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╰┈➤❝ i will not let this river break me just so god can have something to heal. ❞ ╰┈➤ self injury, allie long
"PROPHET, FORGIVE ME," she whispered, her bloodied hands clasped together tight, her knuckles whitening, "for I have sinned." A tear slips down her cheek, carving a clean path through the drying blood spattered over her face. The man next to her whispers his own prayer, copying her form. Blood dries on his forearms and the metal bar on the grass next to them. Deep down, she knows she doesn't deserve forgiveness; she's been forsaken, she knows it. The moment she turned her back on her family, on the Prophet, she knew it. She was doomed. Doomed to suffer. Doomed to walk this earth with a mark on her head, like Cain incarnate. A deep part of her wanted to cry out, claim it wasn't fair. But it was useless. There was no fighting this. This is what she would be for the rest of her life. They would both be hunted down like rabid dogs, two bullets with their names written on them. The man next to her paid her no mind, quietly finishing his prayer. Her clasped hands pressed against her forehead for a moment before her eyes flickered open. "Amen." She mumbled, a shaky sigh escaping her lips.
"We should get moving." He spoke from her right, grabbing the gore-smeared bar from the grass. "If Ezrah can catch up, it means they aren't too far behind." She silently nodded, grabbing her axe from the grass and standing up. Her fingers reach up, rubbing the scars that lift from the corners of her lips. It's becoming a nervous habit, something that gave her away. Despite her best efforts, she tries to keep her cool - tries to look her toughest. But it's getting harder, more difficult to hide when she looks like a wounded deer in headlights most of the time. He stands next to her, towering over her. She thanks the Prophet that he's on her side, that he's not the one she's running from. The amount of times she'd seen him beat someone's head in with that bar... it sticks with her, leaves a residue. Her grip on her axe tightens for a moment as she looks over the landscape. Rolling hills filled with green grass. In the distance, she can faintly see flowers in a field. It's more beautiful than Seattle, she thinks. Growing up, she'd always loved rain. Loved watching it, loved running through it. But it always rained in Seattle. Was always gloomy. Somedays, she started wondering if she'd forgotten what the sun looked like. Maybe that was for the best. But, as she stands on this hill, the sun warming her skin, she feels a minuscule smile lift the corners of her lips. It's been so long since she smiled. The feeling is foreign, lost on her. "Ru," his voice pulls her from her thoughts, "c'mon. We gotta go."
She nodded, a frown deepening on her features. The two start moving through the field, silence washing over them. She wished she could thank him for everything. She wished that she could put into words how much all of this meant to her. But words were never her strong suit. They never would be. Years were spent on the pews, listening to their prophets, their preachers. Watching as they'd become more extreme, harsher. Tossing their guns for earthly weapons turned into exclusion turned into markings, scarification. And she'd never said anything. Let them carve her face. Let them make an example of her. A coward, they called her. A heretic, they'd spat at her. It'd rained all night as she gathered her things, praying they didn't beat her to the punch. As she'd darted from the hut, her body had slammed into Ezekiel's. His form towered over her, his eyes glaring down at her. This was it, she'd thought to herself. These were her last moments on Earth. But his hand had gripped her bicep, yanked her up and dragged her out of the camp. He could've died then and there. He should've died. But he didn't. He'd saved her life, and she owed him everything. Even the days that the two couldn't seem to see eye-to-eye, she found herself thankful to him beyond words. "Where should we go?" She finally asked as they made their way up a hill, towards the flowers.
