Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

twenty-three | power to die

   When I arrived at my exam, I was actually on time - for once. I took my seat in the lecture theatre just as the presentations were starting; I guessed, by societal norms, they'd go in alphabetical order of surname, in which case I was near the bottom.

   So, that was good. Lucky. From somewhere, I recalled that your talk had to last about two minutes, and there were, as I counted, roughly fifteen people before me - that gave me half an hour to make a spectacular piece of artwork worthy of at least a passing grade. With no art equipment. In a lecture theatre. Ah.

   Why was I like this?

   Glancing around, I noticed, sitting at the front, the Professor: he was at his desk, watching the podium on the stage, and the girl who was shuffling around behind it looking nervous.

   I didn't want to look at him, so I looked at the girl instead.

   She was obviously preparing her talk; she wore a bright yellow hijab, which she kept adjusting with shaky hands, and lots of bangles. Her nails matched, and for a split second I was jealous of her coordination. I was pretty sure her name was Zahira. Zahira Abbot. I'd worked with her once in a group project: she was really nice, too. Ugh.

   She was holding up a large piece of paper with various splatters of paint on it, like an improved version of Jackson Pollock, an artist I hated. He was famous for just... paint splatters. Personally, I didn't understand abstract art. But then I didn't think anyone really did.

   If a five year old with the artistic talent of a stick could do it, it wasn't art.

   My stomach lurched at the sight of the Professor looking in my direction. I quickly stared at the floor. Last time I saw him, he'd held a knife to my throat; I felt a sharp pain in my neck, a memory. I wasn't sure how I felt about him - I knew I should have hated him, but I didn't have the willpower. He'd been through a lot, as had I. We'd been through a fair deal of it together.

   Suddenly, out of nowhere, an idea struck me. I don't know where it came from. It was a dangerous idea, probably suicidal, and I had no idea why I decided to go through with it. But I did.

   Awkwardly, and being as quiet as possible, I felt my pockets for my fountain pen.

   Nothing.

   Apparently, whoever had taken my memories that night had taken all of my possessions as well. Excellent.

   Looking around wildly, I tapped the guy sitting next to me on the shoulder of his denim jacket. He looked at me incredulously, like I shouldn't be talking in the middle of someone's incredibly important final art exam. Asshole.

   'Have you got a pen?' I whispered loudly, ignoring his disapproving gaze and eyeing him intently. After a moment, he handed me a blue biro from his black jean pocket. I could feel his man bun staring at me as I, in an incredibly awkward fashion, whispered, 'An ink pen.'

   This guy looked at me like I was asking for one of his kidneys, but he pulled a leather rucksack up from the floor and onto his knee, unzipping it quietly before handing me an expensive-looking black fountain pen. I mouthed 'thank you', because I was a polite person, then ventured into my own self destruction.

   I didn't want things to end this way for George. A dead, forgotten half of a partnership, like so many others persecuted for a power they couldn't control.

   My mind went involuntarily to the Professor's story.

   It wasn't fair. And the other half of the pair - in this case, me - was free to go. It was unjust, not just to the executed half, but also the the surviving half. A way to punish both, and also make sure they'd never be together, even in death.