Ruka doesn't think it, or fear that sort of fall. Not now. Not anymore. The remnants of the imprisoned Karkat Vantas has her now, like electricity running up her arm and through her chest, pain and misery jolting around inside her. Her breath stutters and chokes off in her throat.
Her legs tremble and give way beneath her. She skids against the window, the wall, into a half-seated slumped pile of limbs on the floor. The jazzy music in the background is lost to hearing, reflected moonlight lost to her vision. The world around her blurs into darkness, into nothingness, despair and loneliness and longing, day after night after day after week after month after night, pain and misery. The long-drawn heart of seasons is compressed down into seconds; the electric black fries her nerves and senses. Her grip on the collar is tight, like jaws on the throat of hapless prey, and the tortured heart of Karkat Vantas bleeds out over her fingers like they were claws puncturing organ.
She doesn't think to let go—she doesn't think, she can't think, not under hatred and fury and sorrow and misery. Whatever anger she felt before is decimated, whatever fear she felt obliterated in the wake of feelings too great to contain. She doesn't ask herself what she thought would happen, grabbing that collar, doesn't berate herself for the mistake, doesn't let go—she can't.
Her body trembles on the cold floor, arms slack at her sides and her legs bent out at uncomfortable angles. Her face is tense and red, with tears running uneven down her cheeks. Her hand clings tight to the collar.
In the black flood of feeling, Ruka is paralyzed. Her body is reduced, nothing more than a vessel for the fractured heart of Karkat Vantas.
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Ruka doesn't think it, or fear that sort of fall. Not now. Not anymore. The remnants of the imprisoned Karkat Vantas has her now, like electricity running up her arm and through her chest, pain and misery jolting around inside her. Her breath stutters and chokes off in her throat.
Her legs tremble and give way beneath her. She skids against the window, the wall, into a half-seated slumped pile of limbs on the floor. The jazzy music in the background is lost to hearing, reflected moonlight lost to her vision. The world around her blurs into darkness, into nothingness, despair and loneliness and longing, day after night after day after week after month after night, pain and misery. The long-drawn heart of seasons is compressed down into seconds; the electric black fries her nerves and senses. Her grip on the collar is tight, like jaws on the throat of hapless prey, and the tortured heart of Karkat Vantas bleeds out over her fingers like they were claws puncturing organ.
She doesn't think to let go—she doesn't think, she can't think, not under hatred and fury and sorrow and misery. Whatever anger she felt before is decimated, whatever fear she felt obliterated in the wake of feelings too great to contain. She doesn't ask herself what she thought would happen, grabbing that collar, doesn't berate herself for the mistake, doesn't let go—she can't.
Her body trembles on the cold floor, arms slack at her sides and her legs bent out at uncomfortable angles. Her face is tense and red, with tears running uneven down her cheeks. Her hand clings tight to the collar.
In the black flood of feeling, Ruka is paralyzed. Her body is reduced, nothing more than a vessel for the fractured heart of Karkat Vantas.