(no subject)
The Blackest Hole
Ryan/Greta
For the July 10 prompt at we_are_cities
She gets physical pain sometimes due to her mental anguish. She feels it seep from her chest to her arms; she knows the path well enough to know it’s going to eventually reach her fingertips, maybe even her toes. And she sits, waits, quiet, with her eyes dull and sluggish, and she rubs an arm with her dry hand, and wishes.
--
He shuffles his feet and stares down at the tile. His check book starts to slip from his right hand, but he sort-of-awkwardly catches it with his left. He knew that the bank would be crowded now, with Christmas coming in a few weeks and people getting out of work for the day, but he wanted to get out of bed.
Lately, the hours drag on. So much so he can’t tell the difference between a minute and a day, or even her from everyone else.
--
She can’t close her eyes after reading all the notes that once meant something. It’s almost dawn, she has to work today and get to class on time, and she has that inkling he isn’t dwelling on her sorry self.
--
He writes furiously. His words are all abbreviated and messy, thick and smeared from when he went too fast. His professor is spitting out facts left and right. They’re all key facts that he needs for the paper due tomorrow. He hasn’t started. He hasn’t even thought about it.
The professor pauses.
He sighs and leans back in his chair. His wrist hurts; his knuckles need to be cracked. He looks around and a few rows up is her. Her blonde hair and jacket draped over the back of her chair. He feels something in his heart. Maybe it’s want…
He just missed the rest of the lecture.
--
She closes her notebook and slips it into her bag. Her head sort of hurts and buzzes from the cups of coffee she downed earlier. She doesn’t dare look behind her because she knows he’s sitting there, and she doesn’t want to seem desperate.
--
His paper isn’t even halfway done, and here he is staring out his window. His fingers are itching to get something done. He’s too stressed. His mind is wandering here and there, mostly to her.
He keeps on thinking that she is worthless.
--
She checks her email later and she wants to throw up when she sees his name. He sent her something. She wants to open it, and she feels flushed and honored, but at the same time she wants to rip him apart.
When she opens it, her heart stops. To see her name on the top, and to know he wrote it, makes her smile. But the words that follow are vicious.
--
He feels better when he sees that she has read the message.
--
She bites her lip. He’s not nice to her. He’s useless, and yet she’s clinging to him like a little girl. She shivers, feels her eyes well up, and cries with her head on her desk.
She had just thrown out those love letters she reviewed the night before.
--
He lies awake, sweating. His conscience is killing him. He knows how sensitive she is. He knows how much she hates the words he sent her. He has heard her cry many times before over other things, but now he’s the one she’s probably crying about. He’s inhuman. He’s a monster.
He rips the picture of her off his wall and throws it under his bed.
He couldn’t see her smile, but it haunts him all night.
Ryan/Greta
For the July 10 prompt at we_are_cities
She gets physical pain sometimes due to her mental anguish. She feels it seep from her chest to her arms; she knows the path well enough to know it’s going to eventually reach her fingertips, maybe even her toes. And she sits, waits, quiet, with her eyes dull and sluggish, and she rubs an arm with her dry hand, and wishes.
--
He shuffles his feet and stares down at the tile. His check book starts to slip from his right hand, but he sort-of-awkwardly catches it with his left. He knew that the bank would be crowded now, with Christmas coming in a few weeks and people getting out of work for the day, but he wanted to get out of bed.
Lately, the hours drag on. So much so he can’t tell the difference between a minute and a day, or even her from everyone else.
--
She can’t close her eyes after reading all the notes that once meant something. It’s almost dawn, she has to work today and get to class on time, and she has that inkling he isn’t dwelling on her sorry self.
--
He writes furiously. His words are all abbreviated and messy, thick and smeared from when he went too fast. His professor is spitting out facts left and right. They’re all key facts that he needs for the paper due tomorrow. He hasn’t started. He hasn’t even thought about it.
The professor pauses.
He sighs and leans back in his chair. His wrist hurts; his knuckles need to be cracked. He looks around and a few rows up is her. Her blonde hair and jacket draped over the back of her chair. He feels something in his heart. Maybe it’s want…
He just missed the rest of the lecture.
--
She closes her notebook and slips it into her bag. Her head sort of hurts and buzzes from the cups of coffee she downed earlier. She doesn’t dare look behind her because she knows he’s sitting there, and she doesn’t want to seem desperate.
--
His paper isn’t even halfway done, and here he is staring out his window. His fingers are itching to get something done. He’s too stressed. His mind is wandering here and there, mostly to her.
He keeps on thinking that she is worthless.
--
She checks her email later and she wants to throw up when she sees his name. He sent her something. She wants to open it, and she feels flushed and honored, but at the same time she wants to rip him apart.
When she opens it, her heart stops. To see her name on the top, and to know he wrote it, makes her smile. But the words that follow are vicious.
--
He feels better when he sees that she has read the message.
--
She bites her lip. He’s not nice to her. He’s useless, and yet she’s clinging to him like a little girl. She shivers, feels her eyes well up, and cries with her head on her desk.
She had just thrown out those love letters she reviewed the night before.
--
He lies awake, sweating. His conscience is killing him. He knows how sensitive she is. He knows how much she hates the words he sent her. He has heard her cry many times before over other things, but now he’s the one she’s probably crying about. He’s inhuman. He’s a monster.
He rips the picture of her off his wall and throws it under his bed.
He couldn’t see her smile, but it haunts him all night.