The Untold Story of Texas and Lappland (Arknights)

Days of Forgotten Past 8

It had been another later night. Another night where Texas was left wondering what had went so wrong. Well past midnight, she found herself waiting until the breathing evened out behind her, the arms wrapped around her tightly during the waking hours had went lax. Texas extricated herself from Lappland's arms with a shakiness she really shouldn't have —she was almost eighteen for crying out loud— and made her way out of the bedroom. Despite the cozy aura their bedroom usually exuded, Texas had been suffocating in the space where she should've felt the safest.

Sighing to herself, Texas descended down the steps. She tiptoed on the wood, avoiding the creaks the boards were so privy to. There was a light on downstairs. Yellow warmth coated the railings, indicating there was another restless soul in the house tonight. Texas had a guess who it was, getting confirmation from the low hum of a kettle as liquid inside continued to boil. Not wanting to engage in conversation, Texas went out the front door to sit on the porch swing. The pack clenched tightly in her hands made her fingers itch. She had smoked before but had been chastised for doing so. Still, even knowing it was bad, a part of her found herself wanting to now. Houston didn't even realize she'd snagged them from him two days ago. The older Lupo was trying hard to quit the nasty things that were just as capable of killing as infection was. She stared at the pack, swallowing down the feelings simmering inside. Guilt and shame weaved a tale of rotten sorrow.

I shouldn't do this.

Her mind pushed forward the memories of earlier that day. Memories of her small group being thrown into a deadly engagement they never should have fought without more planning. But Lappland had predictably went ahead without them. Texas could not leave her girlfriend to fight alone. Like too many other times, blood had sprayed all over by the time Texas and the others arrived. Lappland's opponents were slaughtered on the ground, screams silenced by not just the effect of her eastern blades but also from how they'd been killed. Texas didn't want to think about the details, how their throats were slitted after several other mutilations. But most of all she didn't want to think about the blood red gleam in Lappland's eyes as murderous laughter echoed out of her mouth as she applauded the sacrilege of this group of Infected.

Trembling fingers lit the cigarette. Smoke plumed into the air. Texas told herself one was all she needed. Once she calmed down she could return to bed and get some sleep. Her chest heaved as she held back sobs, trying to put more focus on the chilling bite of frosty night air instead of the burning smoke roiling in her throat. There was such a wrongness here in this moment. Texas didn't know how to stop it, didn't know how to make the pain go away. No amount of numbness could rid her of the sadness whenever she pictured those silver eyes glinting red.

****

The door was nudged open what felt like an hour later. One last cigarette was between her lips. All the smoke made it hard to breathe. She hated being like this, feeling so dejected and alone. This misery wouldn't be cured with a habit of smoking —something the stress of the past few months had started in its own accordance— and neither would Texas feel better if she ignored the problem entirely. But what else can I do? The one person she would've have asked for advice on this was who she needed help with in the first place.

"Texas. Don't tell me you're smoking again." Gran drawled.

She let her numb fingers skitter across the railing before her. The wood was smooth, a few notches painted over with lacquer to give it extra sheen in the daylight. There were a few slices here and there, scratches where fingernails had dug in deep. They spoke of memories long forgotten, late nights watching the sunset or hurried conversations in hushed tones. How often did her Father come out here in the quiet darkness, accompanied by her Mother —an always comforting presence— holding his hand.