Depression.

e l e v e n

The feeling of disgust doesn't leave my skin as I slump onto a park bench and hug my arms to my body, breathing hard. I want to cry again, but a sort of numbness falls over me. The event replays in my head like a broken record, the old kind that Depression listens to sometimes on this turntable of his.

Depression.

Would he, I wondered, be too drunk to stand when Violence found him in the bar?

 You don't care, I tried to tell myself, but I did. I was worried about them still, even if they didn't care about me.

Goosebumps rise on my skin as a breeze drifts over me.

"You look cold." A voice startles a gasp from me and makes my heart thud.

My head whips to the side where a guy in a leather jacket stands.

For a second, I think it's Violence, but then he smiles.

 Doubt.

He seems to recognize me too, sliding down beside me on the bench.

"Lass." He says.

That's it.

"Doubt." I answer.

His dark brows furrow in the moonlight as I try to ignore his closeness.

"Is that what you've decided to call me?" He asks, slithering out of his jacket. He set a bottle he'd been holding on the concrete to slip his arm out of the sleeve before pulling it around my shoulders.

I merely nod.

I don't want to talk anymore.

His scent washes over me as I reach up to clutch the jacket against me like a cloak of protection.

He sets an ankle on his knee, leaning back on the bench to stretch his arms out.

"You don't look good, Lass." He murmurs, tilting his head back to look at the stars.

 I'm not, I want to say.

And then there's suddenly more tears that I can't control and I'm sniffling again.

"Can I touch you?" He asks when I flinch at his comforting hand on my back.

I nod, despite how fucked up I feel and he wraps his arms around me softly to gently guide me to his chest.

I start to sob, clutching at his shirt with one hand.

"Shh, it's alright, baby. You're okay." He murmurs into my hair and I cry harder because I've found comfort in a stranger.