[scene] Amara and Bobby

[never-too-cold.livejournal.com]

Bobby could hear her knocking on his door, her usual knock, the one that he had grown to recognize by the pattern, and he jammed his hands into his eyes as his elbows rested on his knees, attempting to shove out any stomach-twisting pictures his mind was creating, sighing out a heavy breath.

“Bobby, please -- please open up,” he heard her sob from behind the door, and his head fell to his hands desperately.

Amara rested her head against the wood, sucking in shaky breaths, and her voice was a whisper against the slate, stray tears forcing their way out of her eyes. “Bobby,” she paused to suck in another breath. “I’m sorry, Bobby. Please… I really am. I didn’t mean to –“ her hand pressed against the wood, breathing again.

He dragged his head up from his hands, a sharp breath inhaling through his nose, and he glanced around his room, eyes trailing over everything, trying to block out her voice. Sighing, his eyes stopped at his desk chair, blue eyes becoming covered by eyelids, happy memories of him and the begging girl behind the door from only four days earlier coming back to him, and he jammed his hands into his eyes again. 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I – I didn’t… I didn’t want you to find out. I didn’t want to hurt you like this,” she leaned against the doorframe, face wedging between the frame and the door, voice speaking into the meeting corner. “Let me in, let me explain.”

Opening his eyes again, he huffed out a breath, more angry than hurt as his mind, unbidden by him, mustered up a mental picture of the telekinetic and Amara; his eyes fluttered closed and he jammed his hands again, breathing through his nose.

Her eyes filled with tears, which were beginning to quickly fall, breathing terribly heavy, and she settled on whispering his name through the door repeatedly, begging. "Bobby," her hand against the door formed into a fist, fist knocking against the wood only slightly. "Please, Bobby."

The boy huffed out a heavy breath, stomach twisting, and her voice wasn't helping him in the slightest, wanting her only to walk away. But she continued.

"Bobby, please. I'm sorry. I'm so, so incredibly sorry. I know that that doesn't make what I did right, but I mean it. Please," she paused and waited to hear if he was coming to the door: he wasnt. She sighed and started explaining things to him through the wood.

"It was an accident, Bobby," she tries to jiggle the knob and it didn't work. Inside the room, Bobby opened his eyes and glared at the door as she continued; he heard her sob. "I didn't want it to happen, it just did. I didn't -- I didn't do what I did to hurt you. All of this, I -- I wish it was all different. I really do. I -- I... want to love you, Bobby. Just tell me how to do it," her words continued to become more and more begging, feeling desperate. "I don't want to -- to love him, Bobby. Please," her fingers pressed against the wood, while her other hand was jiggling the doorknob. "Just open up."

He pushed up off the bed frustratedly, pacing across his room once before stopping in front of the door, and he leaned his head against the door frame in a pause, sucking in calming breaths. After fresh breaths entered his lungs, he opened up, staring blankly at the girl, who was more of an apparent mess than he was.

For a few seconds, he was silent, taking in her tear-streaked face, the messy hair. She was gripping the doorframe, and her damp eyes searched his face.

"I can't do this," he said plainly and unemotionally.

"Wh-What? Bobby, please --"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "I can't deal with you right now. This is..." Afraid that he was going to lose his grip on his emotions, he broke off and glanced away, gazing at a spot somewhere above her head, refusing to meet her eyes. Falling apart now was not an option. "I can't talk to you. And I don't want to hear your explanations. Just...just go."

Amara pressed a palm against the door, trying to stop him from shutting her out. "No, wait, please just let me --"

"Go." The tone of his voice was not angry but firm, the shortness of the word mercifully preventing his voice from cracking. Before she could respond, he pushed the door closed. Back turning to the shut door, he pushed against it, hand reaching to lock it, and his feet slid out from under him, forehead pushing against his palms, breaths shaky.

Amara stared at the closed door for a few seconds, eyes filling with hurt, stinging tears, processing his words, and she turned, eyes falling closed and her back resting against his doorframe, holding back every sob that her lungs wanted her to cry. After a long pause, with hands and chin shaking, she opened her eyes and started off down the hall, wishing he had just yelled at her, silent, hidden tears cascading.