She wears turtlenecks in the summertime and he has to pretend he doesn't notice. Because it's not his place to notice those things anymore and it was never his place to try and fix her.
He knows she doesn't want to be fixed.
In the aftermath he pretends to be her friend because nobody else will anymore. She's not the same girl with the idealistic blue eyes and the selfless heart. Rarely, when he can manage to meet her gaze he sees no life. She's the walking dead girl. The things she does border on a self-indulgence he has never witnessed, least of all coming from her.
And he manages a half-assed grin and listens to her admissions.
The things he never wanted to hear coming from her lips. Filthy words and filthy truths that shouldn't be, not for this girl.
But she's not the same.
He runs his fingers over her wrists, over the dried blood and beneath the fading scars. With a press of his lips against her skin he watches her wince and he can't differentiate whether it's from the burn of his spit or the repulsiveness of his touch. She paints on a smile, something much like porcelain and briefly he decides he wants to break her.
It's what he's good at. The things he cannot fix he breaks, and with each day that he assumes the responsibility of watching her die, he knows he's killing himself. It's what he's good at.
So he wants to take her down alongside himself. It's only fitting.
His days are getting longer and his patience is growing thin, but he won't snap at her. Everyone else becomes privy to his agression, but never her because the more he wants to break her, the more he wants to fix her.
She's the glass doll trapped in her case. The one thing he's afraid to let go.
"I hate you sometimes," she murmurs softly, looking at him as he cleans up a new set of cuts.
"Right back atcha."
He doesn't mean it. He never has.
He kisses her skin and her face contorts into something that looks unbelievably pained. With a sigh he tucks her into bed, knowing that he won't sleep.
But he never assumes what his place is. Inherently, he knows he doesn't have one.
She doesn't need to say it. Her apathy reads as a blatant warning, one he ignores consistently because he's sure he's masochistic.
Only it's something more than that.
He loves this girl, dead eyes, scarred skin and all. And he hates himself for it.
Her blood dances across her arms and folds into his palm.
He says nothing.
Only when he's sure she's asleep does he do anything impulsive. He runs his fingers through her hair, and before he can stop himself he breathes a kiss against the corner of her mouth.
She never notices.
Or at least she pretends not to, and that's okay with him because he can't bear to break her any more.
As she tugs on her long sleeves, he says something unapologetically sarcastic and looks away.
It's not his place to do anything else.
He knows she doesn't want to be fixed.
In the aftermath he pretends to be her friend because nobody else will anymore. She's not the same girl with the idealistic blue eyes and the selfless heart. Rarely, when he can manage to meet her gaze he sees no life. She's the walking dead girl. The things she does border on a self-indulgence he has never witnessed, least of all coming from her.
And he manages a half-assed grin and listens to her admissions.
The things he never wanted to hear coming from her lips. Filthy words and filthy truths that shouldn't be, not for this girl.
But she's not the same.
He runs his fingers over her wrists, over the dried blood and beneath the fading scars. With a press of his lips against her skin he watches her wince and he can't differentiate whether it's from the burn of his spit or the repulsiveness of his touch. She paints on a smile, something much like porcelain and briefly he decides he wants to break her.
It's what he's good at. The things he cannot fix he breaks, and with each day that he assumes the responsibility of watching her die, he knows he's killing himself. It's what he's good at.
So he wants to take her down alongside himself. It's only fitting.
His days are getting longer and his patience is growing thin, but he won't snap at her. Everyone else becomes privy to his agression, but never her because the more he wants to break her, the more he wants to fix her.
She's the glass doll trapped in her case. The one thing he's afraid to let go.
"I hate you sometimes," she murmurs softly, looking at him as he cleans up a new set of cuts.
"Right back atcha."
He doesn't mean it. He never has.
He kisses her skin and her face contorts into something that looks unbelievably pained. With a sigh he tucks her into bed, knowing that he won't sleep.
But he never assumes what his place is. Inherently, he knows he doesn't have one.
She doesn't need to say it. Her apathy reads as a blatant warning, one he ignores consistently because he's sure he's masochistic.
Only it's something more than that.
He loves this girl, dead eyes, scarred skin and all. And he hates himself for it.
Her blood dances across her arms and folds into his palm.
He says nothing.
Only when he's sure she's asleep does he do anything impulsive. He runs his fingers through her hair, and before he can stop himself he breathes a kiss against the corner of her mouth.
She never notices.
Or at least she pretends not to, and that's okay with him because he can't bear to break her any more.
As she tugs on her long sleeves, he says something unapologetically sarcastic and looks away.
It's not his place to do anything else.