she woke up in a cold sweat on the floor / next to a family portrait drawn when you were four / and beside a jar of two cent coins that are no good no more / she’ll lay it aside - blood by the middle east
You can’t go home again, somebody said that, somewhere Kate can’t remember, but it sticks in her head for three months until she was sure she believed it–but with the road under her feet and the moon her only light and company, home is all she thinks to go.
(he’s waiting for her, sitting on the steps of the old creaky porch like when they would wait for the bus in the morning, but from the other side, night always a dull orange glow from the neighborhood streetlamp, a cool scent on the air–winter had come home with them, ghosts come to haunt an empty house full of memories to haunt them right back.
when he looks up at her, she expects his eyes to be golden, like the last time she saw them, but they’re black, like the night sky and she drops her bag with the few belongings she had stolen on the walkway and throws her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his cool skin.
he doesn’t hold her back, but she can feel his hands hovering near her body, like he might.)
Maybe Scott had the same idea, once he grabbed at his own freedom, the pair of them taken and taking themselves back, following familiar paths like a compass always points north.
(he holds her when she smashes the portrait later, arms wrapping around her like chains, holding her still as she struggles, as she screams, eyes burning and brimming with saltwater, an urge to see the smiling faces burn, scorch away the lie of a happy family, purge the secrets eeking out of her skin.
“don’t touch that,” he says, voice thick, harsh, a flash of the gold she remember after he sets her on the floor and she reaches for the shards, loose and disconnected from her body, hanging above herself, hovering close.
she wants to ask, would you eat me if i cut myself? wants to test it out, prick her finger and see if he would suck away the blood.
but scott sweeps away the sharp edges, like they were never there, and tucks the picture in a drawer where their mother kept her recipes.)