"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Cicada Days
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👀 (credit to Kotorikun)
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Eyes were pointed her way briefly, she met them only with the flesh, round cusp where her thin eyelashes nested. More words that melted into sweet static. Three clear, stabbing the eardrum in drum rattles of punctuation. One, and two, and three. Other way around.

Her fists remained tight, clenched vises threatening to split her knuckle along the seam. One hand warbled, tendons bouncing hesitantly. Tina wasn't especially sure. A second later on the noiseless downbeat where a sharp, crisp bark split the air between herself and the tall body beside her, her hand sprang. One hand. The other continued to strain mercilessly against the weight of a pole. It steadily dripped, drooped off the firm axis it had been formerly welded into. That she noticed most. Elsewhere, her fingernails dug into rusty iron just enough so her dully rounded nails began to buckle, splinter as they found a place to be among many. The effort felt unwieldy, halfhearted, one where her body tipped and bowled and shuddered more than the door ever could.

Muscles beside her seemed to flow effortlessly. They seemed to somehow give their all, every bead of sweat drawn glistened as a coin.
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Imprimatura · Solitary Confinement