HER HANDS STILL ON THE TRIGGER.
She tries not to tremble because it’s a sign of weakness. She knows that he can see her, even through all the smoke coming in through the window that’s been left ajar. She tries not to tremble because she’s held guns before. She’s too familiar, too acquainted with the feeling of human skin slicing beneath her knife, or the feeling of warm blood spraying over her after she pulls the trigger on the black metal weapon she holds.
But today is different.
He stares at her, and even in the dimly lit room, she can see his electric blue eyes looking directly into her own, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
She loved him once, you see.
But it seems like the feeling was never reciprocated.
I dare you to do it, his electric blue eyes tell her. I dare you to kill me.
She tries to tune his entire existence out, but fuck —
— she’s suddenly feeling rather breathless. She’s never felt breathless before. Like, not the good sort of breathless, but the kind where it feels like all the oxygen has been dragged out of your lungs, and you’re breathing but you’re only breathing in the carbon dioxide you’ve exhaled a second before —
— she’s poisoning herself.
She knows her entire team is waiting for her outside, for her to get the hell out of the warehouse before the bomb planted in the corner of the room explodes. But she can’t. She’s never had trouble killing anyone because she knows that they’re meant to be killed. Maybe making a decision about someone’s life: whether they should be killed or not killed was never her strong suit. But her superiors do that for her. So she follows, because that’s her job.
Her job right now is to kill him.
And she would do it with ease. She still should be doing it with ease.
His smirk widens into a grin, and he cocks his head to the right a little bit. It’s almost as if he’s mocking her; as if he’s challenging her; as if he doesn’t believe she is capable of killing someone.
At this moment, she knows that it’s either pull the trigger or everyone dies, and she wonders for the first time if Hell exists. Her lips curl up with faint mirth at that thought.
Of course she’s going to hell.
And probably, the deepest level at that. She vaguely remembers learning about Dante’s Inferno a few years back in high school while chewing on a pencil in boredom. She doesn’t remember exactly what level out of the nine? ten?, but she’s pretty certain that she’s going to the worst level. It’s probably a level that people don’t know about, like a never ending abyss of some sort.
Pull the trigger, she tells herself, and braces her hand on the gun for impact. Her mind suddenly clicks at the moment, and she can finally see in black and white. Crystal cut clarity. She can remember that feeling, the feeling of betrayal, of anger. She can remember the terrifying sound of screaming, and blood pooling onto the marble floor. She can remember him staring at her with a blank stare; a hollowed out heart and a malicious grin.
He lunges for her at this moment, but she’s faster. In one fluid motion, her combat boot hits him directly in the jaw. In one fluid motion, she has him by the hair, the cold metal against his temple.
He doesn’t struggle, but instead, he smiles with blood stained teeth.
“Not so romantic now, is it?”
She tries not to look at him because he is her harmatia. She knows that he is her Achilles’ heel, and he will always be. She knows that somewhere, deep inside, the remains of a girl that once was still remains. A girl that hopelessly, stupidly, recklessly loved him.
She’s scared to know if she still loves him.
So she forces her knees to stay strong; for her head to stay with the vision of clarity. She forces herself to float amidst the shipwreck, but she forgets that she is the shipwreck.
When she looks into his eyes, She remembers all things beautiful — his voice that flowed like warm honey, blackberries, a thousand roses, the soft knit scarf against her neck. She remembers ephemeral kisses, sweet candy, and a love so intense it left her breathless.
But all she remembers now is how breathless she felt when she saw the crimson blood splattering on the marble floor; blood that she is related to. All she remembers is the blank stare he held and the bloodstained smile he had as he told her, It’s over, baby. It’s all over.
She is an assassin; he is merely a target.
She pulls the trigger.