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MurderWeasel
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That boy needs therapy!
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It seemed like Erik was as fine as you could be with blood running down your side. Good. Kimberly would've been pretty fucking pissed if he'd dropped dead on her. That wasn't what partners meant. That wasn't what was supposed to happen, not now. Not after everything she'd done. And then he asked her if she was alright. She blinked, bit back the instinctual flash of resentment. Erik wasn't trying to imply she was worthless. He was doing his part as a partner, same as her.

Besides, as she thought about his question, the answer was all too clear.

"No," she said.

"I mean, fuck, she didn't hurt me too bad. Lost my glasses, but fuck 'em. But, you know, it just wasn't, this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. I didn't want this to happen."

And that was that. She wanted to kick something. Wanted to burn something. Her matches found their way to her hand, inside her pocket, hidden from view. She couldn't even begin to describe what she was feeling, not in her own words. And then, all of a sudden, there it was. A flash from reality, a way to make it all make sense.

"Hey, Erik," she said. "You ever read Frankenstein?"
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Burn On · The Mountain