She was bleeding on me. Her body was just deadweight of flesh and empty stare and it felt too heavy for a delicate little woman like her. It felt impossible. I wasn't shaking. I held her tight. My grips was so tight I swear if she still had her heart beating and pumping blood, she could feel my grips, she would be screaming. I used to hug her like that. She would scream happily and said to me "You could've killed me stone dead, Jimmy. Loosen your grip!" But I already killed her, you see. She couldn't scream no more. She was very quiet. At peace. I've never seen her so at peace before. She was lying on my embrace and bled all over me. Stared blankly with her beautiful eyes, only they weren't as beautiful as before, see. They didn't sparkle and reflect the sunlight any more. The light was coming through the opened window behind me like some pillars of a leaning tower, fragile and broken. It was supposed to be warm. Her eyes were supposed to glow and not lifeless like that because I killed her. She couldn't see the light no more.
I wasn't shaking. But I think I was crying. Yes, I remember. My tears were on her face, mixing with the blood instead of flowing freely. The blood was defying gravity. My tears weren't flowing. The blood….
It was starting to get dark.
Long after the darkness settled he came, my father was coming through the door. Calling me and calling her. She couldn't hear you! I choked She couldn't hear you, dad. She's dead. I wanted to tell him because I knew what he expected once he got home. He would expect her to greet him and gather his aching limbs in a hug and kissed her softly. Just once, because she had to cook dinner and they could always continue it afterwards. After that, he would ask me about my day, with his grim smile, dry voice, and ragged breath (because she just kissed him, okay?). I often answered with a smile of my own, but that night, with her bleeding on my lap instead of kissing him or cooking dinner, I sobbed painfully as he came through the door. Lifted my face as I….
BANG!
On the floor my father fell.
On the floor he bled to death.
…..
Encore! Encore!
A perfect ending for a tragedy! Bravo! Magnifique!
No singing aria, no requiem, just more death. Keep 'em coming.
Oh no angels would sing, no.
Messy? First ones are always messy.
Could do with a bigger bang next time, though, don't you think?
Disclaimer: BBC owns some brilliant stuff.
It's a personal headcanon of mine that Moriarty killed his own parents (all awesome psychopaths did, mind you. Ask Ruth Wilson.) so I made this awhile back and I had some enlightenment earlier. Yeah. It's unbeta'd and a bit rubbish, really. More experimental stuff.
I'd appreciate some words from you.