( part of him wishes she'd be rougher about it. it feels like the blood's in every line and crease and whorl of his fingerprints, even though he knows it isn't. christ, he feels like a walking cliche, that unhinged parable of a soul that's scrubbing their hands bloody in a sink after some traumatic event.
he closes his eyes. deep breath. five things. fridge, stove, knife rack, window, flora. )
The cabin. (four things. countertop. glass. towel. flora. ) It's out of the way.
no subject
he closes his eyes. deep breath. five things. fridge, stove, knife rack, window, flora. )
The cabin. ( four things. countertop. glass. towel. flora. ) It's out of the way.