fingers anxiously drumming against the desk, eyes flitting from the tea to the windows and back again, impatience found it’s way to your core as you await confirmation. it finally comes. the phone vibrates and you snatch it up, scanning over the simple message of deed done.
[ txt ; undertaker ] message received.
the monitoring begins. ever since you’ve known that taehyung had been in contact with the certain man you’ve hired for years now… it’s not your fault for incessant worries. he’s a bit careless (and perhaps you’re a bit too cowardly).
the arrangement is a simple one. assassinated targets are handed over to the undertaker. what you didn’t know was that the left over corpse was harvested with other bodies the man collected — which later on involved the young hunter.
it’s unnecessary to let the cat out of the bag… about how long ago you’ve fallen. deranged as you tapped into the darkest portions of your mind, lapping up such an opportunity, making sure the logistics behind this twisted industry worked. it’s justice and a game and something to keep your nephilim inclinations at bay (or at least that’s what you used to tell yourself).
ever since knowledge has been imparted about his source, you’ve been keeping track. better safe than sorry because ifs are the worst.
there’s something off from the normal pattern of things. it could just be an off day or something but it doesn’t sit right with you. you’ll leave nothing to chance.
phone in hand, you sprint out the door.
the dot hasn’t moved for minutes. the initial worry of being questioned for your sudden appearance is forgotten as anxiety floods into your system.
phone vibrates and your about to hiss not now yifan only to see the caller id and pick it up immediately.
you press the phone to your ear and listen, catching every hitch of breath, every inhale and exhale (perhaps half of them are just figments of your imagination but you try anyways).
he’s as immobile as your gps dot, would’ve considered him to be asleep if not for the blood loss. fists clench in fury, brain at a loss as to what to do.
knees give in. the pavement as hard as you imagined it to be but your brain is too busy bothering with other things. it takes a while before you realize the mantra of no no no stems from your lips.
fingers pushing his hair back. not quite sure if it’s an attempt to call him back to the present or to bid farewell. perhaps it’s a bit of both.
you wonder who did this. and despite your adamant refusals to take action, fearing it would bring the divine side out more quicker in merciless killing, you want revenge. it’s probably the only time in your life you wouldn’t mind staining your hands. for taehyung would you be willing to dye your hands red.
doctors will tell you it’s too late and usher him away, calling for relatives. you’ll be left in a white hall because despite the time spent in that flat (and everywhere else) you amount to nothing officially.
you can’t let that happen. not death nor humans can deprive you of what you need.
fingers fumble, hands tremble as they call up the man who had saved your noona in an act of kindness. it’s the best choice the last resort, you try to convince yourself.
"mark… sshi," hoping your voice doesn’t tremble like your hands, "i need your help." it’s the only time you will reduce to begging.
tried diminishing blood loss with cloth and tight wrapping but there’s a limit to what you understand about first aid. he’s on your back. well more like forcefully draped across it. your hands are holding his — tightly — as if your life depends upon it.
it’s hard to tell where this selfishness stems from. your father was a cruel man, able to do as he wanted and then abandon your mother to her own devices yet humans are capable of committing terrible deeds in the name of avarice. and now you finally understand why god has forsaken you. you are the culmination of the worst of both beings — a true monster indeed.
so you watch him writhe in pain and allow his screams to fill your ears.
the old texts use to highlight how it was an honor to bestow immortality and you wonder if they’ve ever witnessed this. it’s a fate worst than death, nothing glorious about the metamorphoses itself.
you brought hell to him in the name of love ; in your selfishness you forced him to become what he detested the most — a monster to mirror your own. you have no excuse. and even that four letter word will not bring salvation to your door.
the irony is this : hands clasped in the mock form of a prayer, head bowed as lips move, trying to drown out the sounds by wishing it to be over and that he would be alright again despite knowing that god would never lend an ear to your plight.
i can’t live without you is bullshit. there’s no justification in this except for selfishness : trying to spare your own heart the grief of re-adjustment.
he’s going to wake up and despise you, you tell yourself, knowing full well the repercussions. but this has always been less about him and more about you and your human heart. not to mention the fact that you can’t imagine a life without his presence. would rather have some twisted resemblance than ashes.
your fingers through his hair again but there’s no longer the comforting and radiating warmth. that you took from him — and everything else. tempted to turn away from guilt but you force yourself to keep the gaze. you have to be here when he wakes… it’s the least you can do after what you’ve done to him.
"don’t leave me alone," you repeat the words uttered that day he had come after you. it’s not fair. but you’ve never played fair to begin with.
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