It’s snowing.
The flakes are soft and cold as they kiss Clara’s skin while they billow gently around her.
Everything is cold and grey apart from the blood soaking her hands.
“Keep pressure on it.”
The memory of his voice comes like a haunting whisper—low and tender; a lover’s hum—and Clara can still feel the phantom of his lips on her forehead. She can taste the sting of the knife he buried in her stomach too.
She feels tears burn at the back of her throat because swallowing them feels like swallowing acid, and she suddenly wishes she never met him. Never kissed him, or loved him, or cared for how his lips curved whenever he saw her or how delicately he ran his fingers over her skin. She wishes she could hate him, poison the memory of him, and strip it from her heart and mind.
“Do you really think I won’t shoot? Do you think I’m that weak?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps he was right. How many times did she have a chance to end it all? To stop his evil from poising this world? Too many.
"Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but one day you will stand by my side, Clara. And I look forward to that day."
She can still taste him on her lips, and feel the warmth of his palms as he cupped her cheeks before lowering her to the ground.
The blood around her is starting to cool already.
He said Michael was coming. But she doubts he will make it on time.
It’s snowing.
It was snowing the first time he kissed her too.
“You’re the only important thing in my life, Clara, never doubt that.”
She can’t see the sky through her tears anymore.
“Liar,” she manages to force out, hushed and weak.
There is no pain anymore. Just numbness. Even her power lays still and quiet beneath her skin.
There will be no salvation.
Clara closes her eyes and exhales.
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