02-05-2020, 08:11 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]For a minute there, in all his grief, Elwin considers hugging the legs of whoever stops beside him. That, of course, ends up being a stupid idea, especially once he looks up to see who has joined him in his sorrow.
Freddie’s hand sticks out expectantly. As much as he hates to see his smug face, his presence makes him feel somewhat better … if only by a miniscule, atomic amount. It’s just nice to have company, or at least the shame of another pair of eyes watching him, preventing him from doing anything stupid, either to this body or to himself. The urge to punish himself is bearing down.
He grabs the shovel and thrusts it into Freddie’s hand, eyes still fixed on the man’s body. He hasn’t stopped crying throughout any of this, merely reduced his pathetic wailing to even more pathetic sniveling. He’s sure he doesn’t look good, with wild, red eyes and snot dripping from his nose, so he doesn’t want to face the man and give him any more fuel. Right now, he just wants someone to pat him on the back and tell him it’s okay. There’s no one to do that, however, so this is the next best thing, right?
Freddie doesn’t ask what he did. Freddie doesn’t ask why, and in that moment, he appreciates him for that. Had anyone else found him first, he’s sure the ensuing interrogation would have only made things worse. He just needs to take care of the body, calm down, and hide for a few hours, before he goes to check on all the people he managed not to kill.
Even if Freddie didn’t ask, even if he doesn’t want to know, Elwin has to confess his sins to somebody. Well, it comes out in a string of slurred, rushed words as soon as he looks up, eyes brimming with tears once again as he now clutches at his broken, throbbing wrist.
“His lung collapsed,” he admits, “I killed him.”
And then he starts to sob all over again, forced to look away to spare Freddie’s poor eyes. He thinks he should be apologizing, either to the body or all the people he’s woken up with his cries, but he can’t get any more words out. Anything following that is just a sputtering, garbled mess of words, a pitiful attempt at explaining himself. He gives up, thinking he’ll be granted immunity for the five or fifty minutes he needs to collect himself before he admits to his crimes.
By this point, he’s run out of tears, which have dried in the frigid cold, so now all he can do is whimper and whine. Elwin rocks back and forth on his knees, looking erratic. He might as well get up and do something, if he’s done throwing a fit.
So he gets to his feet, dusts snow off the body, and finds himself staring straight at his mistake. The dressing, taped down in all four corners, stained with dry blood, is taunting him. When the man’s lung had collapsed, there wasn’t anywhere for the excess air to go. Not only did he have no idea what was going on inside his chest, he had no idea how to deal with it in the first place.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s—it’s okay, I can bury him.” He just doesn’t want to be any more of a nuisance, even if it means giving an ounce of kindness to Freddie. Despite his offer, he makes no attempt to take the shovel back, or even move from his spot.
“... thanks.” Let this be the only time Freddie ever hears that word come from Elwin’s mouth.
Freddie’s hand sticks out expectantly. As much as he hates to see his smug face, his presence makes him feel somewhat better … if only by a miniscule, atomic amount. It’s just nice to have company, or at least the shame of another pair of eyes watching him, preventing him from doing anything stupid, either to this body or to himself. The urge to punish himself is bearing down.
He grabs the shovel and thrusts it into Freddie’s hand, eyes still fixed on the man’s body. He hasn’t stopped crying throughout any of this, merely reduced his pathetic wailing to even more pathetic sniveling. He’s sure he doesn’t look good, with wild, red eyes and snot dripping from his nose, so he doesn’t want to face the man and give him any more fuel. Right now, he just wants someone to pat him on the back and tell him it’s okay. There’s no one to do that, however, so this is the next best thing, right?
Freddie doesn’t ask what he did. Freddie doesn’t ask why, and in that moment, he appreciates him for that. Had anyone else found him first, he’s sure the ensuing interrogation would have only made things worse. He just needs to take care of the body, calm down, and hide for a few hours, before he goes to check on all the people he managed not to kill.
Even if Freddie didn’t ask, even if he doesn’t want to know, Elwin has to confess his sins to somebody. Well, it comes out in a string of slurred, rushed words as soon as he looks up, eyes brimming with tears once again as he now clutches at his broken, throbbing wrist.
“His lung collapsed,” he admits, “I killed him.”
And then he starts to sob all over again, forced to look away to spare Freddie’s poor eyes. He thinks he should be apologizing, either to the body or all the people he’s woken up with his cries, but he can’t get any more words out. Anything following that is just a sputtering, garbled mess of words, a pitiful attempt at explaining himself. He gives up, thinking he’ll be granted immunity for the five or fifty minutes he needs to collect himself before he admits to his crimes.
By this point, he’s run out of tears, which have dried in the frigid cold, so now all he can do is whimper and whine. Elwin rocks back and forth on his knees, looking erratic. He might as well get up and do something, if he’s done throwing a fit.
So he gets to his feet, dusts snow off the body, and finds himself staring straight at his mistake. The dressing, taped down in all four corners, stained with dry blood, is taunting him. When the man’s lung had collapsed, there wasn’t anywhere for the excess air to go. Not only did he have no idea what was going on inside his chest, he had no idea how to deal with it in the first place.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s—it’s okay, I can bury him.” He just doesn’t want to be any more of a nuisance, even if it means giving an ounce of kindness to Freddie. Despite his offer, he makes no attempt to take the shovel back, or even move from his spot.
“... thanks.” Let this be the only time Freddie ever hears that word come from Elwin’s mouth.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug