She feels the cold irradiations of the musket's tip near her heart - alive alive alive, beating against her ribs, the cage. There lies her death, coming to lick at her white throat, the same place where she sank her teeth 5 years ago, shattered skin under spattered frozen blood.
It almost feels good - this reminder of mortality, of fragility. Dancing on the wire, licking at a wound and wait for the acidity to sting on the flesh. Biting a lip until you tear it apart.
—N'oublie pas que tu n'es qu'un homme.
A pistol against her chest, and it all comes back to her that she is only a woman, with flaws and mistakes shining in her wake, shadows clinging to her every step. Only a woman, with expectations and letdowns, awakenings in stranger's arms, and longing for only one's... Nonononono. Heart don't fail me now; hands be brave.
Her fingers curl around the gun barrel, a grip firmer than ropes around necks, and she pressed it against her, coldness raising goosebumps around her heart, her lungs — as if she had swallowed ice, a painful journey to her stomach.
"Aim for the heart, this time—" The defiance, and the spite. It used to be honey-like on her tongue, but with him it just feels harsh and abrading. A rush of blood to her head, to make her feel light, untouchable — but he is so close, so reach for me, reachforme. It's coming back to an old book one loved but threw away nonetheless, and rereading the best chapters.
Heart, don't fail me now.
Her hand forces the gun between her breasts, down her stomach, until Death points at her belly — once again.
"Or aim like your brother."
areudirty
titsay
