He finds her body a week later.
She's sprawled across the ground in an alley, swollen, bloated in death, her skin a pallid, icy blue that's spattered with blood and bruises like the fingerpainting of a demented two-year-old. Limbs, twisted into sick angles as though someone had flung her there like a broken toy and hadn't bothered to pick her back up again. Blood congeals around her head in a sticky black halo; a morbid, fucked up parody of a wasted angel. Or maybe just a dead kid.
Either way, her hands are fucking shredded. He can see bone peeking through severed muscle around her fingers, one palm decorated with a deep, vicious gash. She's got sadistic bruises around her wrists and thighs, and he can see the echo of a handprint on her malformed cheek, jutting awkwardly where her jaw was broken.
A flash of memory- his lips on that sweetly curved jaw line, the smell of girl and sex and cheap hotel soap.
Her clothes are in tatters around her; a pale breast exposed- he has the nonsensical urge to cover her, somewhere in the back of his mind.
She doesn't look peaceful. She doesn't look like she's sleeping. She looks dead.
His boots are slick with blood and shit and what might be vomit as he crouches beside the disfigured corpse of a girl who'd had dead eyes long before tonight.
He kind of wishes he could be surprised.
Curled in her fist is something whitish; a scrap of paper, maybe. Rigor has set in, but he extricates it with a few sickening cracks. Scrawled on one side, "Consider this an IOU-"
He stops reading and throws it to the ground beside her in disgust. A fly buzzes somewhere near his left ear.
He stares into her mangled face, and his gut has turned to ice.
But his hands are steady as he prepares the syringe.
It's easy. So easy.
Blue light floods the alley, pure and luminous. And her eyes are on him. Blank. Milky and clouded, reminding him of a shot doe.
He presses a brief kiss to her cold forehead, tender in death the way he never would've been if she were still breathing.
Tucking the vial carefully into his pocket, he stands, knees creaking in protest, and walks away.
It's not until hours later that he realizes he's still clenching the glass tight in his fist.