“I’m ... from —-,” he tries to think of the most boring, least-thought about place he can.
“ ... Iowa.”
Another cringe, glad she isn’t here to see it. His streak of violence for the private installation that had conscripted him was limited to missions only. »
in a way he couldn’t stand. Would have him scraping his tongue and brushing his gums for an hour. But Caleb had never even tried it.
He takes the glass, glancing down at the golden-brown liquid before his eyes rise back to her and crinkle with a shaky smile.
»
He cringes at his own lack of confidence in his name —- sure that she may think he’s lying. That he’s here to take advantage of a woman alone.
But she doesn’t seem to be afraid of him, which is a bit concerning. Is she just that naive? He gives her another smile »
Replying to @STHRNHOSTILITY
< with her bony fingers before she disappears into the kitchen. Got to figure out the ratio of sedatives for his body weight. Account for taste too.
“No it’s no trouble ... um.”
His hands slide into his pockets as he ventures further into the home .. brows furrowing at all the dry, dead trinkets. He isn’t disturbed persay, he thinks.
He looks back over his shoulder, realizing she’d asked for his name. He blanks. »
Replying to @STHRNHOSTILITY
< t’find’em tools, too. If y’swear it ain’t no trouble, mister?”
Prompting him for his name. Does he even remember that?
“I could probably fix that ... if you have some tools, or something.”
He knows violence, he knows war, he knows working with his hands. He could fix a few creaky steps —- he just can’t fix the fissures in his own mind.
The man steps inside after she opens the door, »
Replying to @STHRNHOSTILITY
< up’n’ghosted me.”
She says as they approach the porch, hand gesturing at the second step up. She pulls open the screen door for him and waits for him to step inside. Something about a spider, something about a fly.
For awhile, he had the white outline of a band on his left ring finger. It had eventually tanned with the rest of his skin.
Every time he’d tried to dwell on it, they’d catch him —- put him through regression, and baseline tests until he was a blank slate once more. »
Replying to @STHRNHOSTILITY
< something in her gut. Something she can’t name. Maybe some semblance of loss. Something she hasn’t cared to feel since she was a child.
Trying to make sense of the scars marring his flesh; tracing them with fingers that have no prints.
They should tell a story, or something ...
— but it’s all a black void. A black void of knife fights that he should have brought a gun to.
He feels something like ... disappointment when she says yes. Like he’s waiting for the person he recognizes to come outside.
The one that can tell him why he’s here. Instead, C just nods and clears his throat and tries for another non-threatening smile.
»
Replying to @STHRNHOSTILITY
< has to have caused this radical shift in his attitude.
“…I do, yea. Place’s all mine.”
She pauses a moment.
“Y’want a glass’a tea? Hotter’en hell out’ere.”
He blinks down at her, struggling for words for a moment. Straining for a memory that isn’t there. Why does he know this place but not this woman?
He looks her over a bit, raises a hand to the back of his neck. The sun is beating down on him, sweat seeping down his »
Replying to @STHRNHOSTILITY
< the basement, until whatever this creature is disappears. She doesn’t, though. Won’t. Can’t.
She crosses the yard to the gate, staying back out of his potential reach.
“Can I help ya?”
The southern twang comes out thick. Same with the apprehension.




