Her words were not making sense. Her place was an it, a sort of object, inherently gender-less. They didn't have actions, not really, not even in this world. "He," meaning male, "would not," past tense, indicating a condition in which the outcome had been negative, "stop," meaning cessation. No, the words made sense. What he didn't understand was why his sister was speaking them. What he did not understand was why those words had any relevance to her. What he did not understand was why he did not understand. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
Though his blood was tingling, fiery, the kind of tingle where you wanted to peel it off, Derek's heart did not speed up. It merely seemed to beat louder, thunder in his ears every time it pulsed with that diseased blood, accompanied by buzzing, the loudest white noise. His grip on her hands tightened, though the shaking desisted. He was a curious mixture of calm and derailment, slogging through molasses though about to explode.
"Who wouldn't stop?" he was swallowing back the threatening bile, struggling to speak actual words. Panic and desperation started to edge into his tone as he tugged her hands closer toward him, wanting to shift her closer, a wild look starting in his eyes. "Stop what? Tell me, Di. I have to know, tell me."
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