A mixed range of emotions lingered at his presence, still extremely hurt by his dismissal of her love and infatuation. In fact, Anastasia opted to remain mute immediately after, hardly ever posing a question or gesturing to interact with him whenever in close proximity; an act unavoidable considering how immediate their ties are to one another. Nonetheless, the connection the blonde felt refused to diminish, the emotional draw lingering as if she were a fledding attached to a vampire who created her. Tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear, Anastasia sat at the nearest table slicing mangoes to devour, drenching the liquid of lemon atop the fruit to enhance the taste. “—-..” Absolute silence stood between them, sharp enough to cut its own slice of mango if willing. While the drumming of her heart held a fastened pace, too much embarrassment sat to utter merely a word or two.       /     @clarkroschell​

                         Most people that resided in Red Creek could barely stomach a shared atmosphere with Clark Roschell. The longevity of their friendship.. relationship —whichever title preferred is surprising to say the last, struggling to stand on its own two feet. His contrasting behavior is now intolerable, and the lengths he took to initiate a conversation astounded her. The moment the pulled chair became occupied and his hand reached forth to devour her mangoes, Anastasia’s stomach churned due to nauseousness, promptly and effectively taking the nearest exit. Napkin thrown aggressively against the table, eye contact unlocked entirely, holding a hand against her mouth as she objected heavily to him being there — to have close proximity — to do.. that; to be near her. It’s the littlest things. Heading forth the bathroom, the blonde casually turned on the pipe to wash her hands, calmly letting her quietness settle in the closed off room.

               Clark remained seated for what felt akin to an eternity, a half eaten piece of mango still nestled between calloused fingers as he watched her fumble out of the room back to her place in the restroom. He adored pushing the boundaries of any friendship they had, levels of respect blurred beneath the chosen vernacular and lexicon they consistently poked each other with. Clark would admit that tonight was a different story, ladened with a lachrymose air that dared suffocate the both of them, a severe entity which was all his fault; clouding and maiming their entire span of connection. He dared say she was hard to understand on a good day, though now, cocooned in all her melancholy, he deemed her simply indecipherable. Minutes passed unrelentingly, perhaps even rallied up a staunch amount before he finally called out, unable to ever help himself, “Ana, please, come back.” A stern, yet pleading tone alluded timbre of his voice, resonating throughout the house as no other sounds could drown out his request; cigarette ash built substantially on the end of his unsmoked cigarette.

                       A mixed range of emotions lingered at his presence, still extremely hurt by his dismissal of her love and infatuation. In fact, Anastasia opted to remain mute immediately after, hardly ever posing a question or gesturing to interact with him whenever in close proximity; an act unavoidable considering how immediate their ties are to one another. Nonetheless, the connection the blonde felt refused to diminish, the emotional draw lingering as if she were a fledding attached to a vampire who created her. Tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear, Anastasia sat at the nearest table slicing mangoes to devour, drenching the liquid of lemon atop the fruit to enhance the taste. “—-..” Absolute silence stood between them, sharp enough to cut its own slice of mango if willing. While the drumming of her heart held a fastened pace, too much embarrassment sat to utter merely a word or two.       /     @clarkroschell​

                      What Clark happened not to grasp is that she did not care to talk to him. Anastasia became numb to their previous interaction; he happened to make his bed, so suffer the consequences by laying in it. His feelings were disregarded ultimately, unsure on how he could possibly feel awkwardness and shitty due to his rejection of her, not the other way around. As if the male appeared to speak another language, her hearing opted to listen to the birds chirping out the window.. the continued munching of her fruit, simmering in the acceptance of her muteness. If being stoic is his preferred characteristic of himself, then she’ll return the same if that meant there being no contact between the two — the act of being cold, disdainful. As difficult as it appeared, Anastasia would rather that, tired of the frequent bickering. Enduring his vagueness within the past five years throbbed her head like a constant migraine, and not enough ibuprofen can rid the suffering.

