floratic:

FIGHT  OR  FLIGHTthere  it  was  again .  he  thinks  about  the  switchblade  sewn  into  the  pocket  inside  his  jacket  as  the  fucker  advances  on  towards  him .  and  in  tandem ,  one  step  forward , &  he  takes  a  step  back , again  &  again ,  until  his  back  finally  meets  against  the  wired  fence .  carefully ,  he  digs  his  hand  inside  his  jacket ,  considering  the  blade  ,  lightly  pressing  against  the  sharped  point  of  the  weapon  before  his  breath  stalls  by  the  mention  of  his  . .  boyfriend .   now ,  there  was  no  longer  the  tug  of  hesitation ,  but  he  cuts  through  the  air  with  the  switchblade ,  keeping  it  in  a  measured  distance  against  the  stranger  before  bracing  himself . 

❝ what’s  he  doing  out  here ? ❞    perhaps  the  right  question   should  have  been :  who  are  you ?  what  do  you  exactly  want  from  me ?  or  just  fuck  off .   but  the  memory  of  parrish  &  alexandria  catches  him  off  guard ,  &  for  a  second , a  flutter  of  quick  breath  drains  through  his  lungs .  what  was  he  doing  here ? — how  did  parrish  trace  his  footsteps ? 

 he ‘d managed  to  leave  the  town  as  safe  as  he  could ,  no  cookie - crumb  trails  left  behind  him  or  a  pathetic  mistake  left  behind  for  the  crops  to  sniff  him  out .  yet ,  parrish  was  here .  he  nearly  forgets  the  blood  welled  dark  against  his  face  from  the  prior  fight  against  a  group  of  thugs ,  of  which  he’d  avoided ,  but  of  course ,  not  without  a  blood - struggle .   

this  man  could  be  an  enemy  or  something  else ,  he  wasn’t  too  sure .  the  first  instinct  was  always  to  distrust , but  he  would  need  to  play  in  with  the  man’s  games  if  he  wished  for  answers .  the  daring , lop - sided  grin  on  the  stranger’s  face  seemed  to  agree  with  his  thoughts ,  the  blade  is  slowly  wavered  down  from  the  threat - filled  gesture .    ❝ —-killed  my  mother .  that’s  what  they’re  all  saying ,  ‘course  they  all  fucking  believe  what  the  press  says , i  dashed  out  from  that  hell - hole  before  they  could  swarm  over  me  like  maggots .  ❞     he  pauses  then ,  wonders  if  trading  his  truth  is  worth  the  risk  of  speaking  to  this  stranger .  distrust ,  elliot ,  distrust .  no ,  for  the  first  time ,  he  goes  against  his  instinct  ,  grasping  against  parrish’s  name  as  a  tug  of  hope .       ❝ my dad ,  the  sonuvabitch  killed  her .  sure  did  a  theatrical  job  telling  the  cops  that  his  drug - addict  delinquent  of  a  son  finally  went  out  of  control ,  all  because  his  mom  didn’t  let  him  take  his  pills  .  real  fukin’  funny  though ,  because  i’ve  been  clean  since  last  december .   ❞  

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His hands go up, but not with urgency; the action is slow and drawn out, and with the prospect of being stabbed with a switchblade, comes a bout of laughter, the most inappropriate action to such a potentially lethal situation. But he could see the exhausted way in which this frightened boy’s chest heaved for air, the weariness in the muscles of his arm that lifted the weapon. He was in no real danger, not from this kid. He was running on stale adrenaline, and it was going down, crashing hard and fast.

“You are quite the little character, aren’t ya? Got any more sharpened magic tricks up your sleeves?” He laughs again, raspy and cackling, throat shredded from smoking various things in pipes and bongs over the years. “And as for your adorable boyfriend, Parrish, he’s lookin’ for you, of course! What, you think you can just run away and no one’ll ever come after ya? Yeah, not quite. Been there, rode that angry pony, nearly got kicked off and landed on my ass. No matter how good you think you are at hiding your tracks, there’s always someone who’ll come sniffin’.”

He’s squinting now, emerald halos brought to half their size as he fully took in the extent of Elliot’s features, the blood caked against his face, some of it fresh, some dried and crusted against his skin in thick maroon flakes. “Jesus, I’m inclined to think the kid just followed the blood trail you’re leaving like paint on the sidewalks. You look like someone tried to give you facial reconstruction surgery with their fists.”

A look of concern flashes across his face, but he’s quick to hide it behind a chuckle. “Damn, they’re really trying to demonize you out there, huh? Media will do that. I don’t trust any of ‘em, no good fucking dishonest reporters. Always trying to put out a shocking story, truth be damned. If it means anything, I believe you. You wouldn’t have come all the way out here, lookin’ as horrified and fucked up as you do, if you werent innocent. Guilty people don’t have nearly as much sense of self-preservation.”

Looking at Elliot was becoming almost painful, what with the damage done to his body. Hearing his story was almost as rough. He couldn’t imagine it, his own father framing him for such a terrible crime. What kind of fucked up bastard did such a thing? And that thought was coming from a self-proclaimed fucked up bastard! A wave of empathy crossed his heart, as he said, “Hey, why don’t you come in for a bit, get yourself cleaned up, maybe some water or something? And honestly, I’m not taking no for an answer; you look like you’re about to pass out, and trust me, better inside than laying out here, prey to god knows who or what. Daddy issues are no reason to let yourself fuckin’ die on the city streets. Just, when you’re inside, don’t fuck with my stash, alright? Don’t need you messing up my business, or your sobriety. I ain’t in the mood to deal with a relapsed junkie today.”

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