Elizabeth hoped there would be more of a break between 99 and 100, but they came right after each other. It was a domestic fight gone bad. He killed his wife and then shot himself. The blood is on her hands and shoes and clothes, specks on her face too. It's nothing new to her, and it doesn't even bother her anymore.
100. It doesn't feel any different than the rest, but at the same time, it does. It's like it always is. Heavy. But it's more. She remembers them all, some were harder than others. Maybe it would be easier if she forgot, but she doesn't want to forget. She does and she doesn't, and she
( ... )
Josef is starting to lose count on how many people he's used to assuage his own Calling. Some of them were important projects but most of the time, they've been practice. Entertainment. Validation. Lately, just necessity.
Some end in death and others don't. Some consist entirely of nightmares and others are far more tangible, leading to roof tops and railings and open balconies. He's stood at the other end of Death and laughed in its face, because what is there to fear?
It's an end. An end that he has taken so many to, and now he's starting to lose count.
He's always been so detail-oriented. He's never forgotten a name, a face, a last word before it all goes black but now--they all blur and muddle and blend together, and he wonders what that means.
Probably nothing. Probably something important. There isn't the desire to figure it out, and then the door is opening and his whole being slides into awareness. "Hey," he replies, remaining at the window. He studies her, tired and beautiful and young but...never quite young at moments
( ... )
Elizabeth doesn't pause when she sees his hand outstretched to her. The key is tossed on to the counter. Her backpack is deposited on the floor. She walks to him, reaches for his hand (the heat and the strength of it against her cold, smooth palm), and pulls in close, resting her head against his chest. He's warm and strong, and sometimes she feels like she gets lost in all that cold
( ... )
The tightness in his chest that made it constrict lessens once she's close enough to touch. Josef worries, but never to the point of hovering. He's still relieved she's back home, in one piece.
His hands drift toward her waist, shifting her in place so that she's looking out the window, too. His chin rests on her shoulder and he finally shakes his head against it. "I'm not sure," he says, and he's not. There wasn't anything in particular he was looking at.
Two drunk girls were walking past their window a few minutes ago, their heels in their hands, zigzagging their way across the street. Before that, a man was running. Josef doesn't know what he was running from.
There's always something.
He presses an absent kiss right under her earlobe. She is cold. She's colder than anything he's ever touched, and she's never frozen. "What's wrong?"
Point blank. Quietly spoken, but determined. He knows there's something, because he knows her.
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100. It doesn't feel any different than the rest, but at the same time, it does. It's like it always is. Heavy. But it's more. She remembers them all, some were harder than others. Maybe it would be easier if she forgot, but she doesn't want to forget. She does and she doesn't, and she ( ... )
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Some end in death and others don't. Some consist entirely of nightmares and others are far more tangible, leading to roof tops and railings and open balconies. He's stood at the other end of Death and laughed in its face, because what is there to fear?
It's an end. An end that he has taken so many to, and now he's starting to lose count.
He's always been so detail-oriented. He's never forgotten a name, a face, a last word before it all goes black but now--they all blur and muddle and blend together, and he wonders what that means.
Probably nothing. Probably something important. There isn't the desire to figure it out, and then the door is opening and his whole being slides into awareness. "Hey," he replies, remaining at the window. He studies her, tired and beautiful and young but...never quite young at moments ( ... )
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His hands drift toward her waist, shifting her in place so that she's looking out the window, too. His chin rests on her shoulder and he finally shakes his head against it. "I'm not sure," he says, and he's not. There wasn't anything in particular he was looking at.
Two drunk girls were walking past their window a few minutes ago, their heels in their hands, zigzagging their way across the street. Before that, a man was running. Josef doesn't know what he was running from.
There's always something.
He presses an absent kiss right under her earlobe. She is cold. She's colder than anything he's ever touched, and she's never frozen. "What's wrong?"
Point blank. Quietly spoken, but determined. He knows there's something, because he knows her.
Reply
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