❝Why don't we go on a roadtrip?❞
» in which four boys take a wrong turn during a road trip and end up fighting for their lives.
» or in which what happens in the Sacrifice, stays in the Sacrifice.
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copyright ▶︎ grace flowers
art ▶︎ juan luna; spol...
"Their faces I thought were knives. The way they pointed them at me. And waited. A hunter is someone who listens." - Anne Carson, "Plainwater"
This quote is going to make sense trust me 👏🏽🌻 Also thanks for 100 reads!!!!!!
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Unlike you two, I actually want John safe. Paul gritted his teeth, left hand curling into a fist. Paul wanted him safe too - Ringo wasn't a special snowflake for thinking that. And just because he had this stupid crush on him doesn't mean he should just venture out in the dark. He could trip and twist his ankle further, he could come back screaming and lead the cultists right to them. It was a well known fact that Ringo was a klutz, and he wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.
Oh no, but John wouldn't let anything happen to him. Not the golden boy, not him, anything - ANYONE but him-
"I shouldn't have gone off." George whispered, curled unto himself until he was a ball of bones. His self-confidence had deteriotated the moment Ringo pulled away from him, not that there was much of it in the beginning anyways.
"Yeah." Paul answered. Honesty wasn't going to save them. One way or another, sugarcoating will make it sound even worse. "If John wanted to kill you, he would've pushed you off instead."
George flinched at his words. His life was just a chain, fuck-ups of all shapes and sizes intertwining with each other. Saying John was in the fault means blaming Paul for inviting him. Which was petty, and George hated that something so minuscule spiralled into a scenario where death came uninvited and lingered like an unwanted guest.
"He'll never forgive me."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "John or Ringo?"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm not dumb, Geo." Paul's right hand twitched, making the older flinch and clutch his wrist.
"Let me-"
"Don't change the topic!" George scowled and avoided his eyes. "Do you like Ringo or not?!"
"Why does it matter?" He snapped, seizing Paul's wrist. He unwrapped the ripped clothe as careful as he can, trying not to let his temper explode like a rabid dog without a leash.
"People here used to be normal." Paul's eyes fell to his wound, it's opening a cracked, crimson mouth. Tattered flesh stuck with the cloth, staring back at Paul. The boy blinked first.
"Y-Yeah so?" George managed, trying not to gag at the sight of it. He wrapped it up, mindful of the way Paul winced.
"There's something here, George. I have no fucking idea what it is but-" I sound crazy, Paul was about to say, but he remembers the abandoned tricyle and the hill of small petite bones and feels his stomach drop at the memory. "All of them have wounds. And this-" His voice wavered as he lifted his mangled hand. "What if it gets me?"
