Dear God I'm in a morbid mood today, AND ITS ALL MEHIEL'S FAULT!!!11oneonetwothree!!1 Jesus, what is it about me and angsty fics? I haven't a clue. Um, originally this was going to be a one shot, but it's running away with me. So maybe not.
It seems that Amon's Angel of Darkness also posted a similar-but-not-really fic, probably about an hour or so before I put Chapter 1 up. Trust me, I was as suprised as anyone else to see two fics with a similar basis so close together. I sure as hell did NOT 'copy' hers, her story is very different then mine. I detest plagerism as the most vile thing an 'author' can do. I didn't even see her story until the day after I sent my story in. AFAIK AAOD is cool with my story, and I'm cool with hers. So lets not say anything more about this.
See first chapter for disclaimer.
The man approached the woman where she lay. She was bleeding, a sure sign that he had not fulfilled his promise to her yet. Her beautiful green eyes had flown open at the pain of being shot, she turned her gaze to him as he knelt beside her fallen form. There was no recrimination, no hate or fear in her eyes. She knew why he had done it and, perhaps, loved him for it.
The man carefully parted the folds of her shirt, which was so filthy and full of holes that he wondered idly if she had ever changed it in the two years since they last met. The bullet hole was just to the left of her heart and the wound would kill her without medical intervention, but take a while. The girl stank of ash and soot and blood and sour perspiration. He closed his eyes suddenly, remembering a girl who enjoyed long bubble baths and kept herself so fanatically clean it was a wonder she hadn't scrubbed her skin off.
He opened his eyes again and took a moment to truly look at her. The parted shirt revealed the figure of a famine victim, her ribs were clearly defined and her stomach sunken. He realized that in the last two years, as she laid waste to cities and whole countries, that she'd been suffering as well, too sick to care for herself.
The man wondered just how much of this was his fault. If only he had been able to pull the trigger two years ago the girl and the world would not have suffered so.
He reached down and touched the matted head of hair, the memory of the once silken locks momentarily overpowering the present reality. The girl squeezed her eyes shut and leaned into his touch, seemingly deriving comfort from her killer's hands.
Their gazes met, and for one clear moment he could see the fifteen year old girl who's innocence and purity had made him make a horrific promise, sure that he would never have to carry it out. Sanity, for once, replaced madness, and he wondered how the hell things had gotten so fucked up. Fifteen-year-old Robin didn't deserve being trapped in twenty-year-old Robin's insanity.
Her lips were moving, silently. He realized she was praying, and he hoped that God could forgive her many sins. He knew he was a damned, tainted, foul individual. Surely God would realize that the real blame lay with him, for if only he had carried out his oath then many thousands would still be alive, and Robin would not have suffered.
The prayer concluded, as prayers do, with a silent 'Amen'.
He took out his gun again and pressed it to her heart. This time he did not miss.
