JANE LIKES TO BELIEVE that is what happened. That she, a widow by heart, tore him apart until she uncovered ruby bones and veins of Styx.
Yes, she sleeps best when she imagines the life draining out of his eyes before sleep takes her to her gory paradise. When she cannot, all she has to do is grab a pillow and rehearse how she's going to trap him underneath her, how she's going to smother the pillow over his haggard face, think up how to combat all the defence he might put up before he ends forever.
And the life that fills her when she imagines sinking a blade into his chest, slowly so he can feel it slice through every cell, so he can envision how it's penetrating into each chamber of his heart, so he can experience death in all its perfect pain and pressure... The fantasies make her toes crinkle.
Feverish impatience for that day sent her through the streets of New York the other night in search of a man with black hair like his. She still tastes the iron stains on her fingers, remembers the scorched feel of rope burn against immaculate skin.
He lived.
Misfortunate him.
Jane Foster, shut-in ex-scientist, falls back onto her couch and flips open her laptop. Her twig finger drags across the smooth mousepad to reopen the Chrome tab. Her bloodshot eyes shoot across the email for the umpteenth time:
"Ms. Foster,
Linked below is the surveillance you requested. Please endorse the check to the Odinson Fund as discussed.
You will be viewing the video from our encrypted server. DO NOT attempt to download the video unless you're up to a charge of treason via S.H.I.E.L.D. Our relationship with Africa is still fragile post Wakanda.
Remember that we are your friends that have rules. We let you step on some, but not all.
Sincerely,
M. Hill"
Jane feels the frizz of a cackle in the making climb up her stony chest, but instead of indulging it she drains the rest of the vodka swashing inside the tinted champagne bottle in her grasp in three giant swallows.
It has been one year, five months, two weeks, and four days, but she finally found him. She follows the link to the grainy clip of the devil waiting in a small boarding line. He carries nothing but a sagging shoulder bag as he walks past the ticket checker.
It took Ethiopia's team one year, five months, two weeks, and three days to realize the fingerprint he left was Asgardian in disguise, which detonated a quiet panic. It took Agent Hill fifteen seconds to pinpoint the reason of the panic to Combolcha Airport.
Jane's sinking, scarred eyes flick up to the wall before her where a grandfather clock used to tick. Instead, a mammoth 13 tips its hat to her.
June 13, 2018.
How she loved torching that tattoo into the bones of her abode.
"P.S. your ticket to Ethiopia is attached as well. Your plane leaves in 32 hours. Good luck."
She taps against the plastic metal of her 10-year-old Dell.
"You better run, kid." Her flaky nails tap to the sound of marching horse hooves and pounding heartbeats. Their drumming quickens. Faster, faster, faster: "You'd better hide."
Dossier published in full length at home: allerdale. wordpress. com
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