Kevma - Blog Posts

Irene didn’t flinch at the shouting. Didn’t wince when his voice cracked or when the fury bled through the glass and hit her like a slap. She just stood there —still as the trees lining the street, soaked to the bone, watching the storm take him inch by inch. She waited, silent, until the only sound left was the drum of rain on the hood and the soft hiss of his breath shaking in his lungs.

Then she stepped back.

Not much —just enough that the shape of her in the window grew smaller, less immediate. Her eyes didn’t soften, not quite. But something in them shifted, like a door creaked open somewhere behind her ribs, and inside was a kind of tired knowing that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with too many nights just like this.

“You’re right,” she said finally. Flat. Even. “I don’t get it. Not your version. I’ve got my own.”

She adjusted the collar of her coat with one hand, pulled the hood back over her head. Her voice stayed steady, low and sure, even as the rain beaded on her lashes. “But I know this, no one is coming to save you if you don’t want to be saved. No one can.”

There was no judgment in her tone. Just truth, clean and sharp.

“You want to rot out here in the wreckage? Fine. That’s your choice. But don’t spit in the face of every hand that tries to pull you out when you’re the one gripping the rust like it’s gospel.”

She turned to go, boots sucking in the wet earth, shoulders set like armor.

But before she disappeared fully into the downpour, she paused—just once—and looked back over her shoulder, rain carving clean lines down her face.

“You want things to change?” she said, barely audible over the hiss of rain. “Then you start with you. No one else is going to do it for you.”

"I'm not-" He stops himself because what the hell else would it look like when he's out here like this? But that's not the point of this. He isn't sitting here hoping that he dies, but if he survives this without the truck, without even trying to save the last piece of his old life, then what was the point of going forward at all? His eyes get hot and he knows that means tears are coming, and he turns away angrily as he tries to compose himself.

"So then I'll fucking die!" he shouts back at her through the window. "I didn't ask for anyone to fucking stop for me. They've been passing me by for the last ten years when it mattered, so why the fuck does anyone care now?" Kevin glares at her through the window, thinking her high and mighty for judging him when she has no idea what he's been through. How many times people have turned their back on him because he didn't have an easy answer or made things too difficult, or blamed him for not trying hard enough, and she dares to stand there and do the same now that people have finally developed a conscience?

Kevin slams his palm against his steering wheel and shakes his head. "You don't fucking get it. People like you never fucking get it," he grumbles and he wipes away the tears that have started trickling down his face. "If you're so certain I'm dead, then you should get out of here. Wouldn't want you to be dumb about it."

Irene didn’t speak at first. Just stood there in the rain, coat stitched to her like a second skin, eyes set in a line that didn’t waver, didn’t blink. The storm had settled into something steadier now — a long, needling drizzle, the kind that soaked slow and stuck like guilt. It blurred the edges of the world, smeared the headlights in distant driveways, turned her breath to ghost-pale smoke.

When she finally exhaled, it was quiet. Not exasperated. Not angry.

Just… tired.

“I’ve met some suicidal people,” she said, voice low and dry, “— but this beats them all.”

She didn’t mean it cruel. There was no heat in it. Just the matter-of-fact weight of someone who’d walked through too many doorways behind bodies that couldn’t say no when it counted. Her gaze ticked down the side of the truck, traced the dented fender and the rust creeping out like ivy from the wheel well.

The wind shifted, pulling her hood back enough to reveal more of her face — pale skin flushed red at the cheeks, rainwater dragging hair across her jaw like threads of ink. There was no pleading in her expression. No desperation.

Just a quiet, aching kind of certainty.

“You want to stay? Fine. That’s yours to own. But don’t pretend it’s about sparing anyone else. You will die. And worse, you might take more people with you who are dumb enough to come out for you.”

The joke doesn't land, but he didn't really expect it to. But he's skeptical at her stance that he's got anything worth something to someone else. Even if a vampire were to come along, his blood probably tastes like pharmaceuticals and weed, not exactly the most appealing to anyone, and maybe he would make for a decent chewtoy for a werewolf if they didn't mind how stringy he was.

