a writer and a serial killer ✔

The Writer

she presses her back against an ancient tree

and waits to die

the solid bark at her back gives her some measure of peace

the idea that

that tree had been there long before her

and after she was gone

it would still stand

proud and tall

a stick snaps

and with it her newfound courage

brittle already

and she finds herself trembling

she hears a footstep

then another

and she fixes her eyes on the stars in till she knows he is right in front of her

there is fresh wet blood dripping from his hands

this man before her is different

so different

and so lost

and she would save him if she could

but for her

for her it is impossible

to reconcile what this man

this monster

has done

and there it is

that hopeless collision of two worlds fracturing behind her eyelids

those hands

hands that had held her in her darkest moments pulled her back from the ledge in her mind again and again

hands that had killed

and killed

and killed

fucking children

how could she live with it?

him

herself

was she complicit?

don't think don't think please don't think that i can't FACE it-

but this might be her end

so she looks him in the eye

there are no tears

no regret

i'm not sorry

she whispers

he takes another step and she sees the knife in his hand

already red

his expression is curiously dead

but in the depths of his eyes

she sees a tremor

a remenent of the man she knew

but did she?

and she breaks like a dam swollen with spring rains

and rises to face him

please

something changes in his eyes

and the knife falls

a/n
don't kill me, it's not the end