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No one leaves the table.
Jan. 3rd, 2016 12:04 amIt's his first kill, technically.
Technically.
He's killed a million times in a million different ways. He's killed and honoured every part, worshipped every part of her. He's taken the lungs from people, twisted it around, slit their backs and made them into angels. He's removed brains to make room for beehives.
He's watched mushrooms still grow on the living, watching their life dim as new life flourishes.
See? Garret Jacob-Hobbs had said, sliding down from the 10 shots Will had administered to him. See? He had said, and Will can't close his eyes without seeing, now. His face, eyes so very blue, biting into him. Staring into him.
He sees Garret Jacob-Hobbs slit his own daughter's throat. Sees her laying in a pool of her own blood, looking so very much like a gutted fish. A fragile teacup, shattered not with clumsiness but with an intent.
Honour every part of her, his mind speaks out to him. Seems to whisper, though the whisper is a foghorn, loud and echoing despite hissed words.
It's his first kill.
It's his first kill and he can't seem to keep the gun straight, and though he's never been good at aiming but he's never been this bad, never missing the entire target, but it's hard to focus when you see not the sheet of paper, but a bloated, dead corpse.
He keeps firing.
He doesn't know why, either.
Technically.
He's killed a million times in a million different ways. He's killed and honoured every part, worshipped every part of her. He's taken the lungs from people, twisted it around, slit their backs and made them into angels. He's removed brains to make room for beehives.
He's watched mushrooms still grow on the living, watching their life dim as new life flourishes.
See? Garret Jacob-Hobbs had said, sliding down from the 10 shots Will had administered to him. See? He had said, and Will can't close his eyes without seeing, now. His face, eyes so very blue, biting into him. Staring into him.
He sees Garret Jacob-Hobbs slit his own daughter's throat. Sees her laying in a pool of her own blood, looking so very much like a gutted fish. A fragile teacup, shattered not with clumsiness but with an intent.
Honour every part of her, his mind speaks out to him. Seems to whisper, though the whisper is a foghorn, loud and echoing despite hissed words.
It's his first kill.
It's his first kill and he can't seem to keep the gun straight, and though he's never been good at aiming but he's never been this bad, never missing the entire target, but it's hard to focus when you see not the sheet of paper, but a bloated, dead corpse.
He keeps firing.
He doesn't know why, either.
