Rhyme
Authentic Garbage
Her head was stuffed with cotton. It was so full, the thick fuzziness of it blocking her ears and turning the voices of others into muddled groans. The pressure was pushing against the backs of her eyes, swelling them until she felt the need to close her eyelids--just to keep everything inside her skull, before her head was the next to pop open and spray the ground with splattered bits of her being.
She didn't truly process much after watching Coda rip into the woman's--Roje's, Key had called her Roje--neck. Was it fair to say she hadn't processed much at all, since discovering Foster? Maybe she had come close the previous night, staring up at the bottom of Coda's bunk and watching his feet sway with the passing hours. Every moment she'd so far spent planning, digging, picking apart personalities and the exact details of intricate gestures, she'd like to think had been moments well spent.
Moments spent productively, time now shattered by a collapsing architecture of ambition and fury that swelled her brain and forced her eyes shut as she now sat beside Coda, unsure whether the blood covering him was real or just a projected illusion created by the splintering sectors of her brain.
There was an attempt at logic, honestly. She was not easily shaken, she was able to think back on the events as the bus started and carried them along--she could think about what Key had said, what Roje had said--she had mentioned another group, right? Foster had mentioned another group, before the limo driver exploded, before Coda had gripped Roje with the same hands that had threatened Indy moments before and tore out a chunk of her neck, the wet squelch replaying over and over--Indy winced.
Her hand was a limp thing, useless as an empty glove laid carefully in the crux of her left elbow. It may as well have been detached for all Indy would have known, if it weren't for the disruptive shock of pain that wracked through her body every time the bus jostled.
Pain and replaying in a search for solutions; those were her thoughts for the entirety of the bus ride, her leg bouncing unconsciously as she desperately ignored the presence beside her, as well as the dead body of Roje, her neck bent like a crooked painting in another seat. Why were they bringing her? Why did Key seem unconcerned by the murder of one of his employees, committed right in front of him? Was he truly that brutal--had he brought her along to dispose of her later?
Indy's guts curled, a slow sickness brewing in her stomach. It had been her fault. She had started the shit with Coda, she had murdered this girl. Maybe she was accustomed to death, to fear--but not murder. I'm sorry.
Then the bus was stopped. Her eyes were stuck on Coda as he carefully lifted Roje--so carefully, like he hadn't already completely broken her. Indy was passed off to another guard, who pushed her up the creaking steps and into the plane. Every ounce of her focus was on keeping her legs from trembling, her eyes forward--even as Coda and Roje momentarily disappeared from view. But then, so did Foster--and even the hardest dedication couldn't keep her from looking back wildly as Foster and Park were pulled aside by Key. She nearly jerked back, away from her guard with her mouth open to scream for him--but it was too late. She was inside the cabin and unceremoniously escorted to her seat by prim flight staff with fake smiles.
She had never flown before this week; now she hated flight attendants nearly as much as she hated limo drivers.
Coda had dropped into the aisle seat beside her, the phantom fur on Indy's skin bristling as she turned to carefully look past him at the broken body of Roje sprawled out on a row of seats. Foster's face finally appeared, and she finally let out the breath she had been holding. But Park wasn't with him--gone home, maybe suitably put off by the violence from the morning. Thankfully, Winnie still had her guard--the kinder one, who seemed to actually give two shits. She wouldn't have to face Coda, not now at least.
A week ago everything had been calm. A week ago, she had been planning to visit her mother even. Now, she was trapped--and responsible for the murder of the only person who had so far stood beside her, guard or not.
Coda glanced at her--she could feel his eyes on her as her body erupted in chaotic flames and the sickness in her gut threatened to overflow--but he looked away, allowing her to chance a glance of her own at the stony, frozen features that shaped his face. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could still see Roje.
Fuck it. They were both murderers now, neither deserved pensive silence. She pressed her cheek to the window, shutting her eyes and enduring the replaying morning murder for the sake of avoiding his face.
