The sheets crinkle with the subtle shift of a boy making his escape. Low and easy, his movements metered in molasses, each toe, leg, elbow and finger emerging from the bed's confines as if aware, checking their coasts. The noise of the flaking blankets and deflating pillows are comparable to gunshots in Clyde's mind, each little tendril or pump of blood a riot in his ears. Escape, escape, escape. She wanted go. Demanded it. Wants nothing more than to keep her keen little bespectacled eyes on him. Needs nothing but his safe return. No greater gift than a promise kept. Clyde respected Lilly-Rae's wishes, even understood them. But in the warzone, in the mire, in the sh't—-he couldn't allow her there. She'd her share of blood and bodies, more than he ever wished. The boy often found his brows turned with an admiration for the girl, an admiration for her ability to take it. She was an astonishing creature, and for her his love was without measure.
That's why he was going alone.
Crisp, fit denim; An ugly, olive trench-coat; Wickedly-beaten, stock-thatched black-and-white 'Taylors; A pistol, four magazines, a hard pack of cigarettes and a smile. Found absently leering into the curt-return of his sulfur-stroked eyes, the boy yanks his wrist out of the mouth of his jacket to check the time. It was about time.
"The 'fck are you, Florence." Clyde draws upon the bristles allowed to reside upon his rounded jawline, the fingernail puncturing the flesh and aggravating the stubbles' roots; he winces; following the superstitious-rights penned from athletes en-route to a championship, Clyde never shaves before a job
Because he told himself it would be done when he got back.
Soft steps ache the soft beams below the rug as he nears the front-door. A horn sounds; not a beep nor scant honk; a drawn whine that pierces the silence he'd so-carefully built like a grenade in library. Fiercely he whips his head to the bedroom. Goddamnit, goddamnit! Please still be asleep!
That's why he was going alone.
Crisp, fit denim; An ugly, olive trench-coat; Wickedly-beaten, stock-thatched black-and-white 'Taylors; A pistol, four magazines, a hard pack of cigarettes and a smile. Found absently leering into the curt-return of his sulfur-stroked eyes, the boy yanks his wrist out of the mouth of his jacket to check the time. It was about time.
"The 'fck are you, Florence." Clyde draws upon the bristles allowed to reside upon his rounded jawline, the fingernail puncturing the flesh and aggravating the stubbles' roots; he winces; following the superstitious-rights penned from athletes en-route to a championship, Clyde never shaves before a job
Because he told himself it would be done when he got back.
Soft steps ache the soft beams below the rug as he nears the front-door. A horn sounds; not a beep nor scant honk; a drawn whine that pierces the silence he'd so-carefully built like a grenade in library. Fiercely he whips his head to the bedroom. Goddamnit, goddamnit! Please still be asleep!