Silence
Weiss
Kreuz.
Drabble.
About Schwarz. PG-13. Traumatic.
The
black leather seat can't soak up his blood, and it slithers down in
lazy little rivulets. It's new and bright, and the sight of it burns
my eyes. His face is calm and blank, the hard glint gone from his
blue eyes. He looks younger. Almost innocent.
He doesn't say a
word, and that scares me most.
No wound had ever been enough to
make him shut up. He'd be whining, cursing, joking, complaining.
Insulting my lack of medical skills right as I patched him up.
Not
this time.
The wound is small--a vivid red spot like a carnation
in the lapel of his green coat. I can't stand it. I need to know. I
beg for a flash of the future but my gift is a stubborn bitch. If I
push her too hard, she'll strike back with blindness. For now, it's
temporary, but one day it will change. That much I had seen.
I
put my cheek against his chest and listen. His blood cools on my
face.
I always told him I lived for the day when he learns to be
silent.
Death is a good teacher.