4th shot
YOU BASTARD.
Stay away from me.
If I believed in God, I'd be cursing him right now.
I'm moving.
[Riza awoke abruptly, as though she'd just remembered something critical that she'd forgotten to tell the Colonel. Eyes snapped open, adrenaline flowing already, fully awake. She lay there, completely motionless for precisely three seconds.
And then she swore. Viciously, the words tearing themselves from her lips like bullets from the guns she carried so faithfully.
Changing into military garb had never gone faster, the four pistols she carried inspected with almost loving care before stowing them in their holsters.
Hawkeye stood in the middle of the living room of her apartment. It had the barren look of her old apartment, minus the boxes. She'd had it for less than a week.
She had to leave. No question about it. Kimblee had been here, that ...ass, that...that... The Lieutenant trembled with rage as words failed her, and she drew a pistol and shot the sofa where he'd sat; shot and shot and shot until she ran out of ammo, and had to switch guns to keep shooting, bullets forming two large holes in the fabric of the sofa; one at head-level, the other at heart.
Only when she'd exhausted the ammo from that gun too did she collapse to the floor, face contorted by the unfairness of it.
A flicker of red in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Roses. Hawkeye was glad they were in an ugly tin can, glad she could dump the roses in the sink, crushing stems and flower petals. She found the lighter fluid quickly from it's spot under the sink. And emptied the bottle on top of the roses, throwing the lighter in on top of the floral mess.
The resultant fireball was very satisfying.
The stain in the sink where the flowers had been could be ignored. The bullet holes in the sofa could be ignored. The memory could not. The most unfortunate thing; it was beyond words how unfortunate it was.
If she were any less angry she'd burst into tears. Better to stay angry. Better to find another place. Better to keep that place empty so that she could move quickly, like she needed to today. Better to talk to no one, better especially to not talk to the Colonel; if he made her feel better she'd start to cry. The Colonel would not see her cry. She would fight the tears, stay angry until she could let them out where no one could see. Move on.
It was the way of the soldier; it was the way she had been trained. And it was what she had to do.]
Stay away from me.
If I believed in God, I'd be cursing him right now.
I'm moving.
[Riza awoke abruptly, as though she'd just remembered something critical that she'd forgotten to tell the Colonel. Eyes snapped open, adrenaline flowing already, fully awake. She lay there, completely motionless for precisely three seconds.
And then she swore. Viciously, the words tearing themselves from her lips like bullets from the guns she carried so faithfully.
Changing into military garb had never gone faster, the four pistols she carried inspected with almost loving care before stowing them in their holsters.
Hawkeye stood in the middle of the living room of her apartment. It had the barren look of her old apartment, minus the boxes. She'd had it for less than a week.
She had to leave. No question about it. Kimblee had been here, that ...ass, that...that... The Lieutenant trembled with rage as words failed her, and she drew a pistol and shot the sofa where he'd sat; shot and shot and shot until she ran out of ammo, and had to switch guns to keep shooting, bullets forming two large holes in the fabric of the sofa; one at head-level, the other at heart.
Only when she'd exhausted the ammo from that gun too did she collapse to the floor, face contorted by the unfairness of it.
A flicker of red in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Roses. Hawkeye was glad they were in an ugly tin can, glad she could dump the roses in the sink, crushing stems and flower petals. She found the lighter fluid quickly from it's spot under the sink. And emptied the bottle on top of the roses, throwing the lighter in on top of the floral mess.
The resultant fireball was very satisfying.
The stain in the sink where the flowers had been could be ignored. The bullet holes in the sofa could be ignored. The memory could not. The most unfortunate thing; it was beyond words how unfortunate it was.
If she were any less angry she'd burst into tears. Better to stay angry. Better to find another place. Better to keep that place empty so that she could move quickly, like she needed to today. Better to talk to no one, better especially to not talk to the Colonel; if he made her feel better she'd start to cry. The Colonel would not see her cry. She would fight the tears, stay angry until she could let them out where no one could see. Move on.
It was the way of the soldier; it was the way she had been trained. And it was what she had to do.]