#impulsivexme

It felt almost like dying. Those last few moments that came when you knew it was going to happen with no way of preventing it. The fading, the pull, the tug of something vital being torn out from inside of you. And you can see it, in blurs and shades of colors you didn’t even know were real. For a brief moment it can be beautiful. But mostly it’s just painful. He had felt that when he had died, every single time.

She wasn’t talking. But did they ever talk? They fell into the rhythm of silence. And sometimes it felt like some form of a cruel punishment. Something that he knew that he would never be able to change. He was unable to ever really say the things that he wanted to say. Strained voices and hushed answers that both of them could barely hear. But it was better than actual talking. Talking meant stripping away layers, breaking off pieces that should remain whole.

His dad was right. And that was funny. He had always fought with his dad. Peter was dead set on good things. On changing things for the better. His mom had always told him that he had a good heart, the capacity to be able to love. She had been sorrowed when she said it like it was bound to get him into trouble. She had been wrong. He was able to silence that now, turn it off. Like his emotions came with a switch. Off and on. Robotic. Like how Gretchen was supposed to be. Mom had been wrong and dad had been right. He could kill the old kid he used to be.

He knew for sure that he wasn’t a kid anymore. That he was never going to be a kid anymore. He had grown up. Finally. It had been a process, hadn’t it? So here he was. And the whole world felt cold and silent. The whole world felt like it was dying.

She was loading her gun. The thing looked dark and misplaced in her hands. Her hands were still soft. He knew the things she had done. He knew what she was capable of. He knew that she was a good shot. And that she had the capability same as he did to reach in someplace inside and turn off that switch. The whole world was cold, the breath in their lungs ice. But her hands were soft.

He imagined he heard every bullet going into the clip. Maybe he did. Maybe it was just the fog of illusion. He could live in illusion a little while longer, he thought. He had to think in terms of what kept people alive. And obviously he didn’t have to worry about that, he didn’t have to worry about keeping himself alive. And then the clip slid into the gun with a click.

She was looking at him. But he hadn’t looked back. Not yet. She was breathing. He could hear her breathing. Which was a reminder that she was still alive. Alive. That was what mattered. Something he could tell himself again and again. Something burned into his mind. Survival mattered. And he knew how that worked. He had learned. He had learned a lot. His dad had made sure of that.

I could go with you.

She had said that before. And he hears it now. In his head or is she really talking? All he knows that it breaks the silence. She said it before. And she had one moment of wavering. Something he hadn’t expected. Her wide eyes had turned to glass, her teeth briefly digging into her bottom lip, practicing restraint. And he saw the light tremor to her hands as they reached for his. Brief. All a matter of a couple of seconds before they weren’t far away from each other again.

You’ll die. 

It’s a repeat. And he’s saying it out loud. As he looks up at her. She’s not looking at him with glass eyes this time though. So it’s a lot easier. But she is looking at him. And he’s looking at her. She’s put the gun down on the table. It makes her look defenseless. She should pick it up again. And he knows what she wants to say but won’t say. He knows that the words have hit a steel mental block in her mind. And he’s glad for that. He can’t bear hearing her saying. It doesn’t matter. He might get into an argument. And to tell her of what she was, who she was might put a crack someplace where it shouldn’t belong. And neither of them need that. Not right now.

He looks away from her again. Glad she hasn’t said it. But knows she has to leave soon. Not to think of where she’ll go until she’s already half way there. To disappear. A lot of them were doing that now. Because Pinehearst was going to fall. Peter had dreamed it, had seen it, fire, ash. Everything lost. People died. But he was trying to make sure that never happened. Just one part of the dream he was wishing wouldn’t come true. That sending them off one by one before he went to his dad would not alter the future too much.

She’s standing. And for a moment he wants her to walk over to him. To place her soft, cool hands on his face. Because he thinks he’s been stricken with a fever. Something that’s eating him up inside. A slow burn kill. But he doesn’t look at her, he doesn’t hold his hands out to her. He takes in a breath and it’s heavy and restricted in his lungs. It hurts. But nothing is supposed to hurt. At least not anymore. Maybe there were some things that he hadn’t learned.

She did walk to him. But she didn’t reach for him. She stood, a shadow looming over him. And he thought for a moment that she might just be exactly that, without realizing it, without knowing it. She could be a shadow looming over him. She was a lot like that. A different shade of darkness because there was no more light here, wouldn’t be a for a long time. She was off sets of blacks and grays, ashen colors, standing out starkly against the pure blackness of the walls of the world around them.

Soon he would see them crumble. Would the light scald him?

He looked up at her.

Leave now? 

And her eyes looked like glass from where he was sitting. The shadows played a half mask on the side of her face. She looked young. Too young for everything that had happened to her. Maybe she’d find something that would make her remember what she was. Who she was.

He gave a nod of his head. He saw that she had the gun tucked into her pants now. Her jacket on. Movement he heard and not registered. Because it meant that it was drawing closer to the time. Departures and take downs. Fears and emotion. He should be washed of all this by now. His dad hadn’t been completely right. No one ever could be.

Alright.

And she doesn’t sound like herself just then. Or maybe it’s the opposite. So, maybe that’s what breaks something in him. Cracks something that should be stifled, held in. At least until she’s gone and out of his life. At least until his plans have come into play, and things are how they should be. How they have to be. But the crack is there. And he blames her shadow. He blames the soft, coolness of her hands and how the gun doesn’t seem to look right in her hands. He blames everything because he doesn’t want that weakness in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t need to be pulled down.

So, he doesn’t reach for her like he’s first intended. He leans forward and presses his forehead to her stomach. And he’s just there, close to her but there’s still a gap between them. She touches the back of his neck briefly. But it’s only a brush of the tips of her fingers. But it makes him tense and then loose, and he feels it run down his spine. He closes his eyes. And her voice comes.

I’ll go now.

He nods without moving. She slips away.