COMRADES! COME JOIN ME IN SUPPORT FOR IT IS CAPS LOCK MONDAY! Okay now that that's out of my system, I have one thing to say: Please review. I'm here to become a better writer I can't do that with no feedback. On that topic, please be brutally honest in your reviews. Harsh comments are always accepted
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So thank you all for your reviews once again. Due to BrightBlackField2007 was inspired to go through the fic again with more revisions, which will hopefully fix some of the confusion.
She couldn't help but smile bitterly and laugh in despair though the tears that cascaded down her cheeks. The miserable irony of it all never had escaped her, the reason why the gravestone red of some retarded bullshit about him, "accomplishing his life in his death," or whatever. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
Two ranks. The gift awarded to those who made the ultimate sacrifice for the state. He wanted to make it to the top. You always were looking for the fastest way to the top, you bastard. You can't anything when you're dead. You're just useless. (Useless.) "Useless. Useless!" So what if people saw there, drenched from the rain, shouting the word pointlessly at the tombstone. She looked crazy. She knew that. Hell, she probably was crazy, not that she gave a damn.
Suddenly she felt overwhelmed. She couldn't take this. This horrible place only twisted the dagger lodged in her heart. She had to get away from this. So she fled to her house. Roy's house. She realized, of course, as she walked through the halls (the halls where his scent still lingered), as she tried to clean his study (still filled with unfinished paper work, paper work that was due weeks before he perished), as she slept on their bed (and memories began to surface that she now so desperately wanted to forget, lest the pain became too great), that coming here to escape his death was a painful mistake. So she went back to her old apartment. She still had it of course, since she couldn't move into his house officially, and it was in virtually the same condition as when she left it. She could escape here.
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It had been months since the funeral and, when she was completely honest with herself, she still hadn't progressed. She had managed to get through the day without any kind of outburst (on good days at least) and the desperate pain had been numbed to a dull, constant, throb. (Or perhaps she had just gotten used to the pain and it was, in fact, just as bad as it always had been.) But that was just at work. At home (Roy's house, she got past her desperation to escape the truth) she just sat in his old chair and stared. She was getting tired of this life. Of life in general. Of being alive at all.
At the beginning she hadn't allowed herself to even consider it, knowing that she would get over her loss. But she hadn't. Her life seemed just as hopeless as it had when her emotions were caught up the moment. She still soaked the bed in tears every night, longing to spend one more night (just one more) with the man who used to accompany her sleep every night. She realized that she was never going to stop. That the pain never was going to leave.
So maybe it was best, she thought as she played with the cylinder of her revolver, looking at it interestingly. Yes it was. She would stop at nothing to get closer to him in any way she could. She said she would follow him into hell, and she would make herself good on that promise. She brought the pistol up to her temple and smiled, for what was the first time in months, and brought herself two ranks closer to him.
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