“You’re n-not a killer, B-B-Brown.”
The words were marred by his stammer as he struggled against her weight, struggled against the bonds she’d placed over his body, struggled against the hand she held over his throat. She didn’t really care what he had to say—or at least, she liked to think she didn’t care—but the words gave her pause.
You’re not a killer. She’d always tried to say it to herself. It wasn’t a thought that surfaced often—it was buried alongside so many others—but it was still there to soothe her in her darker moments. She wasn’t a killer. Aperture had done terrible things, but she wasn’t really a part of it. She liked to think of herself as the type of person who could face her own faults, even as she drowned them in whiskey, so she couldn’t be avoiding responsibility now. She just wasn’t responsible for Aperture’s sins. After all, she hated the place.
She wasn’t a killer. Maybe she wasn’t perfect. Hell, maybe she hated herself. But she was fine and she was not a killer. Was she really ready to throw all that away now?
“Don’t w-waste your time on this. You c-c-can do way better, y’know. For a bitch, you’re pretty incredible.”
She wasn’t a killer. He deserved to die, but she wasn’t a killer. Her grip on him loosened, and she saw him smile.
“See? I knew it. Besides…you love me.”
She wasn’t a killer.
It was surprisingly easy for her to snap his neck.
