All that is dark | ✓

11| anger

"DANTE! DANTE, PLEASE STOP."

It was hard to keep up with her bodyguard, who had been pacing in circles around the prison. Helene had spotted him through the window when she had tried to find him inside, an almost feverish anger in his steps, like he was on his way to kill someone. She could easily guess who was the recipient of his fury, his fists clenched so tightly the blood was drained out of his knuckles. Even when she shouted he didn't hear her, too far in the past to even notice the present.

Why was she even running after him? It wasn't like she could do anything for him nor was it her place, but she couldn't help but feel guilty, like it was somehow her fault he had been put in the crossfire. Besides, it had been so long since someone had defended her so sincerely, with no ulterior motive behind it. He didn't seem to want anything from her beside the wish she took care of herself more. So she couldn't just leave him alone, not when he was practically burning a path in the sand with his heavy footsteps as well.

"Dante," she repeated when she finally caught his sleeve, out of breath," please."

He looked at her in bewilderment, like he had forgotten who she was for a moment, but when he blinked his usual look was back. With the amount of stress he had it was easy to conclude he hadn't processed the event at all yet, but that didn't give her any indication about when it had happened. After all, her own attacks were triggered even now, years later after everything had happened. It was a tricky thing, PTSD, like a ghost that would never truly leave you. She wasn't sure if it had sunk it's icy fingers in Dante as well, though she supposed that with enough grief, the line between illness and emotion became very thin.

"When did you get here?" he said," I thought you were inside, dealing with that piece of shit."

"I was," she said," but I was -"

Her words hitched in her throat. What was she? Worried? Was that even an emotion she was allowed to have? They weren't friends, hell, they barely were on speaking terms. Dante saying he didn't dislike her wasn't enough for her to meddle in his affairs, wasn't it? She didn't know. To be honest, she never had had many sincere interactions before, so she didn't know what was appropriate.

Ever since they had discovered she was a prodigy she was thrust into a world filled with much older people who all either looked at her with envy or distrust. No one wanted to be outsmarted by a person way younger than them, in whichever way at all, that she had discovered early. Now all her interactions were either carefully crafted to be liked or even more thought out to be respected by her patients. Genuine concern wasn't something she had felt for a long time now nor was it something she knew how to express.

"Are you alright?" she said instead, not finishing her earlier sentence.

"You saw me attempting to beat up both a serial killer and my new boss before," he said," what do you think? I'm clearly the stupidest person in this whole prison."

"That can't be true as long as the director is here," she said.

He stared at her in shock, before laughter suddenly tumbled down his lips, so loud it surprised her. A smile tugged at her own lips as well as he doubled over, but once she heard the almost hysterical note to his voice, it immediately faded again. Where his amusement had begun sincerely, now all that was left were tears in his eyes which he was wiping away furiously.

"Fuck!" he cursed, his eyes red from how hard he was rubbing," why am I crying?"

"Because you're hurting," Helene said, refraining from the urge to step closer as to not aggravate him.

"I shouldn't be," he whispered, looking at her then. The brown in his eyes was sharper than ever now they were lined with red and glittering with unshed tears, so vulnerable that she almost was afraid to look at him. "It's been three years, shouldn't I be over it by now?"