"Why?" Indy's voice crackled, low and gravely from her screaming. "Why did he have you bring her? Why did you bring her body on this fucking plane?"
She didn't truly process much after watching Coda rip into the woman's--Roje's, Key had called her Roje--neck. Was it fair to say she hadn't processed much at all, since discovering Foster? Maybe she had come close the previous night, staring up at the bottom of Coda's bunk and watching his feet sway with the passing hours. Every moment she'd so far spent planning, digging, picking apart personalities and the exact details of intricate gestures, she'd like to think had been moments well spent.
Moments spent productively, time now shattered by a collapsing architecture of ambition and fury that swelled her brain and forced her eyes shut as she now sat beside Coda, unsure whether the blood covering him was real or just a projected illusion created by the splintering sectors of her brain.
There was an attempt at logic, honestly. She was not easily shaken, she was able to think back on the events as the bus started and carried them along--she could think about what Key had said, what Roje had said--she had mentioned another group, right? Foster had mentioned another group, before the limo driver exploded, before Coda had gripped Roje with the same hands that had threatened Indy moments before and tore out a chunk of her neck, the wet squelch replaying over and over--Indy winced.
Her hand was a limp thing, useless as an empty glove laid carefully in the crux of her left elbow. It may as well have been detached for all Indy would have known, if it weren't for the disruptive shock of pain that wracked through her body every time the bus jostled.
Pain and replaying in a search for solutions; those were her thoughts for the entirety of the bus ride, her leg bouncing unconsciously as she desperately ignored the presence beside her, as well as the dead body of Roje, her neck bent like a crooked painting in another seat. Why were they bringing her? Why did Key seem unconcerned by the murder of one of his employees, committed right in front of him? Was he truly that brutal--had he brought her along to dispose of her later?
Indy's guts curled, a slow sickness brewing in her stomach. It had been her fault. She had started the shit with Coda, she had murdered this girl. Maybe she was accustomed to death, to fear--but not murder. I'm sorry.
Then the bus was stopped. Her eyes were stuck on Coda as he carefully lifted Roje--so carefully, like he hadn't already completely broken her. Indy was passed off to another guard, who pushed her up the creaking steps and into the plane. Every ounce of her focus was on keeping her legs from trembling, her eyes forward--even as Coda and Roje momentarily disappeared from view. But then, so did Foster--and even the hardest dedication couldn't keep her from looking back wildly as Foster and Park were pulled aside by Key. She nearly jerked back, away from her guard with her mouth open to scream for him--but it was too late. She was inside the cabin and unceremoniously escorted to her seat by prim flight staff with fake smiles.
She had never flown before this week; now she hated flight attendants nearly as much as she hated limo drivers.
Coda had dropped into the aisle seat beside her, the phantom fur on Indy's skin bristling as she turned to carefully look past him at the broken body of Roje sprawled out on a row of seats. Foster's face finally appeared, and she finally let out the breath she had been holding. But Park wasn't with him--gone home, maybe suitably put off by the violence from the morning. Thankfully, Winnie still had her guard--the kinder one, who seemed to actually give two shits. She wouldn't have to face Coda, not now at least.
A week ago everything had been calm. A week ago, she had been planning to visit her mother even. Now, she was trapped--and responsible for the murder of the only person who had so far stood beside her, guard or not.
Coda glanced at her--she could feel his eyes on her as her body erupted in chaotic flames and the sickness in her gut threatened to overflow--but he looked away, allowing her to chance a glance of her own at the stony, frozen features that shaped his face. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could still see Roje.
Fuck it. They were both murderers now, neither deserved pensive silence. She pressed her cheek to the window, shutting her eyes and enduring the replaying morning murder for the sake of avoiding his face.
"Why?" Indy's voice crackled, low and gravely from her screaming. "Why did he have you bring her? Why did you bring her body on this fucking plane?"
