･ﾟ ̣ 01; OH DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING? ›
the fragility of life was never something that was touched upon before death stared him right in the eye and forced upon him its presence.
when he closes his eyes, he can almost remember it, especially the crimson stained carpet that his mother had loved so much. it had been a shade of pearl; she had been specific about that, not eggshell or cream. the glass of chateau margaux she had poured herself had fallen along with her, though not a single thing besides anything related to her was misplaced. the crack in the balcony window, the white silk curtains still flapping from the wind, and her, his mother, dead on the floor, though so elegantly. it was all too perfect, even for his family, but people mourned. they gave their respects to his father, a man who had never shed a tear for anyone but himself, now seemingly distraught at the loss of his wife. people mourned, because she was vanessa bohall, and she was unlike others.
“chin up hunter. no pouting. now remember sweetie, this isn’t for us. there are many others out there who are less fortunate than we are, and we need to look out for them. we already have so much. we need to give back to the community. we don’t need all of this, now do we?”
people also mourned, because where there was a loss of a loved one, there was a powerful and vulnerable billionaire. women played their hands in the game and the enigma that was his father, though he was not nearly as devastated as he seemed to be. women held him down from his love of power and glory, and so he politely declined, stating he wasn’t ready yet, that his love for his deceased wife was still strong, and hunter would scoff. it would earn him colored spots along his already beaten body that lasted weeks, but he was defiant when he was younger. what an idiot he was then.
“why am i telling you all this?” he asks the poor individual strapped onto the seat in front of him. a look of pure hatred flits across the other’s features, and hunter can only reciprocate with a defiant smile. it holds no genuine emotion. everything he did was for show now, he supposed. why not this?
his senses have become accustomed to the stale air around them and the constant dripping of water echoing throughout the background, like white noise. dramatic, he knew, though he had chosen it for that specific reason. he was still a man of humor, though not many were given the opportunity to see it. “because,” he continues on, a bloodied hand reaching over to take the glass of bourbon he had poured himself, bringing it to his lips. “then you can know what kind of man you’ve been working for. given, i’m not much of a picnic either, but wouldn’t you much rather help me? when you compare what my father has done to this, y’know it’s not that bad. what i’ve done is just a bit more … invasive. strictly in the physical sense, of course.”
it’s a look of hatred, that’s certain, but there’s also deep seated fear that’s beginning to climb into his eyes, and hunter can tell. there were always breaking points; some had them earlier than others, and fortunately for him, it seemed the poor soul’s limit was approaching as the dirtied knife made another entrance.
“nothing can save us forever reyes,” he muses, lips curving upwards as the man’s screams fill the room, the blunt knife digging deeper into the already splayed out wound. “but what you tell me may save you for today. and that’s enough, right? death catches up to us. it’s a greedy one, i’ll tell you. it takes its bony fingers and wraps it around you like you’re supposed to belong to it. and maybe we do. look at me, getting all philosophical,” he chuckles, turning the weapon rather slowly and checking up on the man once more. “so, tell me reves. is there going to be anything you regret when it comes for you?”
and he breaks.
he wonders when and where he had started to lose himself. hunter reeves was an alcoholic playboy billionaire, suave son of multibillionaire, derek reeves. he was this, whatever it was: a psychopath who had to spill blood to get dirt on his father, and he was whatever had been left behind, but along the way, all that had become a facade. he smiled in public, joked around with close ones, and drank until he could no longer stomach it, but even while he was elbows deep in someone else’s guts, there had always been one driving force. it was probably why he wasn’t afraid as the tip of the weapon dragged against the man’s jugular, red filling every one of his senses. he waits for the man to bleed out. he listens for the choking that ensues, and he bathes in the scent of iron. he waits, because patience is key.
“nothing saves us forever.” he repeats into the room he now occupies alone, though it’s not for himself. nothing’s ever been.
and so death as stared him in the eye when it came to pick up his mother, it does as it comes to take this man as well, smiling down at him as if it was telling him that he was next. terror was not something that came along with death’s visits. it never had been, even as a child. instead, defiant as he ever was, he was ready. since death’s first visit he had been ready, because it would not be by death’s hands he would be taken away, but by his own.
