-1It hurts to breathe in. Allelujah's voice is raspy, his chest constricted. He knows the pain is from screaming things he doesn't remember. He remembers begging keenly, but picking up the gun. He nearly drops it, so shaky and sweating are his hands. He remembers trying to turn it on himself at one point, the gun barrell and a voice he hears in his nightmares comes from his mouth, sputtering words angrily. Don't, fool, coward.
Allelujah closes his eyes and when he opens them, he's a spectator his own life again, his hands no longer shaky. "Leave this to me," is the last thing Hallelujah says to him and he knows full well what he -himself- intends to do. He habitually seperates himself from this dark half, but it's his own small hands that pull the trigger. Allelujah is surprised at the speed at which he surrenders his control, but these times are drastic.
Blood flies from wounds and the sound of the shots are deafening. Someone is screaming, and it takes Allelujah a few seconds to realize it's his voice alone above the sounds of desperation culminating before him. He's screaming murder from his throat, inside his mind, a chorus of rage and horror that, in one moment, he shares with Hallelujah; their voices in the same emotional range.
When he comes to, covered in blood and triumphantly alone, he tries to speak, but it comes out as a painful, raw whisper. He gave over again and for what, his own survival? Is it really that crucial?
"Oh yes," says his other, in a voice as hushed as his own and Allelujah closes his eyes. He's not really there, but he cannot stand to see Hallelujah covered in blood. He's not real, he reminds himself, tears pooling behind his closed eyelids.
"The hell I'm not!" roars Hallelujah with a laugh. His voice is cracking, but continues the laughter as Allelujah sobs.
"The hell I'm not," he repeats, and Allelujah realizes the words are coming from his own mouth, buried in his arms. It's him alone, as it always was.