Title. Half-Truths
Summary. He doesn't say it out loud, never says it out loud, but she can tell from the gleam in his eyes that it is exactly what he's thinking. He always had been good, scarily good, at speaking volumes with just a blink, a glance, a stare.
Spoilers. None.
Rating. T for mild swearing / foul language.
A/N. I'm not sure what to say about this, really. It was just something that I really wanted to write, and I'm glad that I finally have. It's horribly short, but I suppose it works decently enough. No names are used in this, so you can imagine 'him' and 'her' to be whomever you'd like. And, lastly, the hyphen didn't work in the official title, so there's just a space instead.
Disclaimer. I do not own Flight 29 Down or its characters. I am not profiting from either in any way.
Half-Truths.
Bitch.
He doesn't say it out loud, never says it out loud, but she can tell from the gleam in his eyes that it is exactly what he's thinking. He always had been good, scarily good, at speaking volumes with just a blink, a glance, a stare.
It will never happen.
She cringes as she sees the way his eyes roll, sarcasm in his stance and scorn in the tilt of his head. Instinctively, never really thinking about it, she shrinks back, folding her arms over her chest as she slouches. Even as she nods, agreeing with his silent proclamations, she curses herself for being unerringly like what he wants her to be.
I don't want to hear it.
He shakes his head, but she doesn't catch it because she's staring at her feet. She is apologizing quietly, shamefully, to the asphalt beneath her shoes, the same shoes she had thought cute a month ago when she had bought them. Now, under his scrutiny, they seem cheap, ugly, worthless. Something inside of her screams at the thought. Kind of like you, it hisses.
Why do I bother?
It hurts, she cries, it hurts. It hurts so much. The words she wants to say, needs to say, are caught in her throat and she can do nothing more than swallow them. They sting as they travel down her oesophagus and land, sickeningly, in her stomach. They stay there, every single one of them, along with all of his wordless half-truths, in one collective, painfully heavy, heap.
You're such a waste of time.
Do you believe that, she imagines herself asking, is that really what you think? She already knows the answer, it sits somewhere in the back of her mind, dormant and hazy. The energy to search for it escapes her, though, sliding through her fingers to be swept away by the next breeze. She wonders if she might simply slip away, too.
A cowardly, useless slut.
She knows this is wrong, somehow she does, and she wants to yell at him, slap him, mutely abuse him as he has her, but she finds that she can't. The weight of her stomach is too much, too heavy, and she can't bring herself to push it away from her, off of her. Defiance, she finds, defeated when she realizes it to be true, is easier to voice quietly, if at all.
Damn it.
A/N 2. As has been said, I don't really know about this. For some unexplainable reason, though, I think I like it.
As always: comments are appreciated, flames are accepted, and constructive criticism is absolutely adored.