[Go limp. Go down. Move forward. Side step. Elbow to the ribs. If she didn't want to use a knife. She can feel it, heavy at her side. She killed Twelve with it. She could kill him, too. Blood all over her. That's what she knows. Blood and a body at her feet.
Back in a week. And then what?
It's an excellent plan, and her eyes shine with it. With the lust for blood. Because that would be so much easier.
But she stays tense. She can't do it. She can't attack. She can't kill. Not him.
And the shine takes on a different tone. Tears, rather than murder. Sorrow more than rage. Yet a deep anger because she can do nothing with that pain.]
I hate you.
[Yet, even as she says it, her voice nearly breaks. She wants to cry; she wants to hit him. Anything to make this stop.]
no subject
Back in a week. And then what?
It's an excellent plan, and her eyes shine with it. With the lust for blood. Because that would be so much easier.
But she stays tense. She can't do it. She can't attack. She can't kill. Not him.
And the shine takes on a different tone. Tears, rather than murder. Sorrow more than rage. Yet a deep anger because she can do nothing with that pain.]
I hate you.
[Yet, even as she says it, her voice nearly breaks. She wants to cry; she wants to hit him. Anything to make this stop.]