Glancing down, Anne watches as his head fell into his hand, and it makes her chest seize up a bit, makes her almost choke. There's a sense of guilt there, over them almost heavy enough to make a crack in her very soul, she swears. It's devastating. For a moment all she can do is keep pushing, keep going down that long and familiar path of inevitability. Pushing the wheelchair toward the final and painful end. No... wait... this isn't back then. It takes her a moment to shake herself back into what's really happening, look down at Murphy's head and remember that it's him. That this isn't that same walk, that Murphy is not doomed to die.
"It's okay. We all screw up. Just... forget it. I forgive you."
Or maybe he is doomed to die. Maybe they both are. Maybe they're both so broken that the cracks in them will fill with the pain and blood and decay in this place and split them open. Maybe she's doomed to walk this path forever. She doesn't know about Murphy, but she hasn't given up her ghosts. She feels like maybe, she's doomed to repeat all this pain, doomed to curl up in the dark with her ghosts and let them devour her bit by bit.
Something has to happen. Thinking this way, they maybe they're doomed, that Murphy is something that will always be doomed to slip between her finger makes her feel like something has to change. Maybe if she just makes one small push, in the direction of something warm even as their physical bodies move toward whatever darkness is in the direction they walk, that it'll change this pain. Maybe they won't be pushing at this metaphorical wall that seems to exist between them. Maybe they won't let their shared pain hurt each other.
In the dim and the bloody confines of this rusty personal hell Anne tries to ignore the squeaking of the wheels, the horrible stink of rot and death, of medicine, like painkillers that won't do anything to stop what's happening, the inevitable death of a beaten cripple...
Murphy is really the only thing to take her mind off of it, off of the unpleasantness and the pain. In a way, he always has been, even when it was because of her hatred. It's what causes her to make that push that she considered before, swallowing, and stopping momentarily in her movement so she can place a hand on his shoulder.
"Murphy I... I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what this place is going to do. But I know that... we might not make it. I can't pretend that I know for sure we'll be okay. So I... guess I'd better say this now, just in case I never get another chance." a deep breath, and she braces herself for whatever unhappiness might come from her next words. She needs to say them. She can't let them never pass her lips in case this is her last day, her last hour... maybe even her last few minutes. She can't predict this hell world. "... I love you."
no subject
"It's okay. We all screw up. Just... forget it. I forgive you."
Or maybe he is doomed to die. Maybe they both are. Maybe they're both so broken that the cracks in them will fill with the pain and blood and decay in this place and split them open. Maybe she's doomed to walk this path forever. She doesn't know about Murphy, but she hasn't given up her ghosts. She feels like maybe, she's doomed to repeat all this pain, doomed to curl up in the dark with her ghosts and let them devour her bit by bit.
Something has to happen. Thinking this way, they maybe they're doomed, that Murphy is something that will always be doomed to slip between her finger makes her feel like something has to change. Maybe if she just makes one small push, in the direction of something warm even as their physical bodies move toward whatever darkness is in the direction they walk, that it'll change this pain. Maybe they won't be pushing at this metaphorical wall that seems to exist between them. Maybe they won't let their shared pain hurt each other.
In the dim and the bloody confines of this rusty personal hell Anne tries to ignore the squeaking of the wheels, the horrible stink of rot and death, of medicine, like painkillers that won't do anything to stop what's happening, the inevitable death of a beaten cripple...
Murphy is really the only thing to take her mind off of it, off of the unpleasantness and the pain. In a way, he always has been, even when it was because of her hatred. It's what causes her to make that push that she considered before, swallowing, and stopping momentarily in her movement so she can place a hand on his shoulder.
"Murphy I... I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what this place is going to do. But I know that... we might not make it. I can't pretend that I know for sure we'll be okay. So I... guess I'd better say this now, just in case I never get another chance." a deep breath, and she braces herself for whatever unhappiness might come from her next words. She needs to say them. She can't let them never pass her lips in case this is her last day, her last hour... maybe even her last few minutes. She can't predict this hell world. "... I love you."