[WILLIAM]
⑅
I'VE NEVER TAKEN CARE OF SOMEONE BEFORE.
It's not an excuse, but at least it makes me different from the rest of the pricks who've made a woman cry. They did it on purpose, but I did it for a purpose. I had to keep her safe, and I didn't expect her to start weeping at the sight of a dead body—especially one of someone she shouldn't care for.
Then again, she has a bigger heart than mine. I wouldn't go as far to say she had a better heart, but her misplaced grief counted for something. I've never cared for someone before. I didn't know what to do for her.
I snapped that man's neck, and added another tally to my kill count. She just huddled into the corner of the room and began to choke sobs into the crook of her arm. I'd seen her cry before, but this time I didn't ask her to stop. I didn't try to console her. I didn't try to explain any of it to her.
Perhaps I was in my own state of shock too.
I can still remember the feeling of her hand on my shoulder—a cold, prickly sensation that felt entirely unwelcome. No one touches me. To most people, I don't even exist. If she was anyone else, I might have killed her without thinking—and I hated it. The worst part was that I touched her too; I hurt her.
I never thought skin could feel so foreign. For a mere second, I forgot who I was, what I was doing, and where I stood. I could barely see in the dim light, but yet I knew exactly what was going on in her head. We were feeling the same thing:
Afraid.
"Go away," she spat out, a heap of shambles in the corner.
I was still lingering over the dead body, watching it for the slightest twitch. I knew there wouldn't be one, but for some reason, I was overly paranoid. It was taking a lot in me not to cut off his hands, just because I knew they touched her.
"No," I said, shaking my head.
"Go away."
"I can't."
"Please."
"You know it's against my job to—"
"I don't want to hear about your damn job," she spat out. Suddenly she was on her feet, rushing to a stop in front of me with utter hatred in her eyes. "I am sick of you having no compassion or decency, and using your career as the same excuse every time."
She was still crying. "You're in shock, Lovey."
"Of course I bloody am! There is someone dead on the floor, and you killed them!"
"He would have killed you."
She was panicking. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were having trouble staying on mine. They were everywhere; the walls, the ceilings, the floor. I wanted to be nice to her—to stop her from going mad—but I wasn't sure how to go about it.
I only stood there, letting her berate me with colorful insults until she had outcried every tear in her body. Then I kept my silence as she slumped back down in defeat, head in her hands. It worked, the quiet. Although it took nearly forever, she had calmed down to her usual self, and was able to stand on her feet. It was then I realized I had made the right choice.
By staying silent, she could pretend I wasn't there.
If I wasn't there, her life would be normal again.
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!*)