❝I got lost to find my way❞

If a whisper could have weight Kitty would be stumbling under the pressure, last words so soft yet echoing so loud. How she longs for the words to be mistaken, misunderstood, miscommunicated, but they are clear and cold in her memory, carried upon pale lips seen only behind closed lids. She sees a lot when she closes her eyes these days, sees things she didn’t even witness but still it replays like a romantic comedy turned horror, her own imagination the twisted director.

“Just some old friends,” she’s saying, looking sweet and gentle as she always did but with that look in her eye that Kitty saw more and more these days. ‘Old friends’, Kitty doesn’t like that term but she acts the disinterested party anyway, the loft of her shoulders saying more that the volume of her voice. Old friends. Old friends are called such because they are no longer good friends and that, in Kitty’s eyes, makes them bad friends. Hadn’t Kitty taught her everything there was to know about pulling a heist? About picking the perfect place and the perfect time and the perfect johns for the job.

Old friends. They seemed less like old friends and more like schemers, knowledgeable of little Lottie’s sweeter side. Together the four nudged and laughed and joked as if their history were so great there were books in libraries about the grand old times they’d spent together, but there was only a smile on Kitty’s red lips, shut tight against a million protective accusations. Invited she was not, keep an eye on it she did. For days those green eyes kept vigil, drowsing when they grabbed the chance but ultimately paying the price for beauty with dark rings setting in. Unbecoming, but necessary.

Kitty’s shoulders shake with the shiver that wakes her from her daydreams, sitting at a dark table in a dark corner at a dark bar, wrapping herself in the misery and mystery of the smoke that lingers so heavily here. In a place like this, anything could hide with only a slip or a blink, but there were not familiar brown locks being brushed behind a seashell shaped ear. No silver soft laugh tinkling over the din of crummy music and drunken broads. The woman was waiting, waiting, waiting, but even the raucous guffaw of the man beside her could not drown Lottie out.

Weeks have dragged on like a steady southern drawl, so agonizing to those fast paced northerners. Kitty itched with the way it burrowed under her skin, restless as Sunday morning church but infinitely longer. Without her. Without Lottie. Every day was never ending, a drizzle of rain and tears drenching the world until everything’s so wet it can’t be moved, suffocating. Down, down, deep down Kitty was furious, clawing at the cage of depression like a wild thing gone mad and no way to get out and make itself known to those worthless old friends.

Old friends and yet they hadn’t stopped when the blood splattered on the sidewalk.

Old friends and yet their treasure was safely on its way to the northern country.

Old friends but it was Kitty who sat there at the bar with a little feathered clip in her hands and all the memories skipping from one moment to the next, a broken record player trying to catch up. Her smile. The way her dress grazed the little hollow at the back of her knees when she walked. The way her eyes were so blue some days the sky would cloud over in envy. Her smile. The way she thought every one of Kitty’s plans was the best idea. The infinite kindness in every little action she took. Her smile. Most especially her smile. That smile that quivered ever so slightly when those blue eyes saw her friend dashing from the hiding spot across the street. That smile that faltered when the blood pulsed thick from between Kitty’s fingers.

That smile that remained even as the warmth seeped away into the pavement and her words lingered there.

I love you, Kitty.

How can blood be so red? It’s dripping from his fingers in long, wet rivulets. Sticky. Why is it so sticky? He’s seen blood before but this time feels different, new, horrible. This blood is so red, pooling and moist, filling his view till scarlet is all he can see. He’s used to the dark, sluggish ooze that comes from the zombies that prowl the streets. And he’s seen the blood of people he used to know, the iron stain drying to flakes on the sandy sidewalks of the city. He wishes this blood was dark, wishes it was dry, but it’s so hot and it’s so fresh.

For two weeks she has been acting…different. Curiosity lurks deep in his eyes until he has watched her so much he can tell her moods from her hair alone: how well she slept, how nervous she is, a whole host of little things. There is little to pick up on, but he thinks it’s strange, how often she’s speaking about other people. Ace can count on two hands the number of people he knows in this city (still alive, please let them still be alive) but she’s suddenly talking as if she knows all the survivors, every one. Betty-Sue did this, Sally-Beth did that. According to ‘News Dude’ Mary-What’s-Her-Name killed four zombies two days ago. Soon Ace is consumed with the questions of where she’s seeing all these people, how she is getting all this info. And why? They agreed two is best. Two is not too many mouths to feed, two is not too big a target. Surely she isn’t recruiting.