"Look," he sighs. "I get it. I hear you." They're the same warnings that have been rattling around in his head for hours, with each passing refusal. "But this truck... it's the only good thing that I have of my dad left." Fuck, he doesn't even know what the point of explaining it is. He was a shitty dude, left Kevin and their family with a ton of shitty problems, and yet, it wasn't always so bad. This truck is a reminder of those moments. It sounds even stupider now in his brain but he doesn't mention that part.

"I'm sure you're willing to help, and I appreciate it. I do. But I'm not leaving. It's my choice if I want to get wiped off the map with my truck, but I'd rather no one else get caught in my stupidity." She has no attachment to this truck or Kevin, and he wills her to listen to that. "The tow's gonna come, and I'll be fine." He has to be.

Irene didn’t answer right away. Just stood there with the wind needling past her hood and the storm biting at the edges of her coat. She watched him with that same unreadable calm — not cold, not unkind, just steady in a way most people forgot how to be. Like she’d already made her decision, and now she was waiting to see if he’d catch up to it.

At his joke, something flickered across her face. Not quite amusement. Not pity, either.

“You keep offering pieces like no one’ll miss ‘em,” she said quietly. “This town’s full of people who’d take you up on it.”

She stepped closer, the wet gravel crunching under her boot. Her gaze stayed level.

“There are folks around who’d love to know how soft your belly is. What your bones sound like when they crack. Some don’t even need a reason. Just like seeing what leaks out.”

There was nothing cruel in the way she said it. If anything, it was gentle — a warning wrapped in something like care, worn blunt from use.

Then, she pulled her hand from her coat pocket, palm up, offered without ceremony.

“You can’t stay here.”

A pause, as if she were weighing her next words against the storm itself.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But you sit in this truck much longer, and someone’s going to find your teeth before they find your name.”

Her fingers didn’t waver. She wasn’t a big woman, didn’t look like she could carry much more than her own weight and maybe a loaded satchel — but there was a kind of quiet confidence in the offer. She was training on a daily basis, this couldn't be as difficult, right?

“I’ll help you. If you can walk, I’ll get you there.”

Then, softer — not for reassurance, but truth. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He doesn't know what to make of this stranger walking through a growing hurricane like it's a summer shower. There's no urgency in her tone, unlike the few others who have stopped by, and there's almost a relief when she doesn't tell Kevin to get out of the truck. She listens to his stuttering explanations and she simply responds with the facts. Unnerving, but better than trying to convince someone he wasn't being stupid for the sake of being stupid.

A mile and a half in this weather is impossible for him. His legs already ache intensely, and that's while he's dry and semi-warm. If he tried now, he would need to rest after a couple hundred feet. Still, he takes in the information all the same. "I'll keep that in mind," he nods. Doesn't mention that trying to make the journey would almost certainly lead to a worse outcome for him.

"I appreciate the warning, and maybe if someone does come by, they'll charge me an arm and a leg. They'd be useless to them, but I guess beggars can't be choosers." Maybe that's a bad joke. His head feels foggy from the storm and the drugs. "I don't know if I'll be fine," he shrugs. There's no way to be sure of that. "But it's what I've got. You got a name? If I make it out of this, I'll buy you a drink for giving a shit."

Irene didn’t move. Just listened, hands still shoved deep in her pockets, shoulders angled slightly against the wind. The rain was lighter now, but it came in sideways, the kind that soaked under your collar no matter how tightly you pulled it closed.

She nodded once at his mention of a tow, but it wasn’t quite agreement. More acknowledgment. Heard.

“Not stupid,” she said finally, voice even. “Just stubborn. Which sometimes passes for brave if no one looks too close.”

Her gaze drifted past him, to the road beyond. It was unraveling at the edges, the kind of damage that didn’t look like much until it took a full axle or a boot clean through. She didn’t need to see the tires to know they weren’t moving again without help.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she added, after a beat. “I’ve seen people hold onto worse for less.”

She stepped a little closer then — just enough to keep from having to raise her voice. The kind of proximity that said she wasn’t going anywhere just yet, not unless something forced her hand.

“Tow might get here. Might not.” Not cruel, just honest. “You’ve got time. But not forever.”

Her baby blues met his, steady through the streaked window. “If it gets worse, and it will, I’ll be back this way before it goes fully under. You don’t want the rescue team in this town. They charge in favors.”

A pause. Not a threat. Just a truth laid flat.

