Twoset One-shots.

Prisoner

One Sunday evening in the biting wind of late November, Brett arrived at the church. Gate swung open with a creak and Path narrowed before him; he stepped out onto dying Grass, closing Gate behind him with a click.
Walking hurriedly he plunged his icy hands into the warm familiarity of his pockets. Grave after Grave glared at him, more through him, he thought.

They were ignored - Brett knew where he was heading, who he was visiting.

He reached the end of Path and she whispered: Be careful.
"I know what I'm doing," came the reply.
(Last row, third on the left, last row, third on the left), Brett muttered under his breath. He'd been doing this for months, yet still he was afraid of forgetting.

He reached the last row of Graves and took the left. Soil was damp under his bare feet, Air was stale and sour on his togue.

One. Two. Three.

He turned to face a small slab of stone awkwardly jutting out of Earth at a strange angle.
"Hello," he forced, lowering himself to his knees, Grass dampening his trousers. "I'm - sorry - I really am - I didn't mean to be so long. I -"
"You know how this works." Brett's heart skipped a beat; his hands trembled as Voice sliced through Air. Voice was always laced with a sly coolness, it's brevity chilling.
"No - no please - you said you wouldn't - you said you'd let me go!" He faltered as his voice cracked mid-sentence.
"That was before," Voice countered "You've done me wrong." Tears stung Brett's eyes and threatened to overflow. He couldn't bring himself to answer; instead he lowered his gaze to his hands which lay folded, quivering in his lap.

"You know what happens now." A simple tear slid over Brett's cheek and a sob escaped his control. He bit down hard on his lips until he tasted blood. "You had better follow me."
He acquiesced, eyes glazing over. Brett was gone now, his conscience pressed into a corner of his shell: there he would be safe.

When Shell next spoke, it's voice was cold, devoid of emotion.
"Okay. Let's go."

👣