second stop over a chasm, final gulp of water from the canteen, not-too-distant roar of an unfamiliar engine behind me.

Funny, how its so familiar now that I act on pure instinct; duck and cover, freeze and observe.

The well I passed two days ago is right before my eyes. An indent in the ground on the precipice of a rock formation that used to have a name, once. In times, when people used to go here to experience a break from their comfortable lives. Now it’s just another eroded hulk, an oversized road-sign, telling everyone to keep away. Better to get around it, not over. What kind of idiot would try to go over, right?

Someone once or twice called me a fool. I never argued. Too true.

Yeah, so I failed the simple task of crossing over the mountain, which brought me back almost to the bottom of it, and then I thought, stupid, stupid, stupid, that the well I passed on my way will be as accessible now as it was two days ago.

Did I mention how stupid I am?

There are two cars there; some kind of abomination that used to be a jeep, and a sleek monster with a corvette-like body and then a bike, much like mine. As I watch they stop just before the well and start to lay down the camp. My lips mumble a litany of ‘fucks’, but it’s no use. It never changes anything, anyway. All I can do now is observe as the group cosies by my water, cutting off my lifeline.

I know there is no other water source nearby. I just drank the last of my supply. If they won’t move, I’ll be doomed.

As I mentioned, I’m stupid.

Fuck.

oOo

Morning dew is always a life-saver.

My eyes hurt from watching the camp until wee hours, trying to get as much information as possible. Patterns, characters, resources. So far it’s nothing too extravagant, and I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off sneaking in there while they sleep.

For now, I relish the ghost of moisture on my skin and think about anything but my present situation.

I can't remember the last time I took a shower. For sure, I have been cleaned, sometimes. Hosed down or gently sponge-bathed, rarely anything in between the two. But the last time there was an abundance of water, so much that I could submerge myself in it, or stand under the spray? Or use soap? Scented shampoo?

It used to be so normal, so natural. Not even a blink of awareness went with gallons of liquid poured down the drain. A lifetime ago.

The purr of the bike has me looking out at the camp again. They laugh, and for the first time among the baritone of male voices, I can hear a faint squeal or a scream.

Someone young.

Or a woman?

Sure enough, a lithe figure dashes toward the bike, followed by an angry shout and a bark of command. She’s overpowered in an instant, drag back to the shabby tent.

I can hear her yelling. Trapped animal, angry more than terrified, angry at her helplessness.

The man on the bike is laughing revving the engine and goes away leaving only mocking echo of his voice and a cloud of dust.

Two other get into one of the cars and follow.

All that’s left is a pair in a tent with a woman. She should keep them busy for a little while.

The opportunity is too sweet to pass.

So, the idiot that I am, of course, I’m going down the slope, trying to scale the rocks as stealthily as possible. The closer I get the better I see the camp, and the louder the screams are.

“What kind of moron taints the thing he wants to sell? Don’t you think they’ll see the marks? You’ll drive the price down by more than half, only to wet your dick for a second!”

Feisty little thing. If she lives through the ordeal, she’ll be back on those guys with a revenge like fire and fury. I know the strain in her voice; it’s not fear. It’s gulped down desire. She already relishes how she’d like to punish them. Too eager to get the upper hand.

Foolish, but understandable.

I listen to her ramble on about the money and the stupidity of the men who would spoil a prime-quality bloodbag, and I desperately try not to focus on her voice. Why won’t they just gag her?

But then, as I carefully fill the canteen, the woman’s voice stops abruptly, cut off mid-sentence. Muffled shrieks are all that follow, or perhaps it’s only my imagination. Maybe it’s another flashback.

I mumble to myself, trying to convince the ghosts beside me that what I’m thinking about is moronic, to say the least. Also, unpractical. Very dangerous. Sprog never understands. I have to be wiser than a child. But I know how a person feels when they’re seen only as a commodity. Only as a source of blood, or meat.

The liquid is almost overflowing in my water bag, and I still idle by the well. I should be running back to my bike, and getting the hell away from here. The sun will be up in no time, and I should be on my merry way nowhere.

The decision is made for me.

“Stupid cunt,” one of the man shouts, and then there's a flurry of movement. A pale figure leaps from the tent and dashes towards me, stopping after a few long strides.

I’m caught surprised, awkwardly crouched, almost as if my pants were around my ankles. Which is funny, seeing how the woman, stark naked in contrast to me, is proudly standing with her spine ramrod straight. She casts me a quick measuring look, processing the fact that I’m not one of her captors in a blink of an eye.

I’m still frozen when one of the men comes after her.

Her skin is white, abnormally so given the world we live in, and an unruly mane of dark hair is spilling down her shoulders and back. The sight is something I’ve seen before. It’s something I want to forget, and at the same time, I longed to see it again.

And here she is, a negative of a memory, blurring the reality.

Jesse.

The man lunges and grabs her hair, and she tries desperately to get free, to wrestle him away. Thin arms frantically punch, but to no avail. His knee is effortlessly and efficiently aimed right at her sternum, while he keeps her palm with a shank away with his free hand.

She crumples onto the ground after the blow.