               In spite of all their transgressions and her willful ignorance to his voice that now flooded the room, she still dared be in close proximity to him. She never left, despite his overt pleas, and that said all when it boiled down to the fundamentals of their entire relationship and how no matter he treated her, on any level, Anastasia would always remain akin to an engorged tick on a scavenging dog. It proved to be the most obnoxious and — on her end — ingratiating fact of all, that his mistreatment of her and clear lack of deserving for her presence and companionship was still not enough for Anastasia to ever choose herself. Such tidbit clawed at him, yet Clark would never much say a word on it; less when it came to his incessantly archetypal poking and prodding of her. A sigh omitted him, dramatically so as he careened forward to take a seat opposite of her, helping himself to a mango — one of the many she purchased for his home — taking out his own hunters knife to sliver off portions to nibble on in silence with her.

                       A mixed range of emotions lingered at his presence, still extremely hurt by his dismissal of her love and infatuation. In fact, Anastasia opted to remain mute immediately after, hardly ever posing a question or gesturing to interact with him whenever in close proximity; an act unavoidable considering how immediate their ties are to one another. Nonetheless, the connection the blonde felt refused to diminish, the emotional draw lingering as if she were a fledding attached to a vampire who created her. Tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear, Anastasia sat at the nearest table slicing mangoes to devour, drenching the liquid of lemon atop the fruit to enhance the taste. “—-..” Absolute silence stood between them, sharp enough to cut its own slice of mango if willing. While the drumming of her heart held a fastened pace, too much embarrassment sat to utter merely a word or two.       /     @clarkroschell​

               Clark could never remain drenched in silence for long, his unrelenting need to comment on just about everything his own potent hamartia, his tongue cloyingly sharp and saccharine. “Are you feeling better now?” A scalding rebuttal, another smear of denial that was tossed into Anastasia’s face in rallying heed to dismiss any feelings he felt too fearful to address. Her feelings, his own self absorption having never offered Anastasia any second thought when it came to acts of romanticism; not that Clark held any sense of said ploy. He was a southern man, from old values and an abusive juvenescence which only sparked his forwardness and rebarbative tone. Yet somehow, despite his offensive treatment to Anastasia she developed amorous feelings for Clark which made kept him in a near vertiginous state, provoking him to spark yet another cigarette, flicking the brazened ember unto a nearby ashtray — one always on hand. “ — ‘Cause I have to say, on my end, that made me feel kinda shitty. Or awkward —— or both.” 

                  She curated a plan after all that’s happened —- one that might not smooth out well with him, but perhaps the best thing to do at this point in time. Anastasia figured he’d find his way towards her, another solid example of him constantly caring for her yet constantly denying it; a continuous cycle that began to create vicious bouts of anger. Having to hear his words once more, those words that showed an indication of something she could clutch onto but his actions proving otherwise, she sought to find the nearest towel to wrap around her small frame before politely swinging the door open. Her features were clearly redder than usual, still unsure on what needed to be done to stop herself from hysterically bawling. “You.. want me to come out after all of this? I’m coming out, alright —- I’m leaving. Gone! Out of your sight. I’ll figure something out, but this whole rotation has been going on for far too long. Look at me!” If looks could kill, he’d damn near be dead by now. For him to stare exactly into her eyes again, particularly in this overwrought state, Anastasia knew it’d be uncomfortable for him to endure. Now she didn’t have the strength to push past him given the obvious difference in height and weight, however she gathered the courage to request for him to move out of his way to avoid another altercation. She had no idea on where to reside; Clark probably even knew that since Anastasia barely interacted with anyone outside of him, but she’ll manage. “You’re hurting me. Come out to do what —-  to watch you smoke a cigarette again and drink until all your miseries go away? I’m tired, Clark. Maybe you and I shouldn’t have contact at all. So I’m leaving.”

