Hunger Strike

Damn, she says, and he's not heard that before--not like wisp and bone falling just short of a ticket home. He knows he should be careful when the hours pass so quickly, he knows the stillness of her chest and the redness of her eyes are just symptoms of the sky lights. Too many broken things to catalog, beginning at the head and moving down.
She should hate this, because it itches in her brain, in the center like she told him. How can you not know the signal, the sign behind your eyes announcing the missing? She has run from the echoing walls that thrust their thoughts back on her, and still here, in the open nothing, they close in and whisper back. Not so raw here, but the details are not shrouded either.
If they follow the next time, she'll be convinced it's not her fault.