He clutches me and tells me that it doesn’t have to be this way. It doesn’t, but I tell him that it’s over. I can’t back out now.
He’s on his knees, fingers bunched in my blouse as if I am his saviour, an angel, the symbol of his rebirth. I suppose I am some kind of angel, but not the one he wants. Not really. It’s come too far for that. Of course, he can’t see it yet. They never do.
He pleads, telling me that he can change. But he can’t. I know he can’t change, just as I know that I must do this. It’s nothing personal. It was never personal. It was simply a thing I had to do to grow and to understand myself.
And now I’m blooming.
A smile threatens to pull at my lips, but I brush it away. I can’t do that to him now when he is already in so much pain. It will get worse in a moment and then after I can have my smile.
He starts crying, begging, telling me he’ll do anything to work it out. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be worked out.
He asks me if I want this. I tell him I do, but really I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. It’s all superfluous. But that’s life.
My hand moves slowly, barely noticed by him as he sobs on the floor. I tell him it will be alright. I tell him that it won’t hurt. His sobs heave. He answers that it’s easy for me to say, that I don’t care. My lips remain sealed. I won’t lie to him now.
I ask him if there’s anything he wants to talk about or anything on his mind. The sobs become hysterical. Something unsettled unfolds in my stomach, acid bubbling. I’m late for dinner and he is making me later, yet I wait. I feel it’s only right to let him have his moment after what I have told him. His words trip over his teeth, too eager to feel the air.
“It is over,” I affirm.
He shakes his head again. Silly man.
“You need to get to your feet. Let’s be dignified about this.”
His hysterics deepen like I’ve said something insensitive. I wonder if he doesn’t want to keep his dignity. I move my hand closer, letting him feel the cold against his scalp.
A whimper trickles from his throat and I pull the trigger. The gunshot ricochets through the room, crimson splattering the white walls like strawberries and cream. I wipe my finger through one splatter and taste it, wondering.
His debt has been paid and mine must nearly be erased. The demon favours me, you see. She says that I have a gift, that she wishes I was her daughter instead of the simpering weak devil she bore. She says that she could change me, make me a demon too.
A true angel of death.
I smile and kiss his bloody lips forever goodnight…
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