saoirse quinn
she/her
29
october 27
circhester, galar
bisexual
physicist / inventor
head scientist
every night i burn, dream the black crow dream
TAG WITH @lulu
Lulu Flint
procussionary (M)
POSTED ON Sept 17, 2020 2:39:21 GMT
a single brow quirked at him. “sounds like a cop t’me.” she responded, her voice cheeky. “cops mess shit up all the time.” they also broke up deals. many of them made their own decisions on what to do with people—i.e. take them home for questioning instead, as though they were some junkyard dog to feed before dropping off at the pound, or worse. no. no more pounds. just euthanize her. get it over with. it didn’t matter where the needle came from at this point, anyways. then, some minor clarity clawed its way to the surface, a protective demon. it made her heart pump faster when crimes were on the table, her will to survive suddenly rolling in the fresh dirt of its grave. she felt a sobering shift, willing her squinted eyes to solidify the wavering outlines of sénon, and gritting her teeth as though the pressure of her jaw would hold reality together. she breathed somewhat heavily, focusing, centering. lulu said nothing. instead, she sat, listened, knowing better even in her jumbled state than to give in to his monologue method. she still did not possess the presence of mind to control her features, however. she looked spooked, cornered, and a bit sad. there was nothing poker-face about it. the gangster, the killer; they had left the building, just like everyone else, leaving behind a twenty four year old kid who didn’t want to be caged, and didn’t want to die, and still didn’t entirely understand that neither of those things were about to happen. as his words continued, they assaulted her, and to defend herself, she put her arms around her head and lowered it to the table again. she only understood bits of what he was talking about. flashes of memory floated around like wisps. the rockets. a man with a gun. the koffing, the wall, the scream. and then that last part twisted something in her like a knife. everyone. and maybe he didn’t mean it like she heard it, but that didn’t matter. her head spun, and she felt sick, and her eyes looked for something in his, and a single tear rolled down her cheek for the first time since her first night in prison—and there’d only been one then, too. death loomed. she swallowed hard. the words that breathed from her lips were not so much to him, as they were the space in between them; to no one in particular, “i’m tired.” and there were no greater truths.
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