Nobody's Perfect & I Stand Accused
"Then let me do it."
Ana Lucia looked up in surprise. He stared ahead at the door concealing that Other. He turned to see her confused eyes. Kneeling, he began talking of animals and what they do and his eyes revealed a glimmer of something she didn't expect. Hope.
She hesitated; she didn't want to pass on power. His eyes were fierce, and all doubts Ana had of whether he was a killer or not diminished. With one last glance down the firearm, she placed it into his hand, feeling both weakness and relief flow through her.
He took if from her gently and she watched him with curiosity as he held it in his palms, entranced. For a man with purpose, he seemed to be delaying himself. She wondered if he would renege, but Ana allowed him the time to clear his mind. The choice to kill was not an easy one – she knew well.
He stood in the middle of the room, still staring at the gun. Ana looked on, observing that he made no movement towards the armoury. He finally shifted the gun over in his hands, sliding two fingers onto the trigger. He could do this – she could not. She was weak. Her mind told her so. Couldn't even kill a guilty man. Handing revenge over as if it held no weight at all. Pathetic.
His voice cut through the flow of abuse her mind threw at her.
"I'm sorry."
Not a second of confusion passed before there was a resounding bang, and Ana felt it echo right through her. Her head dropped, and she saw her own blood seeping down her front. The smell of a smoking gun invaded her nostrils, and she could make out his shape just metres away, but she couldn't see. The realisation of what had happened barely hit before the pain set in, and her senses dulled rapidly.
Three seconds stretched into hours and her mind sped up, frantically running through thoughts like she was running out. His face fell into focus once more, before er head rolled to the side, her muscles failing. His expression read clearly; he had meant to do this – this was no mistake. She tried to lean forward but felt blood trickle down her back at the sickly sound of her shirt peeling from the couch. Her spine went limp and the gap between her and the couch closed once again.
In the corner of her eyes, she could see his shadowed form unmoving, and anger began to boil, but there wasn't enough life left in her for the rage to develop. She struggled for oxygen and her head spun. He still did not move; he seemed frozen in time, stuck I his dirty deed.
She wanted to look up – to lock eyes with him one last time, but she couldn't control her body anymore. She felt her physical form fail, shutting down. Her arms no longer felt like hers, her legs were foreign, all she could feel was her slowing heart.
A familiar voice shot through the pounding in her head. It spoke his name. Ana couldn't remember the voice, the face, but her mind throbbed as two blasts erupted. The sound of a body crumpling to the floor followed, but Ana could no longer focus on anything outside her mind. The world started to slip; fog clouded every thought until there was just one.
Her last thought, a simple hope. A hope that somehow… somehow… someone would find out… find out it was Michael…