100 Words: Til It Sticks

This time, she was facedown in a puddle of her own vomit, clothing reeking of piss and sweat.

He’d dealt with worse, after his own benders, and picked her up, for the hundredth time.

She didn’t fight as he cleaned her up, cared for her, wet her lips gently, laid her in the clean bed.

“We keep doin this, you’n’me.” He brushed one long green braid back from her cheek in a way that was too painful to think about, considering she never would’ve allowed the touch, if she hadn’t been broken. “N’We’ll keep doin’ this, love, til it sticks.”

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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