WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 10 | NO PITY FOR THE WEAK

And that was better.

_

"DO ME A FAVOUR," she said.

It was well into the night when we returned to the SafeHouse, but we still weren't sleeping. The department store bags were tucked neatly into the corner of the small room, and she sat on the dusty mattress in her new pyjama set from Selfridges, fingers twirling together.

I hovered by the wall, looking across at her. "What favour?"

"Come here."

Nodding, I stepped towards her, my head bowed to look her in the eye. She pat the side of the mattress, gesturing for me to sit down. I was hesitant. She was persistent. I sat. The rusting springs squealed under our combined weight, and I wrinkled my nose at the flying dust.

"What do you see when you look in the mirror?" She asked quietly.

I glanced up, our reflections staring straight back at us. The dirty glass panes of the mirror were directly opposite the bed, and although it made everything seem blurry and smudged, I could answer the question plainly.

Lovey's expression was solemn but tranquil, and she seemed to be entranced by the dim light flickering back at us. Her pyjamas were a nasty shade of green that I hated, but at least it made her eyes stand out—which had fallen back into their cardboard state. I wondered what she was thinking. I wondered if she still hated me as much as she did an hour ago.

"Well?" She asked, "What do you see?"

I bowed my head. "Someone I respect."

"I don't know how you can. At least not as you are right now."

I know how I can, I thought to myself, because it's not me I'm looking at. She didn't understand, so I didn't bother explaining it to her. It wasn't my place to. It felt like I was crossing so many boundaries just by sitting next to her, staring at a reflection we both were in.

"I know it's your job to kill," she sighed, "but don't pretend that it doesn't hurt you."

"What if I can't let it hurt me?"

"Then I've lost all respect for you."

There was a glimmer of hope in her phrase. At least for me. It meant a part of her did respect me, otherwise she would have nothing to lose.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, turning to look at her.

We met gaze. "Doing what?"

"Making me look at a mirror. You can't 'fix' me, you know."

She took offense to that statement, but I shrugged it off. I'd known too many one-night stands who'd tried to 'solve my anger-issues' and 'be the different one who I'd actually let stay another day'. I was hoping she wasn't beginning to act like one.

"As if I'd waste my time doing that," she frowned, turning away, "I just want you to admit that killing hasn't made you invincible to human emotions."

"Because you think I am."

"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"Fine," I smirked, shifting my position on the mattress, "what do you want me to do? I'll do anything you want."

I wasn't sure what the hell I was doing. Trying to cheer her up? Make her trust me? God, I probably sounded so pathetic saying that. The only good thing to come out of it was the pensive aura lifting from inside the tiny room—I noticed her relax slightly.

"I'll make you an exercise," she nodded.

I squinted. "Am I not fit enough for you, Lovey?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"How would you know what I know?"

She opened her mouth to quip something back, but opted to roll her eyes instead. I noticed the slightest quiver of a smile on her lips. Turning to face me, she lifted her hand to point back at the mirror.

"Every time you kill someone," she began to say, "which hopefully won't become a regular occurrence—"

"—It already is."

"Shut up." Rolling her eyes, she continued. "I want you to look in the mirror, and point out as many things about yourself as you can. Things that make you feel normal."

I cocked a brow. "Am I not?"

"That's not what I meant," she sighed. I noticed her gaze trail away from her own reflection and onto mine. We locked eyes on the glass. Neither of us dared to look away. "I only want you to see yourself as you. Not a killer."

"Assassin," I stated.

"You can correct me all you want, but we both know it's the same thing."

She was right. I used my job as an excuse far too often. I avoided the blame of my actions by covering it up with a fancy title. But I liked it better that way. It made me feel less alienated from everyone else—from her.

"If I do this mirror-thing," I trailed off, "will it make you happy?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

There was a moment; a pause in time where I thought of how to respond. I'll do it if it makes you happy, I wanted to say, because I don't think I can stand to see you cry again. I could've said it. Maybe I would've said it. If only I hadn't seen her hand move away from the mattress, just to fall against her neck, grasping the metal chain of her daisy necklace.

It hit me like a gunshot.

I'd be a fool to think I could ever make her happy.

_

I love when things connect to Twisted. Full-circle moments (*eeeeeeee!*)