mona in repose

Characters were not created by me; I'm just a sucker who falls for violent video game characters in love. J

            More explosions.  I try to move again, want so desperately to help, but my body is refusing to respond.  I manage to prop myself up on my elbows but it hurts too much and I fall back.  My legs won't move at all.

            I look over at Woden and can just make out his breathing.  He won't last long though, and as I feel my blood pooling around me I realize I won't either.  I came to terms with the inevitability of death long ago, when I chose this profession . . . but it feels different now.  Tears well in my eyes and I don't want to die and I just want Max.

            I take a couple of deep, painful breaths, trying to steel myself against such thoughts.  Nothing has changed . . . death is still . . .

            Another explosion! "Dammit!" I cry out loud, feebly trying to get up.  But I can't, and so I am doomed to die here.  Alone.  Woden doesn't count; nobody else has ever counted.  I've always been alone, except—

            Oh God I'm crying again.  When was the last time I cried?  It must have been when the pain from the bullet in my head almost drove me to insanity, almost made me wish to die.  And one of the things that kept me alive was thinking about him and whether he was thinking about me . . . but then I never had the guts to go to him, didn't want to complicate his life further.

            But the look on his face when he saw me come out of that elevator . . . . Yeah, he'd been thinking about me.

            I think about my sister and that damned asshole husband of hers.  She was always a sucker for crap romantic shit, and he played her like a fiddle.  She gushed about how he treated her like a queen, at least at first . . . . But he didn't even try to protect her, did he? Probably offered her up as a bribe for his own life.  Poor Lisa, all she ever wanted was to be romanced; but romance isn't love.

            Oh God the pain is radiating up my back, I can't stand it . . . maybe if I think about something else, rest my eyes . . . . I close my eyes and I'm back at the funhouse.

                Max is waiting for me there, and my breath quickens when I see him. I don't feel like beating around the bush, so I ask him point-blank what he wants from me. At first he seems unsure, but by the time he kisses me any uncertainty has left both of us.

            I'm up against the wall, which is good because I feel as if I might faint from need.  As we kiss he grabs my hips and lifts me up to him. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life; literally, as I haven't felt this alive in years. As his mouth moves down my neck it's like two years of fantasies coming true. I can barely remember ever being loved, ever feeling loved; and oh God I need to feel loved.

            Tires squealing. My eyes fly open. "You led them here," I say, enraged. No way they're taking this away from me.

            We lock eyes for a second, short of breath and very, very disappointed. But he lowers me to the ground and we take off, all business again.

            My eyes open to silence.  How long have I been unconscious?  I hear no gunshots, voices, nothing . . . I see no one except Woden, who has died while I was out. 

I try to call Max's name, but the word dies in my throat.  The thought of him not responding is too painful, and what if someone else is out there, listening? I would rather not call attention to myself in this state.

            My back doesn't hurt anymore.  Nothing hurts, but I'm really cold.  And tired.  Is this really what dying feels like?  Is it this clichéd?  Oh well whatever.  I really don't care anymore.

            I close my eyes, hoping maybe I can die dreaming, but suddenly I hear something.  I swivel my neck around as much as I can, but I don't see anything.  I hear it though; someone's coming . . . very slowly.  My head spins, hope and dread intertwined. 

            Finally I see him, crawling down the hallway towards me.  He made it.  My dying heart leaps, and I weakly reach my hand towards him, willing him to reach me.  His pace quickens slightly, but I can tell it's hard for him.  He must feel like hell, but he's coming back to me . . .

            He grabs my hand and says it'll be okay.  I smile, hoping that it will be okay, for him.  Looking up at his battered face so full of concern, something in me forces my brain to let go of all the hatred and anger, all the shit that's kept me sane and focused all these years of killing.  My body is flooded with nothing but love and I feel alive one last time.  I want to tell him all this, tell him that it will be all right, tell him I love him, but all I say is,

            "God! I turned out to be such a damsel in distress."

            He looks so sad as he leans down to kiss me, but he'll be okay.  I have to believe that or this happy feeling will leave and oh I don't want this happy feeling to leave—

[Chapter 2 will describe Max's thoughts as he crawls back to Mona.]