He was only heading for the door, to get out of here. Keeping the knife out of reach so she couldn't snatch it away, Korbin smiled grimly at her.
"What funeral? They didn't hold one for Weaver, what makes you think I'll get one?" He had though. Had made a pyre burn red-hot and high for her, for himself. If he was rotting it was only natural; he had died the day she did, and all that was left was a walking husk. Only fit for pouring vodka into.
But fine, let's play along. Korbin closed his eyes, pictured the pyre. Who would light it? Who would scatter the ashes, pour out a drink in the snow, who would raise the shout to burn brightly?
"No one," he shrugged, and sounded merely accepting. Not bitter, or lonely. His family was dead, after all. "I don't see anyone." Because he didn't believe that anyone actually cared. They just said it to ease their own conscience, to make themselves feel less helpless. All people did were for themselves, to satisfy their own ego, and he was no different.
It was Weaver they loved. Weaver who mattered. And as Korbin opened his eyes again with a shrug, it was clear that he saw nothing worth mourning in his own passing. If he lied to himself, it was not about this.
"What funeral? They didn't hold one for Weaver, what makes you think I'll get one?" He had though. Had made a pyre burn red-hot and high for her, for himself. If he was rotting it was only natural; he had died the day she did, and all that was left was a walking husk. Only fit for pouring vodka into.
But fine, let's play along. Korbin closed his eyes, pictured the pyre. Who would light it? Who would scatter the ashes, pour out a drink in the snow, who would raise the shout to burn brightly?
"No one," he shrugged, and sounded merely accepting. Not bitter, or lonely. His family was dead, after all. "I don't see anyone." Because he didn't believe that anyone actually cared. They just said it to ease their own conscience, to make themselves feel less helpless. All people did were for themselves, to satisfy their own ego, and he was no different.
It was Weaver they loved. Weaver who mattered. And as Korbin opened his eyes again with a shrug, it was clear that he saw nothing worth mourning in his own passing. If he lied to himself, it was not about this.
In loving memory of when I gave a shit
KORBIN
HALE
HALE