                    Another scowl left him, typical of his inherent aversion to situation that involved such emotional conflict. “I don’t know what the hell you want me to say,” syllables were acrid on his tongue, bottom lip caught between his teeth as if overcome with thinking for a clear solution. There was none in sight, however, her own emotional turmoil akin to her own inner and confused self more than it ever had to do with his rejection. “Plus, it’s not like I can stop you. If you wanted to go the doors that way, not through here,” he gestured to the bathroom in which she just emerged from before nodding back to the entrance way which led to the overgrown backyard. It was how many came and went, through the glass door that nestled behind the kitchen; a path in which Jeremiah and others had ruined far too many times for Clark to ever truly repair it to it’s pluperfect form. “Whether you stay, or go, I’m having a drink.” He helplessly turned away from her now, a quintessential act that was ingrained upon every fibre of his being, heading towards the fridge for a liquor enduced escape. 

                  Her mannerism exemplified the frustrations she began to feel due to his perplexing love-language. The closest Anastasia has gotten when it came to displaying her needs of affection was towards Parker King, a man she began to fear the moment he had one of his bullets pierced through her right thigh. Even that     the whirlwind of her and Parker, she never managed to explain to not one single person, especially towards Clark. If there’s a common denominator between both men which Anastasia could not and would never stand, it’s their blatant exhibition of not caring; the complete opposite of how she chooses to operate. She did not need him to authenticate how he feels in regards to her furthermore. His words reflected a crude attitude, however his actions did not, and that was appreciative enough for her. Importuning him with questions came to a halt, having her nails scratch against the surface of his arms as her eyes filled with bewilderment. Her mind.. became a little warped within the past several years of dealing with absolute torture in Red Creek. Having that mixed with personal issues from her former southern home did not mesh well with her, but Anastasia learned to balance the two. In this current moment, she did not feel disorientated in the slightest bit, but did feel overwhelmed with confusion and denial.  

               Anastasia felt him drawing back, prompting her to whisper soft coos in his ear as a form of comfort, all while peppering the crook of his neck with soft kisses. As much as she knew there was a strong desire to stop, a part of her began to not care anymore, tired of being restrained not just by him, but others, wanting to venture out towards her own path of personal freedom and liberation. There goes that nickname tumbling around the room      Ana. Her lids that slowly began to open due to an increase of euphoria immediately took notice of their current state of environment, unable to dismiss the look of disgust that crossed his features. The consistent cries left her eyes to mirror being bloodshot, and gosh, the scent of nicotine became much stronger as time went by. Numbness filled her rose colored lips, almost feeling damn near bruised. He wanted her to stop. Yet Anastasia.. surprisingly, she did not want to. “Stop what, stop who       Clark,” she murmured in a croak; vocals now strained due to the howls she threw at him minutes prior. For him to dare say that this isn’t like her, as if he ever challenged himself to explore parts of her that were not damaged goods, ignited a flame that did not need to get lit. “You don’t even know… don’t you dare go there with me!” That rush she feels when yearning to let out a fistful of tears happened once again, chewing the inside of her lesser lip to hold back spilling out another lecture for him to deal with, because even Anastasia knew how tiring that could be.

            A glimmer of distress appeared. No other option seemed available at this point in time; she finally felt burned out to the max, and wanted nothing more than to finish his cigarette, soak in a hot shower, and sleep the night off. She felt beaten to the core. All of the notes appearing in her mind is exactly what she decided to follow through with, standing there in absolute silence as she smoked his cigarette, tossing the remnants at the forefront of his feet. “What’s your reasoning then? Sitting around in this household with a beer to drink all the damn time while lighting a cigarette, thinking ignoring all of your problems will make them go away?” Anastasia felt delirious. Miserable, as well. The mars comment became her last straw with him, taking that as a dig to insinuate that she’s crazy       one insult she’s heard too many times from others, certainly not expecting to hear that from him, especially given their history. The rush appeared again, and boy, did she break. Anastasia made sure to waltz right away from him, dodging any potential touch from Clark as sounds went through one ear and right out the other. A couple of trips over air and she’s stumbling towards the nearest bathroom all while stripping most of her clothing, locking the door behind her, vision soon clouded. Mortified isn’t even the strongest word she could use to describe how she felt. Her stomach churned, and it churned violently, even pointing to signs that she wanted to regurgitate. Perhaps Anastasia is far off from mars and their worlds will never collide no matter how much she wants them to. She stood in boyshorts, finding herself mute, successfully muffling any cries that desired to be heard. Examining her small, gaunt frame in the nearby mirror allowed for sadness to transition to anger, and confusion to become comprehensible. The coldness of the floor seemed most comfortable to her, sitting there with her face tucked between her knees, shivering violently as she wanted nothing more than to disappear for her own good. Mars does not seem to be too far off from being her next destination, or at least in her state of mind.

