Six months ago:
"My blood can save us both."
I could hear the tick-tock of the time they had left, every second and he had shaved their lasting years off one at a time, fewer days, and fewer minutes.
He was warm, someone that wanted to kiss me (not for himself) and hold me close.
"Together forever. The world burning beneath our feet."
Five months ago:
He was dying, coughing like he had black lungs and shaking like a fall leaf.
He could go at any moment, close his eyes and never open them.
Was I happy? No. But I wasn't sad there was not even a remote chance that I was sad.
My Adam brought him here, whispering words of hate, and saying how sick he was, and why he would do such a thing to his own child.
"El?"
I watched him, weakly smiling, joyous at the fact that I was untouched by the virus that had overcome the world in one deadly sweep.
"Hello, Daddy."
He was the same, glasses and suits.
But another thing that also was the same was all that spilled out of him was sorry and false love.
I had given him a chance, hope of living, stopped Adam from tearing him apart, and this was all I was getting?
Tears, they showed weakness, hot and furious on my cheeks, so many trailed down that soon I could taste their saltiness.
"Finish him."
My eyes and ears were closed to the blood and screams, one less person to die from the virus.
Four months ago:
"Peter, Peter, Peter, just saying your name makes me sick, my lips hide from you like a scared animal not wanting to be eaten up and thrown away by you."
Rambles, I grew more and more insane, day by day, no one to scold me or tell me what was right or wrong.
He was fit as a fiddle, no virus plagued him, his blood and his cheerleader saved him.
"El! Let me free. You can't trust Adam; he's the one that let out the virus!"
"I know, but unlike you he wants to hold me, kiss me for me, not for him!"
Adam was behind me, as always, holding my hand, making them warm and toasty.
"Is he bothering you, love? Want me to make it better?"
His kisses were like cookies, if I had just one, soon I wanted many more.
His lips were warm and soft, as Peters were rough and dry, making me happier and happier with the choices I'd made or did Adam make them for me?
"If I say yes, what happens? He is so goodie-goodie that I really don't want him to die."
Peter, what was so special about Peter?
Yes he saved the world, but oh so many times has he put it in danger, booms and vials.
Was I really worse then him?
He wasn't humble, anything but, he was selfish, just like me, that's why I grabbed on to him, and never let go until now.
"Dinners on the table eat. I won't kill him; I just want to make him pay a little. He did double-cross me after all."
The warm chicken was barely on my tongue when the cries started, louder and louder, they haunted me like a ghost.
Why? Why should I care?
Because you know he spills lies like a tea cup, he'll kill Peter, but first he'll make him suffer.
Three months ago:
The millions of papers, files of hate and torture, fell from the sky, surrounding me, and falling at my feet.
Elle, Elle! They all read, Elle Bishop didn't do that, she killed him, and bit him.
It went on and on, small things, nothing but tiny little things, a waste of trees.
"Looks like I found nothing in those rose-colored files, Doctor."
I saw his fear, first Sylar now me, both keeping him locked up and under alarm, but this time no little child to protect.
The small one, red hair, and sweet little smiles, had long ago been taken, brain and all, by Mr. Sylar.
"Go home, mourn at graves of family, and don't ever try and find me again, Mohinder."
I stepped aside, the door welcoming him, but he didn't move, just stared at me, as if it was just a cruel joke.
"GO! I don't want you to die, he comes you die, understand?"
Warmness, maybe warmer then Adam, his hug made me hate him.
I pulled away, shoving him out the door, giving him a small shock.
"El! Please, he's using-"
The door slammed, trapping the past with all the stray cats.
Adam, quiet and cat like pulled me into a deep kiss, playing with me like a Barbie doll, instead of me playing with him like he was Ken.
"Out with bad trash."
Two months later:
He is bad, like a rotten apple, no sweet coming from him.
He tastes like blood and war, horror and pain are all he loves, and he pushes me away like a rag doll.
My anger grows like a plant, until one day it will bloom and kill him and many others.
This time the lips aren't Adams, my keeper, but someone new, and intriguing.
He tastes of obsession, like me, and power, oh so much power.
I see his face, smirk so deep it pulls me in like a fish.
"Sylar."
"Adam, he's quite the guy but I must say I only liked him for his brains."
Goodbye worry, goodbye Adam.
He's all covered in what's left of my old lover, and so far I'm not shading any of my salty tears for him.
"He wasn't that great, I was a doll to him. Pretty and plastic. What will I be to you, Mr. Gray? Doll or love?"
"I believe love, you know me. I obsess; I was a sociopath as a child and adult. Let's just see where this damaged world takes us and our damaged brains, Miss. Bishop."
Now:
With the world broken and still burning, we made our way, kissing and collecting powers.
Adam and Sylar, they seemed the only ones that understood the poor Daddy's girl, with a lust for power, but I found I understand myself more, why I move the way I do, why I spark and talk in rimes.
I come to life with a kiss of his lips, kissing him rather then killing, that was a huge change.
No more Adam to bug me and chain me, no more world to rule me, I think I like this future.
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