She was very pretty.
There was something unnerving about the fact, about her, about his own thoughts on the subject. Yes, she was quite pretty. Sometimes it scared him, and other times it repulsed him-not her, never her, just himself.
She was very sweet.
No one would say she wasn't-except when the spirit came to take her away. She was the most selfless, innocent, wonderfully kind of people; he only took comfort in the knowledge that she'd return to them (to him) and that the pain was all for her.
She was very pretty.
He texted another of the faceless girls, attempting to take his mind off things. They were all very pretty too; just as, if not more beautiful than she was. Most importantly, they were safe-they didn't leave him lying awake at night, cursing himself and his family and everything but her. Safe.
She was delicate.
It was this fact that made him sure, above all else, that his purpose was to protect her. He just wished he was the only one.
She was untouchable.
He wished, more so than he should have, that he was somebody else. If he were, she might be within his reach; but all he could do was stand by and watch her live on without him.
She was, and always would be (so painfully would be) his sister.
(Confound this series for making me write het.)