                    A sheepish sense swelled within Clark, transmogrifying under a strange cadence as if he would be taking advantage of Anastasia had he offered any reverberated interest. There was no limit to how far his care stretched for Ana, but in the light she proposed — such waters were murky at best; the thought of said blurred and intrusive boundaries not something he ever gave much mind to. Anastasia, however, seemed to have paid far too much mind to the very idea, a noxious sense of vertigo near overcoming Clark as the kiss wrought an abject conclusion. Far more times than not, Anastasia seemed hellbent on excavating for feelings that were not there, sentiments damaged and shattered amiss years of emotional exploit; patterns of a love language Clark learned from his family and would soon seek in his own counterparts. He was a man of cruel-shapen habits, availed to amber liquor, cigarette smoke and meaningless one night stands, if he could help it. Connection was an imbalance to the male, a wretched means that would only end in lachrymose revelations and hearts broken once more. While a sense of fondness had sparked between Natalie, dare he say Thea and now Ana — he had related her more to a person of familial standing than of any romantic regards. Perhaps it was the line he envisioned in his head, or perhaps her moronic tendencies in which he had to save her from futilely that exhausted any efforts to blur affections ever. No matter, he froze, eyes near wrenched shut as if in disapproval of the kisses which peppered his neck, the actions akin to a million little weights hoisted upon his shoulders now. 

                     It would be another interrelation to shatter, his aversion to any mental proximity fervent now as his extempore cut deep. Such severing was swift, evident by how she soon slackened in tandem with a sense of rigidity not archetypal of her, “I can’t —— have this with you,” a lump nestled amidst his throat, hands coming up in tandem to secure around her wrists as if to allow any further space between them. A poignant chuckle escaped from him, as if to dissolve any sense of prospective regret, “You’re right I don’t know, but I can’t know, I shouldn’t know.” Clark had known Anastasia well enough over the years to read between the lines of her colloquial word vomit, head bowed as her reaction reached bounds he was near praying to avoid. Another bundle of nerves allowed a second smattering of a chuckle to escape him, hand coming up to run through wild locks upon his head, “I’ve known you so long, Ana. I mean, I’m rash, I’m really fucking rash. If I wanted to go there with you, if I could go there with you — fuck, it would have happened a long time ago.” Syllables were presented under a figment of his own habits, knowing full well that most of his relationships were conjured up amidst a whirlwind of brash and reckless decision making which led to tumultuous ends soon after. The foundations on which he and Ana were built were simmered in their own trials and tribulations, yet they had still prevailed; a sturdy groundwork allowing them to have made it all these years. 

                   A sharp inhale was the result of her backlash, scowling as every argument from any figure in his life was boiled down to his lack of drive. Clark pinched the bridge of his nose as she finally skulked away from him, shaking his head in tandem finality, “What the fuck is it with you people? Can’t I be left alone to drink and do nothing if that’s what I want to do. It has nothing to do with avoiding shit,” a half lie, the long life he had led leading to such inactivity in his current years. Words were rancid on the tarmac of his tongue, yet it was too late, any rebound to their former state severed under the premise of her scrutinizing his choice of lifestyle once more. He allowed her to storm off, not even so much as wincing as the bathroom door was shut in finality, standing there with eyes shut once more as if a means to calm himself. He could go for a cigarette, yet the stale taste still remained; a recollection he would like to forget near immediately, standing still and near focusing on his own breathing as the quiet swarmed him now. Clark could only stand it for so long, scowling once more as he made his way to her now fortress, the door apparently keeping her safe from any truths she could not face, “Can you just come out?” Inquiry was near timid, his own desire to abandon such virulent interaction in exchange of a drink more desirable; yet he couldn’t leave her alone. 

