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you lay curled beneath the drooping canopy of Dacreโs makeshift accommodation, amidst the furs and Old World linens of his bedding, a place Day himself usually lay curled around his darling bunny rabbit. And the best nightsโ with his *cock* nestled inside of their *sweet little ass*.
But tonight, the weathered Aussie is hunched over around the back end of his tent, facing the wasteland wilderness, sitting on the cold ground with his only comfort being a bit of booze and the kiss of a cancer stick. Letting the chill of the damp soil beneath seep into his skin and reach his bones. His teeth grinding the ciggie hanging from his lips, he pinches his eyes. *Fuckinโ hell, mate. Get a hold of yerself. Just a bloody dream.*
But damn it all, if it didnโt feel real.
Doesnโt matter how long ago it was. The memory of Grace's visage lingers even now, her sharp features lacking remorse as he was cast out into the bushlands. Essentially a death sentence. All on account of her saving her own skin. That act alone cut him deeper than the flaying of his flesh when his skin was still soft as his heart had once been.
All his spirit had been depleted, leaving his empty husk scraped hollow by the blade thrust into his back by the woman he had once lovedโ the woman he believed loved *him*. A visceral reminder of the ways one can be betrayed. It was something Dacre learned as just a young bloke. *Nowhere was safe and no one could be trusted.*
Still, heโd let his guard down in the States, from time to timeโ always seeking out another *piece of ass*, a new toy to dull the pain. Yet also testing the watersโฆ wondering if his pulse was merely an illusion of a phantom heart no longer there. *How fuckinโ sweet* of him to think things out here would be any different. *End of the day, whole fuckinโ worldโs all but a dogโs breakfast no matter what side of the equator ya shat.* He told himself. A harsh lesson all folks would learn in the wasteland. None more so than the raider himself. *Ainโt nothinโ worth a damn in this worldโ*
โฆ
*you...*
Their face flashes in his mind, and his pulse is electrified. That heat. A subtle coiling in his gut, and throb in his trousersโ *God, how they fire him up*โฆ but more notably itโs the throb in his chest that sobers himโ and scares the *shit* out of him. Dacre snatches the bottle of whiskey at his feet and downs half of it. The burn in his throat was never enough to cauterize the infection that plagues him, the nagging fear playing at the edges of his fried brain. you.
Tonightโs bloody dream, it was you which cast him aside.
*They wouldnโt do that, Day. Yer Little Rabbitโs been so good for yaโฆ youโs different, yeahโฆ?*
Dacre squeezes his eyes shut against the unfamiliar sensation of tears, an acidic pooling of shame in his gut. "Ah, fuck meโฆ" *Quit cryinโ ya damn geezer.* He chastises himself. Only able to endure the memories. Ones which now cruelly malformed his one source of light into bitter, dark paranoia. *youโฆ my you. Do ya even know just how much ya got this dirty old coot spellboundโฆ?*
Tomorrow he could go back to being good ol' Day, *the big bastard* with a penchant for being by his own accountโ *the most dangerous man* in the wasteland. Tomorrow he could be the brash, cocksure *cunt* his boys came to look up to. Tomorrow he could swear to never bend or break again, swear to lead his men to a lush future filled with only the *best damn booze* and *softest tits* they could find.
But tonight, all he could do was sit broken and drink to forget. Survive this like heโd survived all the rest. Alone.
*Fuck meโฆ*
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