I grit my teeth against the pain, though I feel nothing. It's merely a response of the body. I haven't felt for a very long time, but I know that's not what she'd want, so I must change. There is no question in my mind that this is true.
She made me feel, so many things. She intrigued me. Where once my life held only monotony and routine, she brought chaos. The good kind of chaos, the stirring kind, the kind that sets things into motion.
Where I held doubts, fears and griefs, she she held hope, courage and strength. She acted as a balm for me, as I can only hope I did for her. She protected me from the world. Could I say the same? Where was I when she died?
The needle scratches into my skin, leaving a permanent reminder in my skin. Not a scar, not marring me. Mending me. Reminding me. I must not forget.
She left a permanent mark on me. I feel it often. There are few things I do, see, or think that didn't stem from her, and the things that didn't don't mean nearly as much to me.
It makes since. Someone who can change who you are so drastically, so perversely, shouldn't be forgotten easily. Her life impacted mine for the better. All I can do is remember that every God damned day of my life. What else can I do?
This. I can do this for her. I ache, but not because of the tattoo. No, I ache for her. For her touch, for her voice, for her love. What did I give her?
Love is something she taught me. One of the very many things. She instilled in me the purest kind of love I have ever known. I will never feel it again.
Her love was merciful. Her love was gentle as a summer breeze, stronger than any mountain, neither commanded nor shaped by any whip.
Most of all, her love was unconditional. It held no criterion to meet. It was a free gift bestowed upon me. It was not a rare love, it was spread through many places, but that made it all the better to cherish.
I look down, and I see the the ink starting to take shape, graceful and blessedly distinct. The message is clear. There is no mistaking it's meaning. There is no compensating for all the things I've done.
If I had to list all the things I did wrong, just in my short time with her, I could pass a thousand years, and the end would not be in sight. But there are some instances that especially stick out in my mind. Times of my extreme incompetence, times I cannot take back.
Like the last minutes she spent alive. The ones I wasn't present for. How could I do that to her?
I force breath into my lungs slowly, so I don't mess up the artist. Without her, I can't breathe. I can't think, I can't move, I can't function. I'm not ashamed to say that sometimes all I can do is cry. The pain never goes away.
I don't want it to. It would be an insult to her memory. It would be moving on. I don't want to move on. I just want her back. The pain is a constant, but it is a good constant. It was as constant as her passion, which never went away.
That's what I liked so much about her. Well, one of the many, many things. She was fiery. Headstrong, fearless, strong beyond measure. Her passion was selfless.
Despite her fears and doubts, she was abnegation through and through. I don't care what the others at the Bureau say. The factions were so much more than just an experiment. They were embodiments of some of the best qualities people poses They are all characteristics that she possessed.
I force air out of my mouth in a grunt. The ache in my chest is growing steadily, building, leaving my body incapable of movement. I am immobilized by the thought of how terribly, utterly alone I am. I am so selfish.
Her last actions were to save the world. To save her friends and family. To save me. And in that moment when she gave her life, where was I? I was trying to sort through issues I thought were important. I was trying to perfect my life so I could be happy.
Needless to say say, it didn't work.
Finally he is done with the tattoo, and he dabs at it with white gauze. I stand stiffly, overcome with emotions. At first I shy away from my reflection in the mirror, but I soon push past the instilled instinct.
It sits over my heart, guarding it as she did, with strength and beauty in every pore. In simple black ink flies a raven, and trailing from it's tail; feathers that fade to dust.
We who remember her are few in number, but great in love.
A/N Symbolic of her unique perspective of the world, paying tribute to her and those she held dear. And the trail she left behind, the unforgettable, irrevocable thoughts and actions she left in her wake.