She stood on the hood of the car, thumbs hooked in the pockets of her jeans, the setting sun throwing her into a burning relief. He snorted, making his way over to the car with lurching stumbling steps, rum bottle dangling precariously from stupid fingers.
“You look fuggin’ stupid.”
“You sound fucking stupid,” she replied, not bothering to look at him. Closer, and he could hear the pained hitch in her breath, see the dark bruises crawling out beneath her clothes. She stood crooked, left leg bent as all her weight rested on her right, shoulders slumped to the left and rolled forward. Hopping up, he fancied he could almost still smell her flesh still burning (could still smell —-’s flesh still burning).
“Here.” He shoved the bottle in front of her, snickering when she lurched backwards in surprise.
“Fuck,” she hissed, moving so very slow and steady, flannel sliding up one bruised arm to reveal words—
—fhiach troid a mharú bua a ghlacadh bua—
—as she took the bottle, biting out the cork with a flash of bloody teeth and spitting it off into the grass. She drew long, nose wrinkling as she swallowed, and drew again; he could see the hands on her throat, squeezing and choking as he lay in pieces, unable to help. “Thanks,” she wheezed, handing back the bottle. “Whatever,” he muttered, and killed the rest.