You're past pain. But you're not past fear.
Fear that she'll get away. Fear that everything you've done, all the blood on your hands will be in vain. Fear at that look in her eyes. You know that look. Trish had worn a similar expression before you buried your knife in her side, holding her fragile body to yours, like that made it less brutal. You held her as if she were falling asleep in her lover's arms rather than bleeding out.
You killed your own father. Everyone you have ever known, everyone you have ever been close to—loved, in your own way—is dead, massacred by your cold-blooded hands. And it's all because of her.
Yes. It's because of her. All of it is for her, why can't she see that? You performed each and every single slaughter, one by bloody one, in her name. Why isn't she thanking you? Why doesn't she appreciate everything you have done so that you can be together, forever? It's what she wanted, what she wished for, you did it all for her!
You stumble towards the woman whose presence has intoxicated you since childhood and she whirls around to meet you. Something sharp breaches the skin of your stomach and you can feel an overwhelming pressure.
You're past pain. But you're not past fear. You feel the blade carve a path right through your flesh, like something biblical, and you see that look in her eyes. There's love there, to be sure, but there is also hate—like another blade slicing into you—and contempt. Worst of all, pity. You fear what will become of you now, but you're not stupid. Your breathing becomes ragged and you know what is going to happen. You find yourself thinking of Trish, wondering if this is how she felt in the moments before her hold on life slipped away and her body slackened in your arms. Is this what it's like to know that the one thing you thought you had left to hold onto was never, in fact, yours?
You tell her one last time that you love her, because you want her to know what she has done. You understand killing in the name of something beautiful. Why does everyone else seem to condemn it? Why can't they see how powerful that kind of love is? That someone would kill for you is something to be in awe of, not disgusted at. Why is it only you and your father who have ever looked past the distorted views of those around you to see the reality?
You let out a single sigh—your last, you know—before you let go and fall away, unrepentant but resigned. The world becomes cold around you and you can feel water seeping through the fibres of your sweater, climbing the shafts of your hair. You can't help how your eyes slide away from Abby, and begin to lose focus, and...
And everything suddenly looks like night.