old: Unbroken .3

3. Claire

“Alright, Honey, that’s me out,” I call, setting the last of the books on the shelf. Honey’s white-haired head pops out from between two dusty bookshelves to my right.

She frowns at me down her long nose, her deep-set eyes crinkling behind huge thick-rimmed glasses. “Out of what?”

I smile at her absent-mindedness. “Out of the shop, Honey. Like, finished for the day?”

Understanding dawns on her slightly-wrinkled face. “Of course,” she corrects herself, giving me an affectionate smile. I grin back at her. “I’ll see you on Friday, dear.”

“I can’t. I've got that wedding thing, remember? I’ll be free this time next week, though, back to normal.”

Honey frowns again. “I don’t know why I'm forgetting so much today,” she mumbles, shaking her head as if she’s confounded. “Until Tuesday then. Thanks, Claire.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, nodding when I pass her as I make for the tiny staff-room/office/hide-out hidden behind the cashier’s desk.

The smell of the staff-room is as overpowering as ever: jasmine cologne, rich roasted-bean coffee, and that unmistakable musty smell of old-book that I’ve gotten far too used to.

Grabbing my rucksack from behind the door – where I’ve habitually been dropping it since the day I started working here – I glance at the low table in the centre. Lying on its pale chipped surface is a tall stack of stiff-spined books.

I groan inwardly. Revision textbooks.

“Uh, Honey?” I ask, sticking my head out the door. Too late, I realise I’ve interrupted her as she’s counting bills from today's business.

She huffs and raises her head to glare at me.

“Oops…”

“What is it, dear?” she says snappily, turning back to the transactions’ logbook; I can see the gilded golden mimic of the sign outside - ‘Bookberries’ – at the top, the writing faded as ever.

“This pile of school books on the coffee table, is it for me?”

“Hmm?” Her concentration is back on counting the transaction profit.

“Did you set aside the syllabus material for me?" I continue, oblivious to her lack of interest. "You didn't have to do that! I mean, I'm really grateful but I can just revise from my notes, and school doesn't start for another couple weeks. I don't need to take-" I stop gushing and sigh as I realise she's not listening. "Honey?”

“Yes, dear,” she says absent-mindedly, twirling a stray strand of hair that escaped her bun as she chews on a pencil, and I pretty much hear the cogs in her brain whirring with numbers as she counts mentally.

I keep my gaze on her for a heartbeat, amused, then turn back to regard the intimidating tower of study material apprehensively.

I can feel the headaches already.

Resigned to my fate, I let my bag slip from my shoulder to rest on the ground beside the table, and crouch down to pack the books.

 

***

“This. Is. Hopeless,” I groan, letting my head fall forward onto the paper-strewn desk.

I’ve been stuck ‘learning’ from the same freaking page about some stupid Newton's law and the freaking application of said freaking law for a freaking half freaking hour.

Frustrated, I drop my pencil on the jumble of numbers in disgust.

“Looks like you’re having a blast,” an amused voice says from behind me. I swivel round in my chair to be met with warm dark eyes.

An easy smile finds its way to my face at the sight of him. “Hey, Mark,” I say sweetly, trying to disguise my surprise at seeing him here. I didn’t know he was into books.

He gazes down at me curiously. “What’re you doing?”

I look down to see a few of the textbooks I borrowed from Bookberries scattered around the table– some open on random pages, others piled under stacks of notepaper – and hasten to sweep away the mess from the chair beside me. “Holiday homework,” I say sheepishly.

Pulling the seat out, he flops into it, his grace effortless as ever. He peers over the arm I’ve sneakily draped over my attempts at calculating forces. “Physics?” he asks innocently, an eyebrow rising ever so slightly.

I shrug, looking down at the page. “If you want to call this” – I hold up the scribble-infested page ruefully – “the correct application of mathematical calculations, then yes," I grin. "Physics.”

He laughs at my poor attempt of humour, and my heart swells a little. “What’re you doing here?” I ask, trying to fake disinterest; in all my camp-out library sessions this summer, I haven't seen him here once.

He smiles, sits back in his chair lazily, and holds up the book I hadn’t noticed in his hand before.

My eyes curiously scour the front cover: Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. “Did you like it?”

“I haven’t read it,” he smiles. “I just got it out. My mum recommended it.”

“Oh, okay.” I pretend to be rifling through one of the many piles of notes I’ve accumulated. “It used to be my favourite book. It's a fantastic novel; I'm sure you'll love it.”

