Drabble 9: Move.

WARNING. Depressing Drabble Below. Filled with bad things. Goodness, I didn't even know he was thinking such things until now.


Movement. This was listed among the things that got harder. To move. To be in motion. To run. To jump. To fly.

Maybe, he could fly. Of course, that required a jump. And that required a  roof. And that required stairs.

He couldn't do stairs. Fuck stairs.


He'd told her once. About thinking about it. About flying.

"Don't be absurd," she'd said, "I can't imagine living without you."

He told her she'd have to eventually.

She'd slapped him. Damn near pushed him down the stairs, and then she'd grabbed him.

He didn't hear the words that she'd mumbled into his shirt, but he'd stared at the tear stains for a long time before he went to bed.


Sometimes his whole vocabulary consisted of her name, a very long list of obscenities, and the phrase, "I'm fine."

He figured most of being sick was the cycle of reassurance. First he reassured them. Then they reassured him. Then he reassure them. Then they reassured him. Endlessly.

Mostly, he reassured himself that the shit would hit the fan.

Even though he didn't actually know. It wasn't like they'd told him a date. In fact, they told him it could be very far away. Maybe he'd even get gray hair. Maybe he'd see Liam grow up. Maybe he'd see Ingrid fall in love.

And maybe he wouldn't.


It had become a secret code. "Fuck stairs," he'd say. And she'd touch his shoulder. The lightest touch like butterfly wings, and he'd force in a lungful of air and breathe it out and go on.


Note: Blah Blah Blah. I'm sorry. I hope that wasn't too bad? I don't know. *words*