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CW: Violence, mentions of blood, alcoholism and addiction, and some gore. As always, please remember to vote AND comment!!! The reads to votes and comments ratio on this fic is really bad. This isn't Instagram, votes and engagement matter to help new fics reach bigger audiences. So PLEASE take the time to vote and comment, it means the world to authors and it doesn't take much time at all!
Well, I've never prayed but tonight I'm on my knees, yeah I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah - The Verve, "Bittersweet Symphony"
Reilly hears a loud crack from the kitchen, followed by the sound of James swearing in Russian under his breath. She takes a swig of whiskey. She's supposed to be boarding up the living room windows with the doors James ripped off of the bathroom cupboards, but she can't help but stare outside and watch the chaos unfolding as the sun begins to set. She has no idea what time it is, but she suspects it's somewhere around 7:00pm.
The whiskey bottle is clutched in her hand like a weapon, fingers white as she watches hordes of - what she thinks are people - ripping apart whatever they can. She wants to throw up watching the carnage, but she can't look away.
There are still a few people in military uniforms scattered about, but they're being taken down fast. Most of them lie in rivers of blood that are practically filling the streets and staining the pavement. Even from the apartment, she can see bloodied handprints on car windows and smears of it on buildings. The entire city must smell like copper and rust by now.
Reilly his half obscured by the curtain, just peering through the crack. James instructed her to cover the fabric with wood to provide an extra layer of insulation. It's going to be getting cold soon, and the heat has been turned off, along with the electricity. She doesn't know where she's going to get booze, and it's fucking her up thinking about just how fucked up that worry is.
But part of being an alcoholic is battling with the irrationality of it all; of knowing how fucked up it is and doing it anyway.
"I told you to stop looking out there," James's husky voice snarls from behind her.
She turns her head and sees him holding huge planks of wood. Her eyes go wide.
"What did you rip apart?" She asks.
"The whole kitchen-- well, everything except for the countertops."
"With your bare hands?!"
He offers a small, but proud smirk as he strides toward the window and sets the wood down on the ground.
"Let's get to work. It'll be dark soon." He tries to grab the bottle from her hand and she clenches it harder, terrified that he's going to take it from her. James's eyes travel up to meet hers and Reilly feels her jaw twitch. He takes a breath, his eyes dropping to the bottle.