“I’m going out!” she informs him, cheerful and light with her voice. Too cheerful. This life is too hard for the grin that grows on her lips and the way her eyes glitter like a clear, jeweled night. There are no more twinkling stars here, only dark smoke and the murky hint of a moon behind them. Ace grunts an affirmative, focusing his gaze on the video game and punching the buttons under his fingers, determined to make things look real. They’re both distracted, so absorbed in their own thoughts they don’t notice they’re both failing at their deceptions. He doesn’t dare look up until the sound of the door is in his ears and then he’s at the window, staring down into the streets and watching, waiting, the good natured stalker hoping to dog her steps but only if he can stay back far enough.

Once her long shadow disappears he’s out the door too, loud and cumbersome as he dashes down the stairs since there are no more neighbors to raise complaints. For a moment his heart stops when he doesn’t see her on the street she disappeared down, but it sinks back into place with a painful thud when he hears her trip and curse. He moves forward, always in the shadows, nervous as she chats with those out stealing supplies from the newly dead, old friends they all are it seems. A word here or there is all he can pick up, their voices kept low when they can so the others can’t hear them.

“Sirus” one girl says, and Ace’s ears go on high alert. In the beginning no one had taken notice of the old man, afraid to risk their necks for someone so feeble. But Sirus had not only proved the city wrong, he’d become almost as bad as the zombies, trigger happy for human and undead alike, no judgment. Any news involving Sirus was bad news, so why did he swear he heard Dude ask where to find him? No, she’s definitely asking about his location, his feet are taking him close enough to hear the conversation without his permission and risking his stealth, but he can’t resist. He must know.

She takes off again and Ace barely dodges her path, so close he’s sure she caught him following her. Turns out home is her next destination according to another survivor she chats with, returning empty handed to an empty residence and how will he explain his absence? Luckily the apartment was his before the war and he knows all the short cuts to arrive home before her, leaning against the door and holding one side as it stitches into a painful cramp. 5 minutes go by and there’s no return. 10 minutes go by and there’s no one on the stairs. 20 minutes go by and the room is silent save the anxious beat of his heart. 30 minutes go by and Ace knows. She hasn’t come home because she lied, Dude would never tell anyone she is actually going to visit Sirus. It’s a suicide move and no one in the city would let her go quietly.

No, no, no, no, no. The word throbs over and over in his mind until he’s yelling them out loud with every stair he takes. How long did she chat with the other survivor? How long has she been at Sirus’? How long did he have until it was too late? How long? How long? How long?

The blood is so red. She cries out when he puts his hands over the bullet wound but he has to stop the blood flow. There’s so much. It’s so red. “Stupid. You’re so stupid, Dude,” he growls, pushing and holding and willing it all to go away.

“It’s Amelia.” Her speech is slurring with pain. “My name is Amelia.” They promised not to share names, to stick to the code, to keep that emotional barrier between them. But she refuses to lay there dying with nothing but her username to be remembered by. He can see she’s hoping for his name too, but he doesn’t believe (refuses to believe) that she is dying under his hands.

“What were you thinking anyway? To come here of all places. You’re so stupid.” He knows his hands are shaking, she winces under the tremors and Ace hates himself for causing her pain. But the pain is good, it’s real, it’s keeping her here with him and he refuses to make it a comfortable problem. There’s more than one person’s blood on the ground but that’s ok too because Sirus doesn’t feel pain anymore. The laugher that had crinkled the skin about his eyes when he shot the pleading girl in the gut won’t come again, Ace has made sure of that.

“Milk.” Amelia’s words are a whisper, her strength leaking out red, so red. “They said he could get me milk.”

usotsukii:

Leave me a face in my ask and I’ll tell you:

(◕‿◕✿) — My top 5 favorite bands

(｡♥‿♥｡) — If I have a crush

ლ(́◉◞౪◟◉‵ლ) — Something I’ve wanted for a long time

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ — What makes me happy 

(✖╭╮✖) — What makes me sad 

(。・_・。) — Something that is so horrible I wonder why it exists

(⊙_◎) — Something that drives me crazy

(ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻  —  What angers me the most

(via cannibalisticravioli)