A lifeless lump that used to be a person.

Jesse.

I’m moving out of pure reflex and muscle memory now. It’s not like I’m not aware of what I’m doing, no, I know exactly that my fist will connect with the man’s face, and that my other hand will cut into his flank, deep into the soft, unguarded tissue. I hear him screaming and cursing, and I muffle the noise with a well-timed jab at his throat. Gurgling is wet and strained. Faint.

His corpse falls down limply on the ruddy desert sand and I’m perfectly aware that I just killed a man. Somehow, it doesn’t register as an offence anymore.

The woman whimpers and my rage is gone in an instant, replaced by a muscle tightening horror. My head snaps to look at her, and I’m ready for another fight. I really thought she was dead.

Before I have a chance to get closer I see her hand gripping the handle of a gun on her assailants' belt.

“Wait,” I rasp out. My voice is harsh from lack of use, the only thing I’m using it now being mutters and whispers to placate my demons. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

A wet gurgle sounds somewhere behind her and she moves her head to watch the other man crawling out of the tent. I use that to kneel by her and grab the weapon. Not taking any chances.

Meanwhile, the man retches blood one last time and falls flat on his face. Apparently, that fucker took his time dying. With the last spasm, he aims something that looks like a cartoonish revolver straight at the skies.

I’m immobilized holding down the woman's hand and can only start my litany of ‘oh shits’  to accompany the brilliant path of the flare up towards the stars. It explodes over us with a perfect bang, marking the stagnant air with a vivid yellow cloud of dust and a blinding flash of light.

The woman trashes besides me and I move away, taking the weapon and giving her ample space. She gets up and looks at me, holding her stomach with an ugly frown barely visible from behind her hair.

Jesse had the same kind of a wild bush on her head. She used to complain so much about it until I told her how I loved it. The curls were like living things, always shifting and moving about, looking coarse but in reality soft to the touch like a kittens fur…

“They’ll be back soon.”

Her warning snaps me out of the flashback and I nod.

With an unspoken agreement, we gather everything that can be used as a weapon, keeping a keen eye on each other. She hides in the tent and I follow to watch her dress, making sure she didn’t sneak any gun by me. She tries to do just that, of course. A growl and a warning glance are sufficient to alert her that I’m there, and she sends me a spiteful snarl. But the gun is laid beside her, in my plain view.

The skin on my back crawls with unease as I watch her yank on clothes, a mismatched set of whatever is available or can be quickly torn off a corpse. She looks just as queasy with the prospect of trusting me with her safety, as I do with staying by her, but neither of us has the luxury of a choice. I motion for her to follow, a quick snap of my wrist towards the hills, and she hesitantly climbs after me to my perch over the camp.

The men don’t make us wait too long after all the mayhem with the woman took only minutes. The bike is the first to be back, sneaking in from the flank, headlight turned off. The sun is rising, and everything beyond us is shrouded in the last remnants of the night. Jeep is coming from the other side, revving loudly and with the crew yelling obscenities.

Idiots.

While she glances down, I make use of the distraction to gag and bind her.

oOo

The camp is emptied of life in short two minutes. All it takes is a little patience. The thugs roll in, discover their friends, and by the time they disperse to look for clues or hide in a tent I have two of them down. The one that’s left chooses the worst spot to hide, at the back of a car. A hole in the door is no loss. He should’ve got behind the engine, or the tank.

I get the first unhurried pick of the spoils. The clutter of ammo and foodstuffs is easy to navigate. Some useful trinkets, ropes, rags… But then, the cars. The Interceptor was one of a kind. Now, that I'm used to the Reaver,  his agility and mobility, I still miss the speed of a good V8. The roof and windshields, during storms. None of the pieces of crap here could compare. The comparison is not exactly what I'm going for, especially since it's the bike that I have to make do with.

Do I want to be a bigger target?

These past weeks and months had been calm, more than ever. It's easier to hide a bike, than a car. Less fuel is needed. It's not as valuable, like a house on wheels that a good car could be.

I won't be too greedy. Just want my peace and quiet.

Less and less things remind me of my past. The jacket went first, piece by piece. The Interceptor blown up, another one disintegrated by lowlife thugs, deep in the caverns of Furiosa's stronghold. Numerous trinkets I lost over the years, some without even realizing.

The only things I've left now is the harness and the pain.

The supplies I picked are enough to last me for long while. All in all, I'm done packing them in half an hour.

After I strap everything to the Reaver I get back up on the hill. The woman is panting through the gag, frowning up at me. It's weird, her eyes are almost shining in the dim light of the night.

I throw her a knife and part ways without a word. If she won't figure out how to get out of the binds, she won't be able to survive the wasteland anyway.

oOo

I used to like trees. The sweet and heady smell of pines hanging heavily in the salty air, as they sweated resin into the trembling air, was something I grew up with. There’s nothing nearly as sweet in this world anymore.

Or so I thought.

The woman is maddening. She keeps far enough that we don’t have to talk. But her silhouette is always in my peripheral. And wind sometimes brings a wisp of her scent. Despite the conditions - the dirt, the heat, the hopelessness - it’s unexplainably sweet fragrance. Just like pine needles warmed up by the sun. There’s an undertone that reminds me of the buzzing electricity in the air just before the storm.

