( he makes a sound that's sort of like a harsh bark of laughter. you know, she has a point and he knows it. it doesn't last, and then he takes another somber drink of his orange juice. )
Sorry.
( he says it more out of reflex than sincerity. truth is, he's not entirely sure how he feels. badly, sure, but not... entirely apologetic. because she's right, he needed to do it for himself. he can feel bad for how he did it but not the doing itself.
he stretches his legs out, pushes the stool back away from the island. looks down at his hands briefly, flexes them. there's bruises beneath the skin across his knuckles. dead blood pulled up to the surface, yellowing with the age of the injuries.
more than anything, he's fighting the urge to. stop. stop talking, stop this. get up and walk out. it's what he always does with women when things get in too deep. without even realizing it, his breathing's ticked up. the slightest, faintest bit uneven. )
I know it's not the best, uh. You know. Coping method.
( but it's what he's got. he used to run himself down for it. sorry i'm a shitty person. he's mostly worked that out with himself. in the most awkwardly stilted tone she's probably ever heard out of him: )
I'll try and give you a heads up next time.
( because he can't promise there won't be one. he's not there yet. might not ever be. but, you know. he's not dead, and that's something. he left his gun in the lockbox under his bed when he left, that's something too. not that there wouldn't have been ways to orchestrate his death without it, but. it's the quickest, surest method, and it's the one he's sat up long nights with, letting the weight of it drag in his palm.
the truth was, he didn't really think of flora when he did it. he told bill, because she's been such a cornerstone of his life for more than half of it now. they've known each other twenty years, dated and married for ten. she's still the one he reaches for.
he does love flora, but she's part of his new life. not the old one that's ruled and ruined in equal measure by what the desert wrought in him. and when his past crept in and threw out all the progress he thought he'd made, he'd gone to ground.
it's funny. he doesn't really panic. anxiety has always been easy to keep at bay. but he can't get his breathing under control. can't even it out. can't regulate. christ, he wants to sink right into the floor. )
cw suicidal ideation;
Sorry.
( he says it more out of reflex than sincerity. truth is, he's not entirely sure how he feels. badly, sure, but not... entirely apologetic. because she's right, he needed to do it for himself. he can feel bad for how he did it but not the doing itself.
he stretches his legs out, pushes the stool back away from the island. looks down at his hands briefly, flexes them. there's bruises beneath the skin across his knuckles. dead blood pulled up to the surface, yellowing with the age of the injuries.
more than anything, he's fighting the urge to. stop. stop talking, stop this. get up and walk out. it's what he always does with women when things get in too deep. without even realizing it, his breathing's ticked up. the slightest, faintest bit uneven. )
I know it's not the best, uh. You know. Coping method.
( but it's what he's got. he used to run himself down for it. sorry i'm a shitty person. he's mostly worked that out with himself. in the most awkwardly stilted tone she's probably ever heard out of him: )
I'll try and give you a heads up next time.
( because he can't promise there won't be one. he's not there yet. might not ever be. but, you know. he's not dead, and that's something. he left his gun in the lockbox under his bed when he left, that's something too. not that there wouldn't have been ways to orchestrate his death without it, but. it's the quickest, surest method, and it's the one he's sat up long nights with, letting the weight of it drag in his palm.
the truth was, he didn't really think of flora when he did it. he told bill, because she's been such a cornerstone of his life for more than half of it now. they've known each other twenty years, dated and married for ten. she's still the one he reaches for.
he does love flora, but she's part of his new life. not the old one that's ruled and ruined in equal measure by what the desert wrought in him. and when his past crept in and threw out all the progress he thought he'd made, he'd gone to ground.
it's funny. he doesn't really panic. anxiety has always been easy to keep at bay. but he can't get his breathing under control. can't even it out. can't regulate. christ, he wants to sink right into the floor. )