                 Shockingly enough, the admittance and obvious discomfort stemming from him stopped her from crying all together, allowing her head to cock to the side out of confusion. Acknowledgement became one of the primary issues during their conversation. Granted, their entire friendship          if it’s entitled to accept that crown, developed on rocky grounds. The fact of the matter is the two still ravished each others company years after their first interaction; an interaction not only toxic, but quite amusing due to the circumstances of their argument. Chest moved in a quiet manner while gathering herself together, visibly unable to halt the uncertainty that overtook her demeanor. “As if you believe anything in regards to yourself. You know what’s hilarious?” She stayed in a brief period of quietness following her question, continuing to state the obvious. “You still didn’t answer why you kept me around. I said what I said with no regrets ; I know why I stayed after all these years. Yet as usual, you continue to dance around the question as a method of combating your own insecurity which is the acceptance of care.” Shoulders slumped as her lashes batted excessively, soon enough staring at him with a blank canvas, knowing a part of her is absolutely correct on this stance. “And trust me —- I know enough about you that I can write an entire book.” Sharp laughter emitted out of puzzlement, bewildered that Clark would ever suggest she leave the environment that the two practically built together. At a slow pace, the young adult ( without any form of tears ) took several steps to place herself directly in front of him ; her demeanor clearly expressing that she’s had enough, being close in proximity that she could feel his breath trickle against the surface of her skin. “You want me to leave after willingly admitting that I’m not them             are you stupid?”  It’s not meant to be rhetorical, no. Anastasia fully meant for him to grasp that in this particular moment, he sounded slow-witted, illogical..  quite frankly, panic-stricken on the inside. “I’m not leaving. If you’re keen on wanting me gone, then make me leave.” In a nonthreatening fashion, she continued to repeat her request all while deliberately brushing her nose against his own, then pulling back, repeating the same old technique, sometimes allowing her rose colored lips to brush against his.  Her fingers slipped between the warmth of their bodies to drag the cigarette from his teeth to her own, taking a puff herself before blowing the smoke in his face. “I didn’t know what it meant until I met you.” This is her truth. Although a difficult pill to swallow, Anastasia felt no regrets. Her entire etiquette mocked Clarks until a hand raised to grab a hold of his chin, impulsively interlocking her brims against his own as body began to feel damn near faint ; her incisors tugging at his lesser lip eagerly before abruptly pulling back seconds later. Nonchalantly, she returned back to her position, smoking his cigarette as a slight shrug appeared. “Make me leave.” It’s as if nothing happened, never minding the numbness of her lips. “Fine, yeah, you’re not them. Obviously. We all know that,” she said in his exact tone, scoffing ; a small attitude on high alert.  “             Are you done sounding like a child? Because everything you’ve said proves my point. You sound ridiculous. And you’re only insulting me as a means to make yourself feel better.”

                   A litany of excuses could have rolled off his tongue and it wouldn’t have done the male any good, even any verity coming from him seemingly going undetected by the woman before him. No matter the pools of honestly that spilled from his lips, Anastasia always seemed hellbent on searching for more; sopping up every last bit until he was just such husk of a shell in which he had always been. Perhaps it was such innocent warmth that poured from her in turn, though it was fairly evident the flaxen haired female was never much the wiser when it came to how exhausting her demanding quirks could inevitably be. Always the incessant need to harp on every how, why, who or when in the need to have every excruciating detail of her life primed and figured out. Clark, on the other hand, was a master of the fuck it button —said method never betraying him just yet; least that was what the male could tell himself, his own surly nature being second hand now. 

