A moment's confusion passes across Arthur's eyes as Ossie takes his hand. He just can't place the fabric -- it must be fabric, if only because it's not skin. But that's not important right now. Arthur clings to that hand like a boat clings to an anchor in a storm.
If only he could take Ossie's sympathy as if it's deserved. But he realises, now, that he can't leave the story only half-told, not when it makes him look in some way innocent. It curdles in him, the same way it curdled whenever anyone -- with the mistaken impression that he had no hand in his own suffering, or hers -- said they were sorry about what happened to Faroe.
Of course there's the fear that Ossie will repeat this. But there's also the recklessness of self-destruction, of the feeling that Arthur would deserve that anyway.
"That's not all," he says. The words stick in his throat, and pull out heavy tears with them.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-11-02 09:56 am (UTC)If only he could take Ossie's sympathy as if it's deserved. But he realises, now, that he can't leave the story only half-told, not when it makes him look in some way innocent. It curdles in him, the same way it curdled whenever anyone -- with the mistaken impression that he had no hand in his own suffering, or hers -- said they were sorry about what happened to Faroe.
Of course there's the fear that Ossie will repeat this. But there's also the recklessness of self-destruction, of the feeling that Arthur would deserve that anyway.
"That's not all," he says. The words stick in his throat, and pull out heavy tears with them.