“You’ve read it?” I look up to see faint surprise on his face.

“Yeah, why?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.

“I don’t know,” he says noncommittally, now looking a bit embarrassed.

My eyes narrow slightly. "Explain, please?"

He takes a deep breath – clearly trying to hide his smile – and pretends to focus on his book. “Nevermind, Claire.”

I can’t hold back a groan. “Again with the ‘nevermind, Claire’. You said you’d stop the neverminding.”

He doesn’t raise his eyes from where they’re focused on the first page, but I see a half-smile form on his lips. “I can’t help it. You make me want to nevermind.”

“T-that…” I start, trying to think of something to say. Nothing comes to mind though, so I let it go and sigh. “That’s not even correct English.”

His smile widens, but he doesn’t answer, choosing to instead concentrate on his book. I turn back to my Physics torture, trying to keep the butterflies that seem to be fluttering around my stomach at bay.

“Claire?”

“Y-yeah?” I stutter, broken from my reverie to see Mark looking at me inquisitively, a nervous look about his eyes.

“You wanna grab an ice-cream or something?”

My eyes widen comically. “Uh-I mean-Y-yeah, we-I-uh-I don’t like ice cream.”

What?!

He laughs as I facepalm. “I don’t know why I said that,” I mumble into my wrist, feeling heat in my cheeks.

“We could always get a slurpee or something instead,” he says good-naturedly, watching me intently.

“I do like slurpees,” I say meekly, because I can’t think of anything else, and my mouth’s suddenly got its own agenda.

“Well, that’s great,” he grins cheekily. “So, uh… Do you want to?”

I stare at him, open-mouthed – and scarlet-faced too, I’d wager. Is this a date? Maybe he’s just being friendly? Maybe it’s a pity date! Oh, I don’t want to go on a pity date! That defeats the whole point. Or maybe I'm over-thinking and he just has a craving for something cold. Which is weird, considering it's the coldest day of the holidays so fa-

My inner turmoil is interrupted by Mark’s laugh. “Feel free to answer sometime this year, Claire."

Oh.

I flush, staring down with such ferocity that a hole could fizzle into the table, and not surprise me. “Y-yes, please,” I mumble weakly. “A slurpee would be nice.”

He nods, like he expected me to say that; well, of course he did, he wouldn’t have asked otherwise, would he? I argue mentally. I don’t really mind if he’d presumed I would; Mark asked me on a date, you won’t find me complaining.

He’s looking at me with a weird expression again. “You zone out so easily,” he points out.

I take a deep breath, ignoring him, and try to diffuse the colour from my cheeks. “Should we go?” I ask, my voice too high-pitched.

“Sure.”

He gets up in one fluid motion, slips his book into an oversized pocket on his shorts, and watches in silent amusement as I frantically stuff the mess on the table into my bag.

“Do you want some hel-?"

“Oh, no, no,” I keen, my voice an octave higher than usual. I clear my throat discreetly. “I’m good,” – great, now I sound like a man – “thanks.”

He chuckles and nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets; my eyes wander to the edges of the sleeves of the light-blue t-shirt he’s sporting despite the cold outside; oh… he’s got muscles.

I glance away – mostly to cover up my blatant ogling – and my gaze strays across the clock on the far wall.

I gasp, and then flush because it sounds so melodramatic; but still, how can it already be quarter to four? I have to meet Damien in 15 minutes!

Well, damn.

“Mark…” I mumble dejectedly. “I can’t.”

I heave the bag up my shoulder – it wouldn’t even close properly after my unconventional packing up– and look up to be met with his unreadable eyes.

“Why not?” he asks, a tone I recognise well in his words; I’ve used it often enough around him - the ‘totally-not-interested-pfft’ voice.

I smile at him fondly. “I just remembered, I have to meet with a, uh” – I hesitate for a heartbeat – “an old friend.”

His eyes are still a bit suspicious but I see his shoulders relax a bit, and I fight the urge to ‘aww’ at him. “Is this some secret boyfriend that you’ve made plans to elope with and make hard passionate love to nightly?”

I snort, my muffled laugh too loud in the quiet hum of the library. A middle-aged man at a computer work station throws me a dirty look, and I try to look contrite, despite the laughter escaping through the hand on my mouth. “No! Of course not!”