                    The proximity of her breath now, an amalgam of rustic cinnamon and smoke hit him akin to a freight train; nausea settling into the root of his stomach as Anastasia soon descended into the final crescendo of her own maddening symphony; the lachrymose narrative she clung to a betrayal to her own heart. “Ana——” She began to pull at the strings she had thus created, a pestilential regard that he had never quite seen on her; so manically stricken, a slew of actions that wrought a frigid conclusion. “Stop, stop, stop,” syllables flung from his lips under dismayed retort; the means for an offhand quip barren as his mind near swirled with the same nausea that leeched among his stomach. No matter, they came off as a whisper words no longer found as such descent was made a reality, a wretched conjuring which could no longer be taken back as she crossed the line he prayed would never be traversed. 

                    “This isn’t like you,” disrelish for such pursuit was evident from his tone, fingertips digging into his own inked skin as his cigarette had since been stolen, exhaling a harsh breath in finality. “None of whatever that was is like you,” the practical toying, the means for her to nonchalantly pretend as if it was a phantasm conjured between the duo of them; it all boiled down to his present chagrin. Perhaps it was the intertwined abuse in their childhoods that molded such exact moment; the poignant impression that whoever she was had never much been calculated by Anastasia at all. Not that Clark ever much imagined how she could act under the guise of such intimate moments, his hands falling back to his sides as if that could be the safest place for them now. “I’m not the one——” acting like a child; the words perished on the tarmac of his tongue, inhaling a sharp breath in lieu of how effortless it was for her to vex him without ever trying much. “I  feel like I’m the one with reason out the two of us right now,” jaw was clenched as the inherent rage boiled down to a blurred simmer, “You’re sounding pretty fucked and far off on mars, in my opinion.” A scowl fell in tandem with his words, as if it was any chance of him regaining his typically calloused demeanor in light of all that had just happened in the last thirty seconds.

                            Elaborating the substance behind her words became a strenuous task on her end. Of course, Anastasia should have known some part of him would grapple with what she emitted —- the two bickered like children ( perhaps ) once a week, sometimes more. Cheeks sucked in for a split second, blonde hair loosening from a high bun as her locks sprawled across the top of her shoulders, incapable of concealing her trepidatious expression. “If you don’t say something, so help me God.” Teeth gritted together harshly. There’s not an inkling of anger roaming throughout her small frame, no. She did, however, expect him to be a little more..humane. The repetition as to why they still carried a conversation, as to why they still happened to be friends —- whether the two wanted to accept it or not, there is no proper explanation, thus leading to her deciding to flip the table so that answers fell into his own hands. And if there happens to be an exact reason behind their actions, the deployment is deliberate, so she thinks. “Why are you still by my side?” Brows raised as pursed lips settled onto her features, scowling. “I got shot, you stayed. I was bitten and bruised by a vampire, you were pissed and did not leave me by choice. I can name numerous examples where you could have left and you didn’t. And the same applies on my end, so don’t you dare pull that card with me.” Compared to his proportions, Anastasia’s absolutely sure her words meant nothing to him. The more Clark became vocable, the more Anastasia’s emotions were nothing short from leading to an emotional outburst. The obvious struggle to retract specific statements became a tug-of-war.  “All of those examples given and you still make the assumption that I believe you treat me like —-” She forced herself to break character. “You still make the assumption that I believe you treat me like shit.” In that very specific moment, her voice broke due to the increasing frustration laid at her feet. “I gave you my all. A feeling of hope. You fail to understand sometimes people don’t expect anything in return when doing something for the greater good. That’s what I do. I took the time.. years to understand who you are. Granted, things haven’t always been nice, but here we are.” A quick snatch of his cigarette, she held the slim item behind her back without care, already feeling her lesser lip quiver. “I am not Thea. I am not those people back home —- I am not them. I’ve proved that consistently!” She felt fulfilled enough by the rawness of emotions, apprehensively handing back his death stick before croaking sheepishly, “I really do love you.” An emotion Anastasia felt ashamed of, like a child consoling themself, using the back of her hand harshly to wipe what coated her rose colored cheeks. Although not an ounce of regret poured out, an emotion such as this left her feeling insecure within herself greatly, refusing to get a capture of his hues.

