OPEN | prompt two | LOVE

[wrens]

prompt two | L O V E And what you can never know from the beginning is how hard or how long you'll love something; how even when it is gone the love will chase you down, loping like dark flame through your blood. — Some lies are love. — Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin you've made.

 

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[hewed]

[ The laugh that Julian offers up is practically a bark. ] Oh, yeah. But that ain't bad, that ain't bad.

[hewn]

[ Klara would cower in the face of that laugh, would shrink and grow small and cover her scars. But Klara's not here. Klara's quiet and sleeping.

And Newt — Newt just smiles. ]

Guess that means you love me lots.

[hewed]

More than anything else, babydoll.

[ And that's always been the problem, hasn't it? Julian Brooker has only ever had eyes for Klara Bruun, and brought the entirety of his destructive personality down upon her. He loves her, loves her more than anything else in the entire world, loves her too much.

(Sometimes, love can be a terrible thing.) ]

[hewn]

[ It's a dangerous thing, trying to quantify love, and when you start putting labels on things like too much and not enough the sentiment starts to distort and skew, starts become less the thing it actually is and more an aberration of it. Julian Brooker had loved Klara Bruun too much and Klara, in Julian' eyes, hadn't loved her enough. The proof it lies etched permanently across Klara's face: four scars like hashmarks, a tally (an accusation).

(You. Don't. Love. Me.)

Newt reaches out and curls her hands into the front of Julian's shirt, nails catching cloth and skin alike, working their way into muscle and flesh. Love hurts, she said and it's one of the few truths that Klara and Newt share. One's pain coming out, the other's going in. ]

Now guess how much I love you.

[ Enough to bruise? Surely. Enough to break the skin? You bet. ]

[hewed]

[ Her hands curl in the front of his shirt and one his hands comes around to the back of her neck. He's grinning, now, all sharp teeth and a sort of desperation. (She loves me, she loves me not. Every time Klara looks at him, he feels a twinge of doubt, a terrible, crippling doubt that he takes out on her.

Why? Why, why, why doesn't she love me?) ]

Gimme a hint.

[hewn]

[ For all that Klara doesn't love Julian (or at least for all that he perceives it this way for, in truth, she loves him far more than she loves herself) Newt does love him and in much the same way that Julian loves Klara — a sick, overwhelming sort of love. A love that spreads like choking weeds and overruns everything (even common sense, even human decency; that's the sort of love Newt and Julie have).

Newt's eyes burn, they shimmer and shine, and those nails of hers just sink in that much deeper, looking for purchase as she presses her mouth to his and tries to swallow down every breath, tries to taste copper, tries to hurt him in all the ways he hurt her.

(Look. See. I promised I'd show you. This is how much I love you. Look at how much our love hurts.) ]