spacegirl92
"They're so cute!" She whispered, glancing into the clear gate.
He wanted to tell her that she was the cute one, but even in his head that sounded too cliche. He needed to tell her something to impress her. Something special. Something romantic.
"Uhhh...yeah..." he finally responded.
She scans the classroom once, twice, three times before walking in. She's never been with white people like this. In school. Next to each other.
She squinted at his crumpled body in the rain. Even though his face was shoved against the dirt, she could still make out some of his garbled words: "Please....stop this...please..."
She lived off of fabrication. It was like weaving a tapestry of lies in order to survive. And she loved it. She loved the energy of coming up with something new to say. She loved the tension of hoping no one would figure her out.
The plague spreads faster than she can think its name. It slips into their veins, rushes through their blood, pours out of them like walking death. She knows it is her fault. She knows that she brought it to these people. But yet, she will not stop it.
He stacks the wheat stalks in his basket forcefully as her words play in his head over and over again. "I just don't think I'm ready. I just don't think it's time."
Will she ever be ready, he wonders. It's been 8 years and she still always has an excuse.
He trembled with each step, following the path of blood cautiously. Was this really necessary? Was there really no other way to do this?
He covered his mouth as he finally came to her body, still dripping with blood from the gunshot.
"How much is there in the account?"
She glanced down. No emotion. Then looked away from him.
"You know the answer, don't you?"
He looked down.
"...Yes."
The obsidian eyeliner slid across her cheek at the impact. A scream strangled her throat so that she sat with mouth agape as the car flip-flopped down the hill.
Lying across the luxurious satin, she seemed natural. As if the room were not foreign to her--as if it had been hers all along.
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