                    The admission of her feelings comes as a heavy pill to swallow, a frigid disconnect when faced with the prospect of care from others. Clark has rejected even the idea of such fondness, a means of self sustaining torture that dared keep him on the fumes of being afloat; just enough alive for people to thus scoff at any sense of misery — a dejection he never had enough enthusiasm to thus pull himself out of. It’s only when she continues that an amalgam of a scoff and laugh of his own escapes, the eternal quietus that could perpetually shrivel the fragments of Anastasia’s hope, “I don’t think you believe anything. I know I treat you like shit, I take my own accountability on that,” the means of accountability is strange when it comes from Clark, ever lacking the aegis to pull himself together enough to be liable for his own self. It is only when he is ever faced with a sense of warmth that he desires to snuff out his own self deprecation, bobbing above the water just enough to abscond any prospect for such sentiment. Clark has long ago expected the tears from her, still scowling akin to a surly old man as they fall, clicking his tongue under the quintessence of his distaste. “Fine, yeah, you’re not them. Obviously. We all know that,” timbre resonates in an area of impatience, the very foundation of his person when it comes to times of confrontation. “But do yourself a fucking favor and pack up now,” it is his only tasteful reaction in the face of her admittance, a more vertiginous impression overcoming him in that moment. It evolved from a sense of fear, the tipping point of any ardor she could feel for him, his desire to snuff out said sentiment palpable.  “You probably don’t even know what that means,” he scowled, the expression only bringing about a frigid conclusion, puffing upon the cigarette as if to assure that the dying ember would not go out. 

                               Three entire years. Their relationship —- this friendship; a whirlwind. Many doubted they’d last this long in each others surroundings, but for some odd.. yet beautiful reason, the two held on. “I need to tell you something.” Words echoed softly as her frame leaned against a wooden door, cautiously examining how Clark maneuvered. She’s aware that this abrupt, worrisome tone may puzzle him. It is possible that what Anastasia may express might not be reciprocated. Years of sessions endured; travesty on her end. Yet she made the firm decision to stand her ground as hazel hues darkened, not containing an ounce of emotion, allowing vulnerability for once to spill. “I thank you, sincerely, for everything. I thank you for being you in the midst of it all. I thank you for accepting me for who I am as a person.. through thick and thin. Perhaps that’s what I always found so lovable about you. Perhaps that’s what I still love —-  and will always love about you.” Brows knitted together as she continued to search for the right words, an immediate raise of her finger signaling him to not talk, but to listen. “It pains me that I never took the time out to voice my appreciation. You’ve shaped me a lot as a person; I didn’t think I could experience this much growth. I also didn’t think I’d be filled with this much love for someone else,” the blonde haired woman murmured, insecurely dropping her gaze. “Red Creek is beautiful, but I think Kentucky would like our return. We don’t have to be in the presence of those that have hurt us. I want you, however, to come home with me. Build something with me, where we can remove years of pain and start fresh. If you’ll allow me, of course —- if you’ll allow me. Three entire years. I’m still by your side. I will never do what others have done to you.”      

                    The persecution of his adolescence spiraled the entirety of his current span of existence, the need to separate himself from others care a crucial element when it came to self preservation. So his heart was near caught in his throat as Anastasia dared to teeter past such slim margin, nose already curled as a battery of combative epithets were already loaded on his tongue; ready to strike at any convenience. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he near scowled, any verbal artillery quelled in the sake of how sensitive Anastasia could truly be, scratching the back of his head in tandem with such loss of any words. He had spent far too long running away from any familial bond he left in Kentucky and returning, leaving behind the continuous surprises Red Creek had to offer, was not so simple; Clark shrugging in tepid finality. “I don’t know why you’re still by my side, or whatever the hell you said,” a gruff chuckle emitted from his lips, plucking a pack from his pocket; a rancid habit fueled only by his need to focus on anything else in this moment. “Nobody asked you for anything and frankly — frankly, I treat you like shit. That’s no secret.” He inhaled sharply in tandem with the cigarette that was since ignited, “You’ve got to, get this picture perfect family, oh hana bullshit out of your head. It doesn’t do anyone any favors.” Clark couldn’t look at her, the flippant lexicon that spewed from his lips enough to burn him from the inside out.