Thanks for your reviews! Here's the next part:
Part Two
When it had been confirmed, they had run.
Unable to stay in one place but unable to leave, they had taken nothing. Earthly possessions were no longer their concern.
They had run - but not away.
Without resources the battle would slow immeasurably. But she promised herself it would continue.
Never one for giving up, she readied herself for the long road before her, pushing away thoughts of her present, thoughts of herself. She thought only of him. And of vengeance. Of a way out.
…
She turns the rusted knob, stopping the flow of water that pours tirelessly from the shower head. The glass slides along its predetermined path and she reaches for a towel, blotting at the drops that have settled on her skin. Her feet hit the cold, tile floor and she wraps herself in worn and threadbare fabric before opening the door.
Following on the heels of a wall of steam, she enters the room. She finds him at his usual place before the monitor, a crinkled paper bag beside him. He offers her a stale bagel and a mug of bitterly acidic coffee, his eyes never leaving the screen.
She can tell by his look that today will be uneventful. Today they will come no closer to accomplishing their goal.
She takes the mug and retreats to the bed, opting to pass on this morning's breakfast. As she climbs under the covers, she feels his pointed stare. It burns into her but has no effect. Chance, she finds, has determined that this time she'll not be provoked.
She'll let him win the next one.
The uneventful days are the hardest. On days like these she finds herself with too much time to think. She reflects on the time she has spent running. On the years she has spent fighting. On the people she has lost. On her dreams left unfulfilled.
She sits on a wooden bench, the warm breeze caressing her bare legs beneath her lavender skirt. A basket rests beside her, full of cheeses and breads, fruits and sweets, juices and wine. Her eyes meet his across the way and he smiles. It spreads from his lips to his cheeks to his eyes and to hers. She smiles. He turns his attention back to the swing, where a small girl with brown hair and expressive green eyes giggles and grins as he pushes her back and forth, and back and forth.
A little brown-eyed boy tugs on her skirt and opens his arms, his tiny fingers spread wide and straight. She wraps him in her arms before rising from the bench, taking the boy and the basket to the soft wool blanket sprawled on the ground before them.
"Juice," says the boy and his mother complies, opening the basket and retrieving a cup, already filled to the brim with sweet apple cider. They sit on the ground as she unloads the basket, popping grapes in her mouth as she goes. The little girl's laughter becomes louder and louder as she runs full-tilt toward the blanket, her father close on her heels.
She rubs her face with her hands, attempting physically to rid herself of such wistful thoughts. Her daydreams have always been the farthest from reality, leaving her with a different kind of pain. Another form of agony. Her nightmares leave her terrified, her fantasies leave her aching.
She gulps down the rest of the coffee before placing the mug on the table and removing herself from the bed. Her tired body yearns for rest, but she knows it will do no good. It hasn't for a long time.
She reaches for her suitcase, its contents shamefully inadequate. Years ago she had required costumes and characters. Rubber, leather, sequins and pearls. Now she requires anonymity and the cover of night. Now she only engages a few of her skills. She has learned that stealth is an adequate substitute for charm and sex appeal.
It was a missionless day, but she still finds herself wearing black. It seems her suitcase holds no other options. She wonders why she'd never noticed before. Perhaps it was fitting this way.
She sees him at the table, still struggling through the contents of the disk she obtained the day before. The decoding is still hard, though he's grown accustomed. He's faster every time. Finds more.
Still, she finds herself wishing she had Marshall's assistance.
…
The smell of gasoline saturated the night air, the cool breeze attempting in vain to dilute it.
He came toward her, outwardly stoic but inwardly dying. She knew because she was dying too. Slowly. Painfully.
The death tonight would not be completely counterfeit.
After what seemed like hours, he broke the silence. "It's ready. Are you sure you want to do this?"
She nodded, unable to articulate the words. She didn't want to do this. She had to. There was no other way. They both knew it.
He handed her the book of matches as their eyes met. Silently, she communicated what her heart was desperate to say.
I'm sorry.
His heart responded though his eyes. The only passage remaining open.
It's not your fault.
You shouldn't be here.
Neither should you.
You don't have to do this.
Neither do you.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
She stepped closer to the car and struck a match.
With a flick of her wrist her world erupted in flames.
…