Raju breathes. He’s still hot and cold by turns, but the reality is setting in now that Francis has spoken it: Raju killed his own father. That’s what he did.
“I’ve never… heard it out loud. Before that. What I did.” Cold again, and he realises that the weight of Francis’ hand is gone. Of course it is. Raju is dangerous. The one good thing these damn flames have done, shown the stubborn man behind him what’s true when he doesn’t want to respond to that truth in the way he should.
Raju’s quiet for a moment. The moment stretches in his mind, then he realises he should speak. “That… my contrition. That night. It wasn’t for killing him.” Hot now, and the flames try to grow, and mostly fail.
“It was for giving up,” he says, voice tight, while Francis does whatever it is he’s doing behind him. “I promised him. I made him a promise, and I might have— I almost let myself break it. That’s why I was sorry.”
He doesn’t know what to say next. His throat hurts. He tries to think of what needs saying and there’s nothing there, but Francis had a question, before. The one that had surprised him.
He swallows. He swallows again. The flames tremble. He hasn’t eaten much today, but what’s there needs to stay down until Francis understands everything he wants to. For a moment Raju breathes, and tries to move his mind further toward it, to force the words into a shape in his mouth.
“He didn’t force me to. He had— he wore— I never knew. Explosives under his shirt. There was one—“
Raju’s voice cuts out. It doesn’t tremble to a stop, it only stops, and refuses to go any more.
He tries to put the words back in their place in his mouth, but they feel impossible there. They have to come out. He pushes them out, and once they meet the air they come out casually, and calm. The words are impossible words, and so no tone at all needs to come with them. “There was one bullet,” he says.
They feel just as impossible to hear as they do to say, the sharp contrast to everything around him so stark with it that all of that feels, now, impossible too. The snow is a clever prop scattered over a stage, soft and white and its cold far away. The heat isn’t coming from the flames; it doesn’t matter where it’s coming from, because the warmth doesn’t touch him. The colour of the flames starts to drain until they’re paler, their movement underwater slow, and stuttering. He can tell the smoke is tickling and itching in his throat, that that’s going to get in the way once he answers more, but there’s no reason to try to clear it.
“I’m a good shot. I was always—“ The easy, absent tone is cut with a cough, so Raju starts the sentence again. It doesn’t mean anything, or connect to anything. It’s an answer, and it’s true. “I was always a good shot.”
no subject
“I’ve never… heard it out loud. Before that. What I did.” Cold again, and he realises that the weight of Francis’ hand is gone. Of course it is. Raju is dangerous. The one good thing these damn flames have done, shown the stubborn man behind him what’s true when he doesn’t want to respond to that truth in the way he should.
Raju’s quiet for a moment. The moment stretches in his mind, then he realises he should speak. “That… my contrition. That night. It wasn’t for killing him.” Hot now, and the flames try to grow, and mostly fail.
“It was for giving up,” he says, voice tight, while Francis does whatever it is he’s doing behind him. “I promised him. I made him a promise, and I might have— I almost let myself break it. That’s why I was sorry.”
He doesn’t know what to say next. His throat hurts. He tries to think of what needs saying and there’s nothing there, but Francis had a question, before. The one that had surprised him.
He swallows. He swallows again. The flames tremble. He hasn’t eaten much today, but what’s there needs to stay down until Francis understands everything he wants to. For a moment Raju breathes, and tries to move his mind further toward it, to force the words into a shape in his mouth.
“He didn’t force me to. He had— he wore— I never knew. Explosives under his shirt. There was one—“
Raju’s voice cuts out. It doesn’t tremble to a stop, it only stops, and refuses to go any more.
He tries to put the words back in their place in his mouth, but they feel impossible there. They have to come out. He pushes them out, and once they meet the air they come out casually, and calm. The words are impossible words, and so no tone at all needs to come with them. “There was one bullet,” he says.
They feel just as impossible to hear as they do to say, the sharp contrast to everything around him so stark with it that all of that feels, now, impossible too. The snow is a clever prop scattered over a stage, soft and white and its cold far away. The heat isn’t coming from the flames; it doesn’t matter where it’s coming from, because the warmth doesn’t touch him. The colour of the flames starts to drain until they’re paler, their movement underwater slow, and stuttering. He can tell the smoke is tickling and itching in his throat, that that’s going to get in the way once he answers more, but there’s no reason to try to clear it.
“I’m a good shot. I was always—“ The easy, absent tone is cut with a cough, so Raju starts the sentence again. It doesn’t mean anything, or connect to anything. It’s an answer, and it’s true. “I was always a good shot.”