OBLIVION [Thomesa]

twenty seven

I'm so proud of this one. Newt and Teresa is killing me, oh my god.

__________________________

The ivory halls
stained with the scarlet paper petals,
seem to be screaming.
And they all wish they were.
Newt rigidly sits in the chair, features twisted in pain,
listening.

His dark eyes, dark chasms,
echoing the wail to the deepest crevices of his sane mind,
where they feast,
until none is left of him.

A single dark blue ring is bruised into his forehead,
an echo of the barrel of the gun,
pushed into his skin by Teresa.

It'd be easier to bear,
if he were just crazy.
Easier to bear,
if he were just dead.

The walls seem to be screaming.
But they're not.

He sits tense,
with a red-rimmed and unfocused gaze,
dark curls collapsing low over his forehead.

His jaw clenched tight,
he breathes through his teeth.

That was Teresa's cry.
That was Teresa's wail.

His hands are moving, distracted,
he sharpens his knives.
People stare. Judge.
Not one dares ask him to put it away.
But he sharpens the same blade too long,
Polishing the same stain long after it has gone.
Lost in the second when he first heard that scream,
and could not do anything to save her.

It's the third worst night of Newt's miserable life.

Brenda held her breath, neck strained,
lips pressed tightly together.
Her thin fingers clenched in tight fists.
She could feel the pain.
Teresa's pain.

Newt tenses, itching to block out the horrible, pitiful sound.
His body trembles, blurring at the edges,
instinctively searching with every sense
for the danger that that hair-raising scream meant.
But there is none.
There is no danger -
it's only in her mind.

There is no one to protect Teresa from, no one to fight.
He can't break down the door to her prison,
when it lays brushed beneath her eye.

It scarred him the most, because once again, it was all his fault.
Her heart was so faint, skin so frightfully cold.
He couldn't lose her again.

She would have had a heart attack. Relapsed back into a coma.
She was safe now.
She was healing.
But she was alone. And scared.
Betrayed by him, once more;

She had trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms.
And let him lead her through the darkness.
He made his choice,
and chose to save her.
But now,
She was strapped down to a table,
IV's poking into her skin.
People with white masks and dark eyes glared down at her
below blinding light flares.

She was screaming,
wailing, as if fire was pressed up to her skin,
the pain and the fear and the horror trembling from the high-pitched keen,
until her voice cracked and gave out,
into dry ragged sobs.

What else could he have done?
What could he have done?

"Why did you try to kill yourself, Teresa."
"Why did you try to hurt yourself, Teresa."
But all she can hear from their questions,
is his