ʜ ᴏ ʟ ʏ

41.

The road was irregular and rutted, every bump and crease in the shambled concrete sending the rickety metal of the truck in a chorus of clatter, the only sound provided on the lonely road yet so irritable. That and the sound of the wind did a excellent job of filling her ears to the brim. Not like there was anything else to do so. Marceline had completely shut down all functions of her body since they left the house. Her knees were pulled to her chest with her head tucked into the tight gap, secured by shaken hands, which Bonnibel couldn't tell wasn't maneuvered by the rattle of the truck. She didn't question it, nor mutter a word, for Marceline had made it clear with her actions that she wasn't yet ready for talking, compelled by the feeling of shock. Bonnibel wasn't even sure if she could speak to her in the first place. What was done back there was out of self defense but Bonnibel couldn't help but feel vulnerable. Only in her wildest dreams had she wished death upon him, but now that he had actually been slain, Bonnibel couldn't handle it. Not for the sake of him, but for Marcy. She could care less if the boy was killed by someone else but had it been done by Marceline, nothing good came out of their situation. She knew deep down Marceline wasn't mentally able to handle the capacity of killing someone that weighed down on her emotions, it was visible in her current state. The most she's said or done something was when fleeing from the house. They stuffed the backpack with as much supplies as they could and fled from the house on foot with Marceline unable to control the filter on herself both physically and mentally. "We're gonna get out of here Bon,"she swiped at the tears on her cheeks, "We'll head to the next town over, crash with Keila until we're back on our feet." Not to long after her denial, they fled to the back roads in search of a ride, to their luck, a rusty blue truck coming to their rescue. They had been there eversince the late hours of night, tucked into the back of the truck that sailed down the roads of a town a bit farther than their previous one. The wind tustled through their hair and tickled their skin with the cold breeze. Marcy sat, jacketless while Bonnibel relished in the warmth of the jacket. Marcy's letterman jacket given to her last night. It was hard to ignore the smudged speckles of blood on the sleeve but she eased into it's heat anyway. There wasn't much to do to fulfil the erie that loomed about besides ignore the thoughts that pelted her mind. There were so many of them, questions only she could answer but due to the extent, she couldn't. What will they do after they arrive at Keila's? Has the sheriff launched a investigation on the sudden death? What will her uncle think? How will this play through? Most importantly, will she keep the child? Her pulse froze, breath quickened, palms grew moist, for she didn't know. She didn't know. She was only 17, still a kid, no place to be deciding if she should keep a child she didn't ask for. With all the pain she was going through, she couldn't imagine what Marceline was going through. Carrying a child was nothing to killing a man. Suddenly her feelings grew weary for her lover with her change of heart. And even though it was clear Marcy wasn't up to par with her mental state, it still felt right to do so. She waited until the driver (a man neither of them knew but offered a ride when one was needed), halted at a red light on the barren street, scooting over to Marceline. Not thinking twice, she reached out her hand, sothingly laying it on her arm to alert her before her voice did. She was hurt to see her flinch. "Marceline," silence, flooding her ears from both sides. Her voice grew softer. "Marceline please, we need to talk about this." She wasn't certain that a response would be given, but when her head peaked from her knees she thanked her mentally. Her cheeks were saturated, her watery eyes and red puff shielded by her disheveled hair. She swore her heart broke into two. "Talk about what? What's there to talk about? I killed a man Bonnibel, and it haunts me every second and minute passing. Every time I close my eyes I can see him, on the floor with blood surrounding him, and I have to live with it." She could hear in her shaken voice that she was scared, broken, everything she wasn't, and Bonnibel enjoyed it none. "It was self defense Marcy, what you did was justified. It was ethier him or you," She sunk even deeper into the pit of the truck. "It feels like it should'v been me." Bonnibel liked Marceline dearly, but sure didn't enjoy hearing those words fall from her mouth. "What?" For the first time since they left the house, Marceline parted her hair from her vision and stared her straight into her eyes, slicing her like knives to a tire. "Im in a really fucked up place right now Bonniebel. I killed somone, we probably have the laws after us, you're pregnant, and you didn't even tell me." "He was going to kill you! It was for your own good Marceline." "Yeah? Sure doesn't seem like it.." Hanging her head low she ended their stare, deliberately letting her hair cover her sight, though the glisten of her tears were still visible. "God this is so fucked." She sobbed into her hands. Bonnibel not letting her tear herself down, brought her hands to her face, cupping her jaw and bringing her eyesight to her. "But It'll get better Marcy, I wont let you do this alone." She rested her palm on her cheek, wiping the tears with her thumb as Marceline cupped her hand with jagged sobs, soon moving towards her embrace. Bonnie held her lover, letting her sob shamelessly onto her shoulder, staining the jacket with tears. She rested a hand on the back of her head, stroking the raven locks gently with a hand secured at her waist. She had to be strong, not only for her but the both of them.