All For You

Thirty

I really like this for Isla's dress as well, but a dark purple! ^ ^ ^

August

I don't like this. I don't like the feeling in my gut. I don't like the frozen look on Isla's face as she uncharacteristicly watches Mr. Smith walk away unharmed. Unfazed. Even worse, with a triumphant smile on his face. Like he's won. Like Isla is right where he wants her.

I watch her watch him; I try to decipher the emotion on her face. Shock or confusion or just pure, terrifying understanding. Like she knows something nobody else does, and it's killing her inside. Turning her stomach upside down.

"Isla, what's happening? Where are you?" I find Nick across the room, looking around as subtly as he can while panicking. "Isla! Are you okay? Answer me!"

"She's fine, I see her," I assure him, but she doesn't flinch. She doesn't look my way, or even try to find me in the crowd. She keeps her eyes glued solely to the man who has rendered her speechless-something I haven't ever seen, even before she was taken. "Isla? What's wrong?"

I'm tempted to walk over to her, console her with a gentle hand on her back, snap her out of whatever daze she's stuck in, but I know she would hate it. I know she doesn't want me coming anywhere near her. I know it's for the best, what she wants, but it rips me in two regardless. Being only a step away from saving her from whatever realization she's had with comforting words I'm not sure ever work on her and not being able to take it leaves a burning hatred in my chest. At myself, at this world, at the rules, albeit sensible ones, keeping us apart. It makes my heart clench.

Mr. Smith must say something I don't hear, the crowd laughing along, because Isla sits straighter in her seat, her eyes not leaving him for a second as she swishes the alcohol in her hand around the cup.

"Continue with the mission," she mutters, glancing briefly down at her drink before lifting her glass and downing the whole thing in one go. I almost wince at the way it must burn, at the look of unadulterated pain exposed on her face for only a second. "Take the target and get out of here."

I only take my eyes off of her to watch the horrors being performed behind Mr. Smith, with a simple gesture of his hand. Three people, who couldn't be older than myself, are dragged onto the stage, their hands bound tightly and their expressions sombre. The bastards accompanying them lie them on the three medical beds placed in the centre of the stage and tie their limbs to the shackles there.

The sight sends a disgusting feeling down to the depths of my stomach, shock waves of both familiarity and an enraged guilt soaring within the confines of my tight, breathless lungs. I watch the children being strapped down as they stare into nothing, as they know what's coming, as they refuse to satisfy the energetic, entertained crowd with their pleas and their cries. I watch them stay completely still and wait for the inevitable, the death they don't deserve. The pain they never should have to feel. The relief that should only come when they escape the confines of their torturers.

"Oh, God, not again," Elijah begs, the words muffled behind what I'm sure is his hand to hold back the cries of cavernous pain.

Isla freezes at his words, glances briefly around the room for him, before her shoulders relax and she focuses back on the victims, her fingers twitching, her lip trembling, her heart pounding so loud I swear I can hear it. But it must be mine. Must be the anger and frustration pumping blood from my heart at concerning rates.

It only excelerates when Isla stands up, and I almost think she's going to leave. Run out the nearest door to puke up the drink she just downed. But she doesn't turn around. Instead, with slow, hesitant, stumbling steps, she advances towards the stage, her hand etching towards the gun at her thigh.