[ She stalks away from the scene of her aggression, consumed with memories of violence, real and fantasized. Her eyes prickle hotly from all the fury and anguish she has no choice but to live with. He catches up to her but she can't stop moving. Or think of anything cuttingly brusque to say, just crowds and clusterfucks of words that are too revealing normally, let alone under the toxic shadow of her Ongoing Traumatic Stress Disorder.
If he can keep up, he can talk. He can see her fists, he knows the risks. ]
no subject
If he can keep up, he can talk. He can see her fists, he knows the risks. ]