“Well, good,” Mark mumbles, looking pleased with himself. Another wave of giggles comes over me. He glances down at my hopefully. “Maybe another ti-?“

“Yes,” I cut him off eagerly. “I mean, uh…” I scramble around for another word, in the end coming up with another oh-so-intelligent, “Yes.”

I shrug sheepishly, and he grins. “Awesome.”

***

Damien.

Just the name sends a tiny thrill of anticipation through me.

Despite the slurpee-date I’ve given up, I’m excited.

I’ve not allowed myself to think about this since Saturday when I called him – oh God, when I called him freaking hourly – because I don’t want to subconsciously make up some stupid expectations.

I mean, he might be totally normal, totally okay, and just show up out of courtesy. Or he might not even come; maybe he thinks I’m weird for calling him.

I think I’m weird for calling him, so I’d forgive him that assumption.

But then… What his mother did…

I shudder without meaning to and realise with a start that I’m cold. Glancing around again – looking out for anyone who looks remotely like the gangly unhappy boy I knew at twelve years old – I’m dismayed to see no one who resembles him.

Or at least, resembles the weird image of him I have in my head. I mean, I’m thinking of him as what he used to like stretched out like a picture, for God’s sake.

I groan again inwardly, asking myself for what feels like the hundredth time what drove me to do this.

A sudden thought flashes through my mind, and I frown, knotting my fingers together; I know why I did this. And I’m glad I did this, I’m glad I called him.

Someone needs to make sure he’s okay.

I look around again before checking the time; it’s nearing twenty past four. Is he even coming?

I take a deep breath of the cool air, and wrap my coat tighter around myself. Please be okay. Please come.

My thoughts stray to a messy dark room and a motionless figure leaning against the foot of a bed, staring blankly ahead.

Is that what Damien’s like now? I try to shake the image away, but I still see my brother, dirty stained clothes, greasy lank hair, and deep-set haunted eyes.

No-one should have gone through what he went through.

Wet streaks shine on his cheeks, reflecting the light slipping through the open door that I’m standing in.

Is anyone there for Damien? Or do they treat him like they did my brother? I reach out to touch him but he flinches away from me, and I feel the familiar prick of tears in my eyes because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do and he just keeps looking at me with those lost, dead eyes-

“Shit!”

I’m jolted from the memory as someone curses under their breath nearby. I scan my surroundings, relieved, to see a young man stumbling to his feet a couple feet away from me.

A few people walking by give him a disinterested glance, some amused, others concerned. However, I can’t tear my eyes from him; there’s something familiar about the way his dishevelled brown hair - so dark it looks almost black in the shade we’re standing in- falls across his forehead and eyes.

He gets up, one hand on his knee and the other on the wall, and I take in the tan skin of his hands, the undone laces of his black converse, the crumpled jeans and pale checked shirt he’s wearing over a black tee that fits his lithe frame perfectly, the sleeves of the open button-up rolled up his forearms.

I note dryly that he looks like he just got out of bed.

I still don’t recognise him, not until he’s fully upright and runs one hand absent-mindedly through his unkempt hair, sweeping it up and away of his face.

My gaze widens as I glance up to be met with eyes so hazel they're almost amber-yellow. How could I have forgotten his eyes?

My breath comes out in a quick gust. “Damien.”

old: Unbroken .2

2. Damien

It’s a girl.

“Um… Hi.” Scuffling. “You’re probably not home right now. I mean, you might be and you’re just choosing to ignore this message..." She laughs hesitantly. "Which is cool, I guess. You don’t even know me. But, um…” I hear her sigh. “Sorry, I’m being so awkward. Can you just ca-”

The message cuts off.

What?

What the hell was that about? I roll my eyes while the phone operator tells me to dial one to save. Rolling across my bed, I reach out and slam a finger down on ‘3’.

The landline pauses for a second. Message deleted. No new messages. Return to main me-

I hang up.

***

The second message comes about five minutes after I deleted the first.

“Hello? Hello?”

It's her again. Whoever she is.

I guess the voice is supposed to be familiar. Whatever, I don’t recognise her. No-one I know would bother to call me on my house number, anyway.

***

I’m lying on my back, facing the dark ceiling of my room. My legs are sprawled haphazardly across the bed, one arm draped over my eyes and the other hanging off the side of the bed-frame.

I’m trying to sleep, but the silence is too fucking loud.

Every breath is magnified, every thought is dragging and racing simultaneously, every little moment becomes momentous.