“I’m not here to drag you out.” She tilted her head slightly. “But I’m not gonna pretend you’ll be fine either.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, like she was offering a breadcrumb instead of a lifeline. “There’s a diner about a mile and a half back. Runs a generator when the lines go out. You change your mind, you’ll make it there if you leave before sundown.”

She let that hang. Didn’t push. Just let the storm speak for a minute instead.

He would never again say that people in Port Leiry didn't give a damn because what the fuck. At least this one doesn't seem insistent in doing something drastic like breaking his window and dragging him out, but he doesn't want to give her the chance. He watches warily as she stands in the storm, unbothered like the weather isn't raging around them and threatening property damage and loss of life.

But the way she leaves him be allows him to let his guard down a tiny bit. He's too tired to fight. He understands why people want him to get out, hates that he's placing an additional burden on them they don't need. He tries not to think about if the worst does happen, and the guilt these people might feel. Maybe not the bear, but Autumn and Lis. They knew. They would know if he was swept away, but he clings to faith because it's all he has.

"A friend is calling a tow," he tells her, and that is the truth. Whether they'll be able to make it through is anyone's guess. "Look, I know it's stupid and ridiculous but-" he sighs. It feels like losing the truck would be losing the last part of his past that reminds him why to keep pressing forwards. "I can't walk in this storm. It's the only option I have." The only option he's willing to take.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

The road was half-eaten, gouged by rain and salt, the edges soft and unreliable. Her boots sank just enough to be irritating. She’d been walking for a while—no destination, no plan, just a direction that felt better than turning back. Her hood was up, scarf pulled too tight at the neck, fingers stiff in her coat pockets.

The truck looked like it had tried to reason with the shoulder and lost. She might’ve kept walking, but the shape in the driver’s seat moved. Jolted, more like. Then a voice—muffled, defensive.

Irene stepped closer. Not enough to be intrusive, but enough to be seen clearly when the driver twisted toward the window.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, lifting her voice just enough to carry through the rain. “You’re not dead.”

Her eyes skimmed the truck; stuck good, probably been here a while, cab fogged slightly, the kind of tired that lingered even in posture. Blanket around his shoulders, so either cold or trying to comfort himself. She didn’t care which. She wasn’t judging. Not really.

“You planning on becoming one?” she added, eyes steady. “Because you’re about three hours from the road washing out completely. Give or take.”

She didn’t reach for the door, didn’t crowd him. Just waited there, a half-soaked figure with wind-tangled hair and a stare like she was the one who’d summoned the storm.

“You got anyone coming?” A pause. “Anyone who can make it through this?”

There was no rush in her voice. No panic. Just the kind of tired patience that came from already knowing the answer.

who: open where: the side of the road

He manages not to fully skid off of the shoulder of the road, the emergency brake coming in clutch at the very last second. The engine groans a little as Kevin puts the truck into park before shutting off the engine entirely. Rolling the window down, he sticks his head out the window and can tell that the back wheel is stuck in the mud and there was no way it was getting out without help. His head is mostly drenched when he pulls it back into the cab and he sighs, banging it gently against the headrest.

His phone is open on the center console next to him, Kali's message still flashing brightly across the screen.

"Get off that man's dick and go home."

He had missed the message at first, mostly because he was on the man's dick, but he doesn't really think that extra 90 seconds would have mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. Either way, he and his truck are now both stuck in the rain, and he can already feel his joints reacting to the drop in air pressure. It feels like sandpaper rubbing against his bones, and he leans over to his glove compartment to grab his stash of edibles. He sure as hell wasn't driving anytime soon.

Since he's unable to run the engine, he reaches into the back seat to grab one of the blankets he keeps for Saturn. It's got dog hair all over it, but it smells like her so he wraps it around his shoulder and tries to find a comfortable position in his seat. He sends a couple texts out, to people who might be wondering where he is, but there is a big fat red "!" letting him know that nothing was being delivered. With his battery only at half, he sighs, turning off every app he wasn't using to try and preserve it for as long as possible.

Kevin's not sure if he falls asleep or lets the weed lull him into a comfortable doze, but he jumps when he hears a knock on the driver's seat window. His knee cracks uncomfortably from the movement, and he grunts as he shifts, looking out at the blurry figure in the storm. "I'm fine!" he tries to shout through the window. "It's dry and I can wait it out!"