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In the Eye of a Hurricane (there is quiet)

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In the eye of a hurricane
There is quiet
For just a moment
A yellow sky


Desmond had never contemplated just taking his own life. Surprising, with all the knives and blades and guns lying around, waiting to be taken, and just…

Maybe he’d cared about it being too easy of a way out before. He couldn’t remember now.

It’s cold outside, March weather not really suitable for night-time ventures, but Desmond hardly noticed it, staring at the sky from the rooftop of his house. It’s high, and crisp, and filled to the brim with stars, gazing back down at him.

Maybe they’d be the last thing he’d see. Wouldn’t be so bad.

The Farm around him was dark and quiet, everyone was asleep, even dogs that were supposed to guard them. No one to see. No one to stop him.

Good. Desmond didn’t want his passing to be a spectacle, he didn’t want to fail either. Perhaps if he did fail, dad would just beat him to death himself. Maybe not even intentionally. That would be fun.

Desmond took a deep breath, cold air clinging to the inside of his chest, filling the hollows that wouldn’t close. He felt… almost human. Almost like he existed beyond the schedules, and training and chores.

Almost like he wasn’t a function. Like he wasn’t just a life-sized doll for his parents to move around as they pleased. A broken doll, that could never quite assume the pose it was supposed to. No wonder they didn’t like him. No one likes broken things.

If he could stop the time, stop the world, freeze it in this moment, calm and peaceful, the forest sleeping under the moon and stars and the deep black-blue velvet sky, he wouldn’t need to do it.

But the time wouldn’t stop, no matter how much Desmond wished for it to. It was still going, and this was just the eye of the hurricane, and, in a few short hours, the storm would continue.

Desmond was tired of the storm.

He stared at his hand, the knife, glinting in the faint light, the scar, running along his arm like a white seam. He remembered now why he wasn’t trying to take his own life before - he was pretty sure the universe would do it for him. He had so many scars, gotten in so much trouble, had so many bad calls while training, one of those was bound to just… end him. Accidentally.

But he couldn’t seem to die. Every time he thought it was over - he would live. He would get up. He would just continue, for no reason, just out of habit, that was drilled into him.

This had to stop.

Desmond took off his white hoodie, shivering violently in a momentary cold, and set it aside. His chest was so tight it wouldn’t allow him to take a breath when he raised the knife to his carotid, feeling the faint heat radiating from the skin, the pulse thrumming just under the edge of the blade. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to anymore. Soon, it would all be quiet. Soon he’d be free from the storm.

This was the eye of the hurricane, and this was his way out.

His hand faltered at the thought. Way out. He didn’t really want to die - he just needed a way out.

Why not run away?

No, Desmond told himself sternly. He had thought of that before. Planned it even. But it’s a stupid idea. If he did run, dad would find him, and soon. He’d just drag him back, beat him and lock him up. This was a better way. Faster. Less painful.

But what if he wouldn’t? What if dad wouldn’t catch up to him? Desmond was rather fast if he could get just a little headstart…

And then what, he countered himself, dropping the hand with the knife to his lap. Where would he go?

Anywhere. Everywhere.

Doubtful, Desmond looked at the knife again. Perhaps, he should try that first. The blade wouldn’t go anywhere. If he would fail, he could always try again.

Desmond sighed and then reached out for the hoodie, pulling it over his head, and another shiver tore through his body when he realized just how cold he’d been those last few minutes. He sniffed, zipping the hoodie up, and glanced at the stars again.

This was the eye of the hurricane, a moment’s quiet before the storm would rage again.

But hurricanes tend to pass.