And it’s making forgetting kind of difficult.

A frustrated sigh leaves my lips and I run a hand across my face, irritated. I can feel the stubble that seems to permanently ghost my chin bristle across my palm. The sensitive skin around my black eye stings, but I find myself digging my fingers into the flesh until the pain is almost takes over any other thoughts.

But not quite.

Sleep refuses to come no matter how hard I chase it, so I heave myself up on my hands. My head hangs loosely on my shoulders and my eyes remain closed.

The cool breeze from the fan feels relaxing as it floods around me, bathes me. The corners of my lips begin to rise subconsciously. I take a deep breath through my mouth until my lungs are fit to burst, and let it out in a quick rush of air. It’s the closest I’ve been to peace for a long time.

That’s when their voices sneak up on me.

“Freak.”

So sudden it makes it hard to breathe.

“Loser.”

I can’t breathe.

 “Full of shit.”

I don’t want to.

“Psychopath.”

I try to shake the thoughts away but they won’t go; it’s like they’re clinging to my memory, glued to my mind, etched to the inside of my skull.

“You aren't wanted here. Go home. Wait, do you even have one? No mommy, poor baby. Miss her, do you? Come on, baby, weep on our shoulders.” Laughter. “Faggot.”

They’re as insistent as they were at school, as determined as they always have been.

“I’m going for a hair cut later.” Meaningful glares. “Sir, can I get some scissors, I need to cut this paper. Wait, don’t give him any, sir!” The laughter, the ever-present laughter. “Son-of-a-bitch. Dead bitch. Killed her yourself, I bet. Did you rub off on her, emo? Huh? Did you, fucker? Did you convince her?” Laughter. “I bet you handed her the pills. Did you? Did you, freak?”

Did I?

Did I, freak?

***

“Mom?”

His voice resonates through the house. He pauses, blinks. Waits for an answer.

“Mom, I’m home.”

Again, there’s nothing.

His alert eyes dart across the hallway, pausing on the staircase as they take in the eerie silence. She’s usually cooking, and she always hums when she cooks.

“Mom? You home?”

She should be home right now. She’s never missed Monday night; she’s home before he is, without fail. It’s her one night off and she refuses to ‘waste’ it. She refuses to spend it anywhere but with her son.

He stays still, waiting to hear her voice or find a sign to indicate her presence. He needs to know if she’s okay.

He’s probably just exaggerating.

But.

“Damien?”

He’s surprised at how very relieved he is when he hears her call his name from upstairs; the tension evaporates and the house looks warm again.

“Mom?” he calls. “I just got home.”

There’s a pause. “Oh… welcome home, honey.” Her voice sounds shaky. He frowns.

“Mom, you okay?” he asks her, one foot setting down on the first step of the staircase.

Another pause. He hears the shower start. “Yeah.” Her voice sounds off even through the faint pitter-patter of water. “Fine.”

His stomach is growling. “Alright, then.” He blames the shower for the strange tone in her voice. “Be up in a bit, just gonna eat something.”

“… Okay.”

He starts to walk to the kitchen, not hearing the next words clearly. He pauses at the sound of her voice. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Just saying I love you.”

He’s taken aback. “You too, Mom.”

It’s half an hour before he goes upstairs. There wasn’t any bread so he just grabbed the tub of leftover ice-cream. Half-empty due to last night’s feast when he’d pigged out while staying up for his mom. He’d needed money for groceries.

Yeah, he decides. It’s a good idea to have a quick shower, freshen up, before he starts on tonight’s work. He’s still got to clean the clothes. His mother’s scrubs aren’t ready for tomorrow, and she’ll stress out about it if he puts it off any further. He’s got to get gas for the car, and buy more food, and not to mention that the living room’s a dump. As well as his homework, and dinner since his mother didn’t manage to cook anything.

He’s pissed. Why was it so hard for her to cook dinner? It just adds another hour to his list of chores.

Still, having a shower now is the best idea; he’ll be too tired for it later.

He stands outside the bathroom door for a bit, listening for any sign that his mother is still using it. He doesn’t hear anything. She’s probably fallen asleep on her bed, or worse, the couch downstairs. Weird that he didn’t hear her go downstairs, but.

The door is unlocked. He opens it and pushes it wide before remembering that he hasn’t brought a towel. He grabs one from the linen cupboard. The towel he’s chosen has a rip in the right corner. He inspects it as he walks inside.

