The first words to register were “She’s dead,” and everything after that was a blur.
He doesn’t think he wept, but he might’ve screamed, and he certainly broke a lot of things–furniture, walls, bones–over the next few hours.
He doesn’t think about her anymore, not her name, her face, her smile, those sweet brown eyes or the shock of auburn hair that she kept short and wild. It’s been years since her, since the fight, since she walked away and never came back.
When it’s late and he hasn’t had enough, yet, to drink, to get him to the point where the world will hush and let him sleep, he remembers that night.
* * *
“So quit?” she had said, all spunk and sass and lack of responsibility. “What’re they gonna do, throw you in jail for turning in a resignation?”
No, darling. They’ll throw me in jail for the hundreds of lives I’ve already taken and could potentially talk about. If I’m not under their thumb and I’m a particular danger? They’ll kill me. We may live in a ‘land of the free’ where you think you have guaranteed rights, but it’s not like everyone plays by the rules.
“I can’t,” he tells her. “There are things that need doing–” he begins.
“–someone else can do them!” she yells, looking furious. “…or someone else can sit here while you do,” she finishes, shoulders slumping.
It was then that she took her jacket, and walked to the door. He only stared, lost in utter disbelief. Did she just end it?
The door closing was his answer.
* * *
“She’s dead,” the voice on the other end of the line told him, quiet enough for somberness, but without much emotion. “We’ve arranged you a short leave–” his department head goes on, but is interrupted.
“I want another assignment. Right now. Somewhere not here,” he says.
He doesn’t remember, unless it’s late at night and he’s particularly introspective.
It’s always there, in the back of his mind, always lingering.
He asked for this.
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