[ There's reality to Kim, and then there's reality to Robby.
One is more real than the other, but details like these don't matter, honestly, when you're in the middle of what seems real to you. Like one's name spoken in the voice of a mother loved dearly than that of a Revacholian man, sweet and familiar in his ears. It freezes Robby in place, has him squeezing his eyelids tight; and he wants to ignore it, but that voice digs deeper than the cut on his arm, the sting of torn skin and superficial bleeding inconsequential to what a mother's voice means to him.
(With a rasp. A rasp that shouldn't be in that voice.)
Anyone else, and he might keep running, but Robby knows the shadow that cast over the counter with that voice, and knows he isn't alone. He knows what running will do, even if running doesn't seem to be something he's done much of, within the store himself.
But it doesn't mean that Robby dares to look. Isn't that the problem? That he's a coward, and he takes that route, refusing to budge in his position, his eyes shut closed, and his head bowed and his answer to Kim's concerns-- ]
Fuck-- off... fuck off!
[ ...rather appropriate to his young and rebellious age, surely. But there's something pleading in his tone, a strangled note: from trying to hold back what isn't being held back well at all. An upset, a fear--because who wants to see the face of a woman you killed hovering above you, looking more dead than you would ever want to see a loved one?
no subject
One is more real than the other, but details like these don't matter, honestly, when you're in the middle of what seems real to you. Like one's name spoken in the voice of a mother loved dearly than that of a Revacholian man, sweet and familiar in his ears. It freezes Robby in place, has him squeezing his eyelids tight; and he wants to ignore it, but that voice digs deeper than the cut on his arm, the sting of torn skin and superficial bleeding inconsequential to what a mother's voice means to him.
(With a rasp. A rasp that shouldn't be in that voice.)
Anyone else, and he might keep running, but Robby knows the shadow that cast over the counter with that voice, and knows he isn't alone. He knows what running will do, even if running doesn't seem to be something he's done much of, within the store himself.
But it doesn't mean that Robby dares to look. Isn't that the problem? That he's a coward, and he takes that route, refusing to budge in his position, his eyes shut closed, and his head bowed and his answer to Kim's concerns-- ]
Fuck-- off... fuck off!
[ ...rather appropriate to his young and rebellious age, surely. But there's something pleading in his tone, a strangled note: from trying to hold back what isn't being held back well at all. An upset, a fear--because who wants to see the face of a woman you killed hovering above you, looking more dead than you would ever want to see a loved one?
He's so fucking sick of this city. ]