Never Alone

8 : 4 1 | A M

Elliot = Bold

Isabella = Italics

"So...um...what is your dad in prison for?" Isabella voiced the question softly, fully aware that she had broken the comfortable silence with an uncomfortable question. They had been in the car for a good half hour now, only minutes away from their destination as the delusion of well-willed chatter melted into insignificance. Isabella almost wished that she had left it at insignificance for, usually, the insignificant things were so much less harmful than the significant ones. But she couldn't help it. 

The question had been eating away at her for a while now, the curiosity munching away at her resolve in a way that she should have been able to prevent. She couldn't. Not this time. Besides, something told her that her usual hibernation from curiosity would not be beneficial in this moment. It was too big of a question. So full of relevance and importance that it had been looming directly above their ridiculous conversation of cars and music, forcing the words to be light and humorous so that they would avoid the words that needed to be said. 

Elliot stiffened in his seat, head touching the roof due to his newly adjusted height. All his muscles had become taut, almost as if his body had participated in a chemical reaction, slack joints turning tense in the presence of these dangerous waters. 

He supposed that he had a choice.

He could stay afloat and waste his energy on attempting to keep his head above the water...or he could dive into the waves so that he could scout out the horrors that lay at the bottom of the ocean. Neither option sounded particularly inviting. But he had been at sea too long to turn back now. He had called for someone he could really talk to. How could he expect an easy conversation if he was constantly hiding why he called in the first place? Everything before this had been pins flimsily holding the two of them together. It was finally time to get out the needle and thread. "Murder." His voice was surprisingly confident. Inside, his words shook and shivered exactly like he had the night that his father had become a criminal.

Elliot swore that the car lurched forward then. Just for a second. Picking up a little speed as Isabella's fists slowly tightened on the steering wheel. Her body had become rigid, eyes using the road as an excuse to avoid eye contact. There was a sort of steel in her voice when she spoke next, a sort of bitter, metallic sound that only a robot should have been able to recreate. Elliot had no idea where it had come from. But it had always been there, simply waiting for a cold enough temperature to materialize. Something as cold as murder. It was a murder that melted her fire and it was a murder that brought it back. "Murder?"

Elliot nodded once, even though she wasn't looking at him. Out of nervous habit, his foot had begun to tap again. "Murder. He..." Oh for Christ's sake, Elliot, just get the bloody words out of your mouth. Not telling her isn't going to change what happened. "He shot someone."

Isabella didn't say anything for a while, but her breaths had become so loud that Elliot could hear them as clearly as his own.

When she spoke, her voice had the same bitter sound. No stuttering. Just sharp. Robotic. Straight to the point. It made Elliot wonder if he really knew Isabella at all. He didn't. "I thought there were laws against guns in Britain."

"There are. I...it's just...complicated. Does...does it bother you that my dad's in prison for murder?"

By now, Isabella was pretty much using weapons for words, sharp blades prickling into his skin as he struggled to work out where this side of her possibly could have come from. Under her skin. "Well, judging by the fact that I moved away from America to get away from the memory of a gun crime, I would say yes, Elliot, that bothers me quite a lot."

"I...I...gun crime?"

She closed her eyes for a brief second.

Not even a second.

"Yes, Elliot. You are currently speaking to a survivor of one of America's many school shootings."