I feel like this is turning into PRUSSIA HAS THOUGHTS! YAY THOUGHTS . .
And BOO midterms this entire past week X(
Review! :D
Gilbert had known it was coming, and just as he couldn't believe that he'd had her, now he couldn't believe she was gone. A rather bitter irony, but justice was finally served.
It was shock more than any force of will that kept the tears pent up inside of him. He sat, face pale, fists clenched with tension until the old dried scab split and sent strings dripping from his hands to stain his blue sheets to black. His fingers briefly brushed a tangle of slightly pinkish burns, each about a year old.
He heard the door to her rooms slam.
The balcony was cracked open just a sliver, letting in a fresh slice of cool air, and his mind once again turned to the jump, toying with the idea like it was a sore. Of course Elizaveta would tell the king, perhaps was even going to do so now, in a second or a minute, and with the crimes he'd racked up on himself that would be a condemnation to certain death.
Not for the first time, he looked back at his list of mistakes. Falling in love with her was the first thing. But try as he might, he couldn't blame her. But the murder of Roderich, Francis's death, the willful administration of an outlawed drug...He was doomed and he knew it. Better to save everyone else the trouble of disposing of him, right?
What if I fell wrong? What if I didn't die, just broke all my limbs and just lay there for the rest of the night? What if-
A blackish purple butterfly flew in the narrow space and landed on the discarded rose in the trash bin.
Gilbert unclenched his hands and stealthily reached for something, anything to swat it away. He left red spots on his pillow as he brought it down onto the trash pail and smashed it flat, grunting with the force. Then he lifted it and bashed it again until his pillow was stained with blood and speckled with broken glass. The rose was bruised, shedding petals all over the ground.
And there, in the corner, a smashed butterfly. Wings, antennae, and legs lying in disarray. He brushed at it with his finger, entirely expecting it to vanish on him like the rest had done.
His finger met the fragile wing. It left a dark puff of color-scales on his hand, and he yanked it back as if he'd been burned.
Now what do I do?
He heard Elizaveta's door open and close, and bowed his head.
There she goes, to get the king. There she goes, carrying my life in her hands.
He waited for the end, for the guards to rush in and take him away so his fate could be decided by impassive stone judges.
Ten heartbeats passed. The nearest guard was stationed at the end of the hall, standing as sentinel over the arrangement of nobles. Any moment now his door would open-
Ten minutes passed. Then ten more.
And Gilbert rightly realized that she had realized the best punishment for him of all; to let him stew in his own guilt and self-hatred until he boiled and came out bitter and cruel, to transform him from the eager, if obsessive young man he was, into a morally deficit murderer. He was already on his way.
He went out onto the balcony, gave the beguiling, enticing drop a lingering glance, and then clambered up to the roof with a practiced ease. The top was flat, and the wind whipped at his clothes and at his hair as if it were trying to knock him down. He curled into the shelter offered by the lee of one of the gargoyle statues and wept in great racking sobs, his torso heaving, tears puddling on the ground before finding a shallow groove to run into.
I've ruined everything.
Everything.