It’s frayed at the top. Pale yellow.

He drapes the towel over the bathtub that’s never used, giving him easy access to the soaps that rest at the foot of the tub.

He doesn’t notice his mother until his shoe scuffs the bottle. The rattles of the three pills left in it clink around in the glass and echo around the room, and he doesn’t know what the sound actually is until he crouches down and inspects the bottle.

He had fetched his mother two of pills from this bottle in the morning. It was almost full.

His eyes rise slowly.

He doesn’t know what to feel, even when his eyes reach the still hand, the matted hair, the white skin, the shallow face that mirrors his own.

Surreal.

Saliva and white powder on the floor. Something red.

Her eyes stare at him. He stares back, still crouched. He can’t breathe. Her eyes don’t see him, but he feels like he’s being scrutinised.

Hollow.

His legs cramp and he falls forward onto his hands and knees. He still can’t breathe. He won’t, she won’t, and the bathroom is too quiet.

She continues to stare at him.

There’s a bottle of bleach in her other hand. Blood dribbles down her chin. Dried.

Still staring.

A scream.

A scream?

***

A scream, slicing through the silence and wrenching me from the nightmare.

Shrill, demanding. Periodical.

My eyes snap open as I draw in a rattling breath.

The phone is ringing, too loud in a house that is too quiet. It sounds like a shriek. On and off. Screeching. Ringing.

I don’t make myself move, just letting it ring a few more times before voicemail cuts in. My chest is rising and falling rapidly; I have no idea I’m gasping for air until the wooziness comes, bringing dizziness and drowsiness hand in hand.

I let out a low groan. “Jesus Christ.” I haven’t had a nightmare that bad for a while. “Shit.”

The taste of bile in my throat brings the threat of upchuck, and I make an effort to reach the bathroom before it comes up.

The bedsprings creak loudly and my head feels heavy enough to take me under, but I’m determined to get off this fucking bed. It’s time to face the day. I should check the time, but it’ll probably make me cringe, so I don’t.

My stomach flips and I taste vomit, so I hurriedly slam the bathroom door open and crouch over the toilet for a good five minutes and it’s fucking unpleasant, but what else can I do?

When I’m sure I’m finished throwing up, I straighten my back and run my hands through my hair. My throat burns. I curse lowly, and try to rinse the sickening taste from my mouth.

No matter how much freezing water I splash onto my face, I can’t shake the feeling of disgust. My stomach feels queasy, my head is splitting, my hands won’t stop trembling and it’s a struggle to push the memories into the back of my mind.

I feel crap.

And after catching sight of my reflection, I can see that I look even worse. Which doesn’t help.

I notice the bruises, the shadows under my murky eyes, the stubble, and the shaggy over-grown hair. I trail the outline of one of the older bruises on my left cheek with my forefinger; it’s starting to yellow, now that the majority of the purple is gone. It looks weird against my skin. Like stage make-up.

It looks wrong, out of place.

I look wrong.

Once I finish cleaning up what didn’t projectile itself into the toilet basin, being careful to keep my gaze low and away from the mirror as I wash my hands, I make my way back into my bedroom.

I don’t really know what I want to do with myself but I’m convinced that another nap wouldn’t be the best idea.

And I can’t help but be hyperaware of the fact that I’m keeping all thoughts away from the nightmare.

But I can’t help it.

“Damn it.” I groan into my hands, lowering myself onto the bed and resting my elbows on my knees. “Shit.”

A flashing red light catches my eye, and I’ve barely raised my head when I realise that it’s the answering machine on the phone.

I have a message?

I’m halfway out of the room before I realise that I actually want to hear it. That the message could help me. Distract me.

So I find myself clicking the little button on the top, and waiting. And listening.

“Okay, so hi again. This is like, the fifth time I’ve called you.”

“Third,” I whisper through the half smile that forms on my lips. It’s the girl again. It's like she just doesn't give up.

“Sorry for the weird previous messages, I… I don’t know what to say, this is a new thing for me. But, um…” She takes a deep breath. “I heard about your mother. And…”

What? My eyes widen in shock; I don’t even know this girl! I make to cut the message off, but her voice stops me.

“I know it's really weird of me to call you like this - I mean we never even spoke I think - but I'm worried and I hope you're okay.  Oh! I haven’t even mentioned who I am yet, sorry, um... I’m Claire. We knew each other when we were like, ten. Claire Stevens?" She laughs self-consciously.

