The tension snaps between them, a hint of something old and painful, and Ellie almost regrets it- it doesn't feel nice to fight with Abby, even if it's just this. They've been doing better with each other. Not gentle, but- enough.
Her expression settles inwards from the fighter Abby knew to the somewhat awkward young woman she's still learning, and Ellie bites the inside of her cheek. Try.
"... if you want to see it you can. There's just- some writing in there too."
Things that are more personal. But the drawings are of Abby, and that- well. That makes them hers too, in a way.
She reaches out to gather up the sketchbook, thumbing through the pages. Abby will get glimpses of things. A shambler in profile. Joel, with his eyes crossed out. Dozens of scribbled moths, over and over. Jesse, the man Abby had shot in the face in the theater- and finally Abby.
Ellie puts the sketchbook down on the desk, on top of the rest of her work. She places her hand across the text, but it can't hide all of it. The picture of Abby floats over a broken watch, scribbles of moths. A dozen shots of her eyes.
The words are crossed out in some places, like a draft. But words peek out, the end of each line, sneaking along the side of Ellie's cupped fingers.
When does it get quiet? heavier harder to breathe cut the cordrope cord?
cw: suicidal ideation
Her expression settles inwards from the fighter Abby knew to the somewhat awkward young woman she's still learning, and Ellie bites the inside of her cheek. Try.
"... if you want to see it you can. There's just- some writing in there too."
Things that are more personal. But the drawings are of Abby, and that- well. That makes them hers too, in a way.
She reaches out to gather up the sketchbook, thumbing through the pages. Abby will get glimpses of things. A shambler in profile. Joel, with his eyes crossed out. Dozens of scribbled moths, over and over. Jesse, the man Abby had shot in the face in the theater- and finally Abby.
Ellie puts the sketchbook down on the desk, on top of the rest of her work. She places her hand across the text, but it can't hide all of it. The picture of Abby floats over a broken watch, scribbles of moths. A dozen shots of her eyes.
The words are crossed out in some places, like a draft. But words peek out, the end of each line, sneaking along the side of Ellie's cupped fingers.
When does it get quiet?
heavier
harder to breathe
cut the
cordropecord?Can I leave it all behind?