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i live in an Altbau for relatively low rent and it’s great if you ignore the fact that my tiny bedroom has no heating and a “parisian balcony” without railing which just makes it a large window and a safety hazard
the parisian balcony thing is soooo annoying, like stfu it’s a Window. it’s Not a balcony
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“ do you want me to kill her? ” / @girlfraud
you don’t help people, good or bad —— it’s not what you do, not anymore. but, somehow, here you are, two strangers in your house, the blood of policemen on your hands. you don’t know why you did it —— why they even caught your attention in the first place, enough for you to watch even after the police arrived. ( it was probably her. even when all you could see was her silhoette, she caught your eye, and it was only after you approached them, after you really saw her, covered in the blood of a man you just shot, that you understood why. )
“ you can take my room. ” normally, you’d offer to join, but if she’s going to work with you, you don’t want to ruin this. you know nothing about her, and usually, that doesn’t mean anything to you, because you forget about the women you spend your time with just as soon as they come, but it’s something else entirely if you can’t get rid of her. so you can’t. not yet. “ best bed in the house. i can take the couch. ” as if you sleep anyway. / @girlfraud
“ you know someone’s going to kill me eventually, right? ” / @girlfraud
“ i’m fine. go back to sleep. sorry. ” / @girlfraud
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“ what would you say about having a threeway? ” / @girlfraud
“ he fucking shot me. ” it’s not the first time you’ve been shot, and if you survive, it won’t be the last. but usually, you’re quick enough to move just enough that it doesn’t hit you too bad —— you’re no stranger to grazes, or chunks blown out of your arm, but this time, you were too slow, your concern focused entirely on her, not yourself. no organs were pierced, but the bullet landed close, and it’s left you with a gaping hole in your side, blood soaking tattered shirt.
you wish she didn’t have to watch it all; anyone else, you would have handled, but not her. if you die, you don’t want the image burned into her memory for the rest of her life. she doesn’t deserve that. ( you know she likes when you’re covered in blood, but not like this. not when it’s pooling in your hands. ) it’s not the concept of death that worries you. it’s leaving her. it’s existing somewhere without her. ( you’d wait for her in hell if you had to. ) it’s the only thing keeping you from allowing yourself to bleed out, from embracing death with open arms the way you’ve wanted to for years.
“ fuck —— you have to . . . burn it closed. stop the bleeding. ” / @girlfraud
@girlfraud asked: “i️ miss you so much.”
you’d warned her you would die young, that one day, even everything that you knew wouldn’t be enough to save you. you knew it would happen, and you made sure she knew, too, but it hasn’t made it any easier. for so long, you were convinced that death would finally bring you the ease you’d longed for ever since you lost your family, but even in death, there’s no stopping the ache, not as long as she’s hurting.
in some ways, you wish you would have never saved her from the police that night. you could have let them take her and max in, let them waste away in prison for years, because at least then, she wouldn’t be hurting like this. ( if you’d only kept on driving that night, you’d still be alive now, but that’s not what matters. that’s never mattered to you. ) you wouldn’t have stolen her heart, unable to give it back when yours stopped. you wish more than anything that you could give it back, that there were some way to make her stop loving you, because for as long as she does, the ache will never end. that’s all you want for her.
if only you could speak to her, let her know that you miss her, too. that none of it was her fault, that she couldn’t have prevented it. you never would have lived a long life, with or without her.
it’s enough to make you numb, the knowledge that only a few months ago, you’d hear those very same words, only to reply, i’ll be home soon, never seeming to consider the day you wouldn’t. you’d do it all over again, relive that dreaded night, suffer through all those years of misery and grief, it only it meant you could come home to her that night, instead of make her come to you: already lifeless, bled out, phone in your hand, ring in your pocket. it’s not what you deserve; the world’s better off without you around to taint it any further, to stain the streets any more red than you already have, but you don’t care about the rest of the world. you’d kill them all if it meant you could be with her again. you’d kill them all if it meant you could tell her you miss her, too.
