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Willing To Die For You
The knowledge that someone is willing to die for you is – difficult.
You're supposed to be happy about it. So many of the stories people tell each other, the stories people tell themselves, are based on one being dying for another.
But it isn't glorious.
It isn't even romantic.
Well, maybe it might be, if you don't care about the other person in return.
But if you do? If you love him as fiercely as he loves you? Well, then. You don't want your death – your salvation from it – to be the cause of his.
I'm not used to this feeling.
It was always me with the gun. It was always me with the blazing sacrificial streak. Me with the death sentence. Or at the very least, it was always the pair of us, hip to hip or back to back, ready to go out fighting as a unit. Even when D'Argo was born that didn't change. It will all be different now, everyone said. But it wasn't. It just morphed a little; became the two of us ready to die for our son and not just each other.
But now it's John out there and I'm in here and I feel helpless.
Helpless, knowing that he'd die with a smile on his face to save me. He's already done that once.
Helpless, knowing that the scum chasing us because of some pathetic local misunderstanding won't stop until they're dead or he is.
I can hear them out there. Hear the fighting.
Why the frell do I always give birth when people are trying to kill us?