“Um, anyway. You know the Starbucks on the main street? How about there? Can you just… Could we maybe please meet up for coffee or something? Next, um, Tuesday. At four? Or…” She laughs. “Hopefully see you there, Damien. Okay, bye bye. I'm gonna hang up now. Bye bye.” Shuffling. “Bye.”

old: Unbroken .1

This is the story of a boy and a girl who were never meant to meet, but did. She's reckless, he's running. She wants to experience, he wants to escape. Neither of them are looking for love, and neither can seem to avoid it.

"Promise me something. No matter where we go and what we do and who we become, you need to swear that what we have right now is real. Promise me you won't forget me." 

.

.

.

1. Preface

 It's raining, but I can’t find it in myself to care.

I don't care that my shirt is plastered to my back, or that my clothes are ripped, or that blood from the cut on my leg is staining the fabric of my frayed jeans. I just ignore the pain, not paying the least bit of attention to myself or my surroundings.

All my thoughts are focused on one thing, one point in my life. And I'm running to that one point; it feels the same as running for my life.

And the outcome’s the same either way, isn’t it?

I won’t be able to live if I don't get there in time.

My foot accidentally slams into a puddle, sending water flying; it runs up my shin and forms a freezing pool inside my shoe, soaking my socks completely.

But I don't care.

My heart's beating too fast; the blood pounding in my ears is threatening to knock me out.

It’s beating in sync with one name.

His name.

Him.

"Please!" I hear myself gasp, and I push myself even harder; I have to go faster, I need to save him.

I keep my head down and eyes trained on the ground, fearing the down-pour will blind me and steal my vision, even for a few seconds. Those would be vital seconds.

There's a group of primary-school kids exchanging candy at the upcoming corner, and as I go barreling through them, one of them exclaims, "What's your problem!?"

Another adds, “It’s Halloween, so of course freaks would be around, right?”

I hear the word ‘freak’, and a bitter sob threatens to leave me there and then. That’s what he used to call himself.

I manage to hold it in.

Faster, faster, faster! I yell at myself silently as my legs threaten to give way.

"Not yet!" I convulse, and I try to speed up even more. No way am I giving up. Not now, not ever. I’m not going to leave him alone.

I glance up, peering through the sheets of rain; the noise of people surrounds me, shrieks from kids trying to get out of the rain and stall-tenders scrambling to put up the waterproof coverings.

I've reached the Fair.

I scream his name but it's lost in the crowd of trick-or-treaters, the rain washing any volume away.

“This is hopeless,” I whisper angrily to the air, my eyes raking the crowd for any signs of him.

I shout for him again, hoping against hope that he hasn't gone through with it. He still matters so much, especially to me... He can't have gone through with it! I'm frozen to the spot, eyes racing everywhere for the familiar face.

"Where are you?" I plead to the rain. "Please, don't do this! I.. I-" My voice keeps catching as I try to push out the words. Why is it so hard!? A cry begins to rack through my body as my eyes repeat the motion of circling the Fair like crazy.

My eyes skim over a tree near the edge and it's there that finally, I see him.

Everyone else obviously thinks he’s just another act, another prank like all the others at the Fair, getting ready to put on a creepy show for the festive onlookers.

How could they know it’s not?

He’s standing on a dark wooden stool, his hands in his pockets. Casual, almost. The rope is snaked around his neck, and my eyes follow it to see it fastened to a high branch in the tree. It feels like my legs would have collapsed had his gaze not locked with mine. His eyes widen in shock as he catches sight of me. What’s he thinking?

Before I'm even fully aware of what I'm doing, I act on instinct, and shriek. It’s just a shrill noise, high and reedy, but it gets the job done.

The Fair is suddenly silent. There’s not a sound to be heard, other than the thundering downpour. My gaze is still locked on his. I can feel the hush gradually change to something sinister, something much more deadly as the crowd glance at him and begin to realize what’s actually going on.

"Please," I beg him, my voice so soft it's barely audible over the rain. "Please... you can't."

He looks broken.

His left hand twitches slightly at his side, almost like he's thinking about reaching out, like he's hesitant. He seems torn in such a vulnerable way that the tears in my eyes overflow. Of course, it's not noticeable through the insistent rain.

"No," I mouth soundlessly, keeping my eyes trained on his as I shake my head a fraction. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it again. 'No last words.'

He kicks the stool out from under him, and the rope tightens around his neck...