Death is a simple thing.
It isn't a gift or a punishment. It's held in the hands of every
creature who ever existed, carried around like a parcel that could
only be opened at the proper time, and we all carry the same package
from the moment we are born.
Killing is nearly as simple, especially for me. Writing down a name
is simplicity in itself. Quick and clean, nearly blameless,
forgotten as easily as it takes to set down the pen. The death note
makes it sterile, boils away the guilt and leaves nothing behind.
Which is why I couldn't do that to you.
I wish I could say I considered it for hours, that I studied it from
every angle, that I made it worthy of something but no. I chose the
knife with no consideration other than it was sharp, tested it on my
own thumb so that the first blood it tasted was mine.
The second blood was yours. But you know that.
Your blood was on my hands like a study in crimson and the warmth of
it, the smell, made nausea rise in my stomach.
You looked at me with wide eyes but there was no accusation in them,
no surprise. I held you when you fell to the floor, I lifted your
head to rest on my knee and when I kissed you and you tasted like
blood. A baptism and a communion all in crimson and for a moment, I
thought perhaps you kissed me back, the tip of your tongue carrying
the taste of your death to me.
I could have left you then, dark pools of red already tacky and
drying, and they would be black by the time you'd be found. Your
eyes would be sunken, your skin cold and stiff. I waited until your
lips were pale and still before I kissed them again and let you go.
The bathroom was painted in stark white and the towels matched it. I
turned on the faucet and held my hands beneath the water until it
ran clear. When I glanced at the mirror I saw there were two flecks
of blood on my cheek, your blood, bright and blameless and I stared
at them as though I could see the future in those two beads of color
before I wiped them away and licked the smear from the tip of my
finger. My last taste of you and it tasted like tears.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, you were still and cooling, one
hand resting over the wound I had made and I knew I would never see
your eyes again. Even then, I knew you never blamed me. I'd seen it
in your eyes, just before they closed the last time
I knew you would understand. I always knew, the same way I knew I
would always have my grief for you, another parcel for me to carry
and I would never, never forget. Not the taste of you, the smell of
your blood, the one press of your lips against mine and it was worth
worlds, worth lives, worth an eternity to have it. It was worth so
much more than a name in a book.
I had to kill you because I loved you. And I never wanted anything
and never would, as much as I wanted you.
Such is the sacrifice that is made by a God.
But sometimes. Oh, sometimes.
I miss you so much.
-finis-
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