spit_it_out | (no subject)

It is as easy as he thought it would be.

The driver thought he was mad when he got out in the wilderness. He walked without looking back; walked and walked until he was dizzy, and could not see for snow. He dropped his pack somewhere, tears frozen on his face, and kept going. There was no need for any of it.

And now he is at the sea. It hurts to breath, it’s so cold. His lungs burn with it, but he’s choking anyway, through visions of Betty with blood all over her face, and the knowledge that yes, he has to do this, and no, he does not want to never see her again. But there’s no choice. This hurts too much to keep going through.

He should have written her a letter.

He falls to his knees, and pulls the gun from his coat. It feels like it’s going to freeze to his hand, but so what? He takes one look up – ice, a sheer drop, the ocean. He can’t breathe. But no, he is not wrong to do this.

The gun tastes like snow.

It’s his last thought.

…but someone else does not like the taste of snow. Or hot metal. Or annoying grains of sand that think they could do him harm.

There is no one to hear the scream of fury, or the dull thud of fists hitting the earth. The ice cracks. The cliff slides into the sea.

And he has room to run.

He will find someone to hear him.