Waiting for War

Kally

He's infuriating. how did i ever have feelings for him in the first place? he's being beyond selfish and now luke is defending his decision to rot away. my face is hot. why is luke being so lenient? why can't he see what ken is costing us?

"luke, you really have given up on him, haven't you," i spit. luke's fists ball tighter. i don't see how he can be madder than i am.

"leave him alone kally. you're only going to make it worse. i know my best friend," he spits back.

"i know him too, and this isn't him? whoever that shell is he doesn't have an ounce of courage or anger towards any of this. he's basically a dead man walking," my finger points at the frame crumpled on the bed like a child.

or he was. suddenly hes standing.

"promise me you'll let me die once we kill the bad guys," he puts a hand on luke's shoulder stiffly and exits the room.

we both look after the dried bones walking. he's thinner than he was, his face gaunt and pale. there's nothing of the man i used to spend my nights obsessing over. he's dead.

"you're going to let him die?" i hiss. "havent you seen enough death!" my feet step inches away from luke. he doesn't move.

"kally, if you don't let him go you'll kill him with your words," and then he too leaves the room.

i rush out the door to the sound of the shower running down the hallway.

"good morning," mrs devre is waiting by the kitchen table along side a box of breads.

"don't worry he'll come around," she hands us each a roll.

"and how do you know that?" i snap. and then i watch mrs devre's eyes trail towards her husband happily cooking something in a pan.

"i wanted to die when i was the cause of other people's death. the guilt eats you like a carnivorous beast. it devours your soul inside out. i only made it this far because i had your mother. and ken had you two, so he has to pull through," he continues cutting up bits of veggies.

"but how do you know?" the words splinter from my mouth in sharp talons.

"just give him time," and mr. devre begins throwing the concoction into a pan. the minute it hits the pan it starts sizzling.

"any idea on when exactly?" i thrum my fingers on the table.

"the only judge of grief is ourselves. it's best not to rush sewing up a wound," he says with a sad smile. my eyes wander towards the bathroom where the shower still is pounding water pellets against the floor.

"don't worry. it will only make it harder for you to process," mr devre stirs the pan of veggies some more.