#reddust

the cycle of life

"She's pretty sure she fell on top of him."

There is a thought that has been plaguing my mind lately.

"Yvonne, aren't you guilty? For being willing to kill? For the way you would, even?"

It's a stupid thought, I know. Imbecile, so much so I wonder how it even came from my own (quite brilliant, if I should say so myself) mind. A scheming, possibly manipulative, gruesome mind, and yet it bloomed such an incompetent idea. I was always two steps ahead, no? Then how come I'm starting to fall behind my own being?

The words I'm saying are delirious, fever-like. I am not sure myself why I have this sudden urge to praise myself. Maybe insecurity? No. I haven't felt such useless emotions ever since my bussines partner (or owner, as other pets would call them, but it's embarassing and below my status for me, of all people, to degrade myself in such way.) told me how unnecessary it is. Anyhow, I have found an answer.

No. I don't feel guilty, nor will I ever do.

Can anyone blame me for the fact I wouldn't mind killing my own kind? I have been taught it is normal since the start of time. When I first opened my eyes, I saw death. My human lifebringer was considered useless and so, destroyed. Only the perfect little daughter remained.

And, I wouldn't kill just anyone, in any conditions. That redeems some of my sins, no? People's worst sin is that they destroyed and betrayed themselves for nothing. But me? I'm the sweetest venom, no? I'm above everything and everyone, atleast in my mind, and I'm pretty sure in others' too, because I'm "sweet". Or atleast, I look that way. Like a swan, no? Graceful and beautiful, yet would kill her children (the circumstances of them being in pain are irrelevant. Crime is crime.)

I am not here to redeem myself. I am not here to beg on my knees. I am here to be above. Regardless of the result, the only hurt will be the egos of the aliens when they find out I am invincible. They'll see.

But what if it's the other way around?

What if he...

No.

He will live.

It's detrimental.

I mean, what are the chances for him to lose against a pitiful, intoxicated version of me? The sensation of the 'medicine' my business partner feeds me has long been integrated into my being. I am so used to it, it feels natural. "Yvonne, how can you be so calm? You aren't taking those by your own choice." Pfft-

Consent? We, humans, are wishing, and talking about consent? Look around! Asking for consent is stupid, most of us are dying! I would have myself. But my armor consists of more than will and little ideas. Atleast 'medicine' makes it fun!

Anyways. It is unnecessary to continue talking about- no. Talking isn't unnecessary. Talking in my state is. There is a difference. Well, it'll soon be time to put my facade to the test.

By facing my lover, the love of my life. My biggest follower: the only one I've ever wanted. Sebastian... I don't think I will be able to fully compose myself. I'm sorry for the version of me you'll see. (even though you've already perceived my most inhuman actions, I feel like I will act worse.) I'm sorry it will be the last version of me you will remember. One of us will die, or disappear from the public eye momentarily.

We'll see according to the loser.

Soon...

Her chest still sometimes contracted shallowly, briefly in small sobs, not accompanied by tears. It was like a reflex, unconditional, yet it still happened, leaving her short of breath for a small amount of time. Her hands went up to her face, trying, to no avail, to rub the dried, run down mascara from her cheeks, but the tears have long dried while she was looking blankly at a wall.

She doesn't remember much: she remembers being dizzy, angry, upset, hopeless, starting to mindlessly throw objects. It all blanked out after, but she can still feel the prominent nausea from crying helplessly for what felt like whole, long hours, aching eyes and nose, her dry mouth and lips.

Slowly, almost on command, she walked up to her mirror, holding onto the counter to stabilize herself. She felt like she could faint anytime, partly from her current disease-like state, partly from the way she looked. She didn't recognize herself. Red eyes, flushed cheeks, running nose, as well as the run down mascara... pitiful. Almost disgusting, vermin like, she'd say. "It's natural and normal!" Not for her. She is perfect. Then why does she cry? Why does she care so much about something that didn't even happen yet, and might not happen. Even so, her chest hurts and despairs when even thinking about him not being in her life anymore. Enough that she destroyed her whole room.