Imagine that. A real storm, with water pouring down…

What would it take to lose her? The trailing is wearing on my nerves and I’m too exhausted by the ghosts haunting me, to have enough mental facilities for another person.

But then, so far she’s more like a dog, in her silent and distant companionship. I don’t have to talk to her. Only my demons.

Her schedule seemed erratic, but by now I’ve memorized her pattern. It’s strange but sensible: she walks mostly, saving fuel just as I do. And she's moving during the night as much as possible. I wonder what she’ll do once the Moon slims down.

Not my problem.

Somehow, she keeps up, for now.

oOo

I knew she would be trouble.

As soon as a shrub appeared behind one hill, I picked up the pace. It was getting dark, and I didn’t want to be near a potential food source during the night - too much danger - but then, I wanted the grubs. There’s gotta be grubs on a shrub.

Sure enough, it was Witchetty bush. A welcome surprise - I would have expected to see the first one way further East. But I’m not complaining. Far from it, I pick up my pace and survey the land before me in the fading sunlight. I thought the dunes would stretch further, but already the sand underneath my feet is coarser, rougher. There’ll be some more ergs on my way, but this is a welcome distraction.

With how flat everything is I’m pretty sure the woman would catch up to me in two hours at most. If she rides the bike, that is. I saw her last morning, circling close, but not too near. Still, the distance is small enough that I’m anxious just remembering that someone else is this close.

And I helped her get a working gun.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So, do I stay here for the night - that is the question.

Turns out it’s a no-contest - there were so many grubs in the dirt by the roots of the bush, that I ate my sweet share of them (mmm, almondy), and still had enough spare that I just had to roast them.

So I've set camp just by the wItchetty shrub, like a brainless fuck that I am. Rookie mistake. I’m so tired of the trailing though, I just want it to end - this way, or the other.

Would she kill me in my sleep, for the supplies and meat?

Quick night set above my head a while back when I was digging a pit for the fire. Scraps of wood and twigs from the bush are prepared beside it. I also made a hole to catch some water, and another one to relieve myself.

Now, all I have to do is to wait and see if my companion shows up.

Funny thing, I never thought a woman would trail me like a dog.

oOo

It’s well past sunset when I hear the faint roar of the familiar engine.

To think, I call myself stupid - what is left to call her, then? Retarded? Moronic? Few stubbies short of a six-pack?

Fuck. I’d drink a beer. Even a bloody shandy would be a godsend in this wasteland. Anything cold. Or with ice. When was the last time I saw ice with my own eyes?

The bike revs closer and closer. Not going to stop? She is a little too far to the North, to get where I am.

Does she even try to get here?

Before I grasp the meaning of her idiotic action, she wheezes past me, like a brain-dead twerp, roaring on the bike in the dead of the night. In total fucking darkness.

What the actual fuck?!

Up until now, I had a shred of expectation that perhaps her fast pace was due to some devilishly intelligent plot. Perhaps she could be some intuitive genius of the wasteland, utilizing some secret knowledge I didn’t yet possess.

But no. She was just undeniably stupid.

How disheartening.

I wait until the sound of the engine dies down and only then I light the fire. The pit shields the flames, and I have all the warmth to myself. In a minute I’ll cook the grubs, and eat two or three more. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow.

I wonder, if I’ll tread past the woman's lifeless body, or if the desert will bury her. She is too lucky anyway, to live through night riding in an unfamiliar terrain. Sooner or later she’d have to hit a bump.

For once, I fall asleep almost peacefully, with the bike behind my back, and the knowledge that no one trails close behind.

Sprog laughs as if the child could know something I don’t.

oOo

I jerk awake, startling a lizard which perched on my chest. Good thing it wasn't a snake. Out of pure reflex, I grab the creatures neck and wring it with a flick of my thumb. That’s breakfast.

Lucky me.

That toothless granny (what was her name?) chuckles with Sprog. Since when do those two keep together?

The camp is wiped in a minute, and after a leisurely leak, I ready to head my way.

Two minutes later I get why those fuckers were bawling at my shaggy head.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The woman turns out to be more intelligent than I gave her credit for. I stop at the tracks she left last night. Must have circled my camp - on foot. But nothing is missing, and I didn’t wake up, or rather - I did wake up alive. So, what was she doing that for? Why waste time and energy?

Should I trail after her now?

As I turn to look the way the woman went, Sprogs angry face whips right into my field of vision. A flash of memory, stop! Stop! Stop those bloody cars! - in an instant reduces me to my knees, whimpering. I barely feel fingernails digging into my scalp, for once conscious of how long and tangled my hair has gotten.

I should get up and run from here, but I can’t. The sand is still cool, as I weep futile and angry tears, looking straight into those icy blue eyes. Just like Jesse’s.

Why does it still hurt after all those years? Why does it still feel so recent, so real, so fucking raw?

After I’m done gripping elusive fistfuls of sand in an attempt to calm myself I start on my way. The opposite of the woman’s trail.