He loved him. That much has become obvious. Despite her questionable actions, she truly, wholeheartedly, with no doubt, loved him to death and after. He had become a crucial part in her Universe, if not, her whole Universe. She wanted his eyes on her constantly. She wanted her eyes on him constantly. And they were. She never looked away. Whenever he was picked on, she wanted to physically burn those people alive, let them live just to rub salt into the wounds and watch the suffering in their eyes-

She really wasn't guilty about killing. He was worth it. She would give him every single drop of blood of his enemies if he asked for it. She would do it even if he didn't.

She leaned down on the counter, feeling tears welling up in her dry eyes again.

Again, walking slowly, teleguided, she arrived in her bathroom, with the wish to wash her face. The cold water touched her skin and she felt a shiver go down her burning body. She would realize only later, but she had a delirious fever scorching her apart, with hallucinations and everything, her mind reeling.

"If the round doesn't kill me, then this will..."

Going back to her room, she looked at one of the sharper, triangle shaped shards of glass laying on the ground. She contemplated for a second, two, three. No. She still had a chance of surviving, even if she lost.

But him...

She woke up on what seems to be a hospital bed, with multiple devices tied to her, and a burning, sharp pain from her shoulder.

So I'm alive.

Why am I alive?

I was supposed to die. I was supposed to go down. I was supposed to go down with him.

She turned, now staring blankly at the ceiling. In her peripheral vision, she could see what she was wearing: a white hospital gown. She raised her hand and touched gently around the area that hurt like hell: the material was different, bandage-like, and slightly soggy. She pulled her fingers away, and looked. Blood. Huh. How weird.

They shot me non fatally... but still, why am I here?

She felt extraordinarily numb. Like a huge part of her soul had shriveled up and died. She knows she should have gone, as well.

I no longer feel like this is my own body. I, again, as I have so many times, feel like I am watching from third person. This time, no one is touching me and I don't think I'm under the influence of anything.

She got up to the edge of her hospital bed. Everything cramped: she guessed she had been unconscious for a while. Her legs felt weak, so she decided not to walk yet.

The door to my tiny room opened, and my owner entered.

"What was that, Yvonne? You almost threw away everything, for what?!" She started, the absolute flame in her voice obvious. "You're lucky I already had talked with the owners. Money did the thing. But I could've had that if you just did it according to the plan! Now you'll have an ugly mark and you're eliminated. Do you have any idea what you've lost?- Are you even listening?!"

Ever since she said "You're lucky I already talked with the owners.", she just blankly stared at her as if she either just became deaf on the spot, or her whole sky just dawned on her.

"You're.. the one that did that?" I whispered, trying to keep my shaking voice in check.

"Yes, aren't you just so grateful?"

She didn't say anything for good minutes. She could've been where she needed to: dead. With Sebastian. It was the only possibility that would have worked for her if he would have lost. And he did. And it didn't happen the way she planned.

"I'm tired." I say, looking at the ground. She knew her owner spoke for way longer. She didn't care. At last, she walked out.

I rummaged through the drawers next to my bed. Convenient, they were filled with my belongings. I searched for something specific: pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Atleast if I'm watching in third person, I can also be on something. She lit it up. She swore she'd quit. She swore she'd stop. She couldn't. She layed back down. She killed him. It was all her fault. He was probably already dead before the shot hit him. And now she was alive.

I should face the punishment for my crimes. I destroyed myself for nothing. I killed him for nothing. I could have done just simple violence. He would be alive. I would've been shot, and considering my owner's plans, we both would've been alive. I would've gotten in touch. I'm a filthy idiot. An imbecile that should not have been over here now. I just wanted to make it better. I made it worse.

Yes, only she could kill him. But only if she dies too. She didn't find the glass shard between her belongings, so she assumed her owner will be even more careful with how she'll touch weapons. Without realizing, she became an active suicide risk, while she should've been already dead.

I took one last smoke and extinguished the cigarette. It felt like betrayal to do this again.

She's sorry.

I'm sorry.

She's.. 

I'm...

does it even matter anymore?

Maybe "it" is more fitting. It's not like "it" is it's own person anymore.