I don't own Ashes to Ashes
This is the darkest chapter so far – it is quite graphic at one point, and it's not Smut, but plot. I hope it will begin to tie some loose ends together, but not all of them. This is probably the most graphic/dark thing I have written, or will write in this story – I hope it's alright, but having written it I found it quite difficult and gruesome. I do think it's necessary, but I won't be offended if you skip this – if you do, and would like a summary, then message me, and I will be as simplistic and minimal as I can.
Thank you, as always, for your continued support, and I apologize if this is too much.
Huge thanks to Feline for beta-ing :)
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"She'd gone to see Benji first," Ciaran said softly. "It was their two year anniversary, so she wanted to- to say goodbye..." A moment of silence, a mutter of something incoherent from Ray, and then Ciaran was speaking again, his voice barely above a whisper, quiet and strained. "They argued – I was waiting for her outside, and I could hear them yelling, hear her crying... She told me she was just gunna leave at ten, but she'd asked him to- to..." He took a shuddering, rattling breath, one which resonated from the tape player as a harsh mimic of white noise, chilling Alex to the very core as she listened. "She'd asked him before," he went on, "and he'd always said no – said he 'loved her too much'." The scorn and bitter hatred in Ciaran's voice was unmistakeable, and Gene's arms tightened around Alex's waist as the tape continued to whir on.
"She said that he deserved another chance to prove it- said she'd be fair, let him have his chance an' then-" Ciaran hesitated, then spoke again. "He said no, anyway... and she left, yelled at him, stormed out of his flat and looked at me like she wanted to hit him..."
He couldn't be sure, but Gene was certain, as Alex wrapped her fingers around his, squeezing back at him tightly, that Ciaran's voice was happier, smiling; he could almost see his handsome face light up as Rosa walked towards him, see the scowl of utter anger on her face... Ciaran's voice surrounded him, and the image was so vivid, the words so honest and brutal as he spoke, that for a while he forgot where he was, forgot that he was Gene Hunt at all, seeing everything through Ciaran's sparkling blue eyes as he went on...
He'd met her eyes as she left the flat, making sure she saw him, telling her he'd be there for her, that she needn't worry about anything... And then he was running, heading towards the familiar warehouse with a clenched stomach, turning down familiarly trodden side streets and back alleys until he slipped through the creaking, splintering wooden door, waiting for her in the dark, in the familiar abandoned space that offered as much comfort as it did horror.
They'd been here before, in the years before her disease became visible, playing in the dusty building and chasing one another about, hiding whenever a fisherman walked by, or a stray dog scurried into their path. She'd brought him here again only recently – a few weeks ago, in the dead of night, sneaking out of her house to meet him while her mother thought she was sleeping. They'd spent the evening curled under a blanket as she recited verses from the Bible, all of them about him, all about her Angel...
He'd liked the building itself ever since; he'd come here several times when she wasn't talking to him anymore, just to feel close to her, just to remember the days that she hadn't hated him, hadn't hated herself, nor their friendship... It wasn't like the warehouse was a great example of architecture- it was rotten in places, draughty, damp, and surrounded by ugliness on all sides- but it was always filled with her- her voice, her smell, her smile, her laugh... And in its own right, it became, for him at least, a place of complete sanctity.
Now his heart pounded away in his chest, and he could feel his affection for the place slipping through his fingers as the horror of her expectations echoed in his brain; his throat was dry, his hands clammy, and as something scurried around nearby – a mouse, he presumed, though he didn't care to look- he felt himself shiver, tightening the drawstrings at the neck of his hooded jumper and drawing the hood closer around his face.
The sound of her feet on the floor made him turn to meet her gaze. He knew they were her feet without looking- she always put more weight on her left foot, placing the sole down flat and making the thud more pronounced, whilst the clunk of her right foot was always lighter as it connected with the floor, the weight only on the heel as she stepped forwards...
She'd taken the rear entrance to the warehouse, and he watched her throw down her floral purse, ripping the heart-shaped pendant from around her neck and tossing it to the floor as she approached him, looking for all the world like some sort of enchantress...
The draught of the warehouse caused her hair to whip around her face as the wind passed through, the white blonde colour of it stark against the darkness of the night within the dank room. Her lips were set in a tight line, her stormy eyes burning with anger, glistening in the darkness as she drew closer to him, taking his outstretched hand. He went to speak, to draw her into his arms, but another, unfamiliar pair of feet sounded in the darkness, echoing through the night as a thin, slight figure appeared in the doorway. A familiar voice, pleading with her to come back... and then she turned; she turned and told Benji to leave, to go away and let her be...
"He's my new you." She said, her voice full of venom and spite, and he could feel the smile twitching at his lips beneath the hood, wondered if Benji could see it, if he could possibly understand how much it meant to hear her say it... And then Rosa had kissed him, wiping all thought from his mind as her slightly chapped lips brushed his own, as her thin hand tangled in his hair, her body perfect against his own, fragile to his strength as he gently drew her closer to him, afraid to hold her too tight, scared he might break her, hurt her...
When she drew away, he watched her, saw the lumps of pain that rose out of her skin and littered across her face, her neck, her shoulders... She was looking at him, her soft red lips parting as she smiled up at him, showing a hint of white as they parted, dimples forming on her cheek... He smiled back at her, stroking the blonde locks of her hair with a gentle touch.
He'd always liked her best at night, he realized now. She was beautiful and perfect anyway, but somehow the dim glow of moonlight when she stood in the dark streets made her even more so; her skin glowed pale, her lips shone red, her eyes glistened and her hair rippled with colour and tone... and she smiled more. She was happy in the dark; she could amble in the shadows when she passed a shop window, didn't need to look at herself in puddles, nor in glass, nor in mirrors; she could walk with her head held high, her smile true and brilliant as she kept her hand held in his...
She was smiling here and now, in the darkness of the warehouse, and that was what mattered, even as she wrapped her fingers around his hand, her pale skin cold against his own, but still oddly comforting as they pressed together. His heart was pounding at what felt like two hundred beats a minute, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to stop the fear in his belly from transmuting into vomit as she led him towards a corner, smiling at him whenever his hold tightened around her hand...
She didn't hesitate at all as she tugged him behind a large, abandoned shelving unit, letting go off his hand and moving forwards, towards a thin layer of tarpaulin that was carefully thrown over a small assortment of shapes that were unrecognizable. She drew it back with flourish, her smile bright, her fingers clutching at the sheet as she watched his face.
There were a number of things there- things that were out of place in the abandoned warehouse, which should have been home only to items such as tools and mouldy boxes; there was a blanket, a pillow, a hooded white jumper, a roll of bin-bags, a small handbag, a pair of black leather gloves and, amongst it all, a small, black-handled vegetable knife, with marks on the side where it had burned or melted at some point in the past. It was nestled between the purse and the jumper, looking sinister and evil, causing vomit to rise in his throat...
He glanced at Rosa; she was eyeing the same object as he was, but whilst his own stomach turned with disgust, her smile was unmistakeable, even in the dim light. He wanted to cry, he wanted to tug her into his arms and tell her he couldn't do it, wouldn't do it... but to let her go would be to lose her, to betray her and let her down... If he went through with this, if he helped her, if he made her wishes come true, then she would still love him...
He gulped, turning his eyes away and feeling her slide her hand into his, her lips at his neck as she lifted his jumper, as she slid buttons free from his shirt and reached down to his jeans... She hissed in pain as her arm jarred against him, agony contorting her face- she continued on anyway. It was in that moment that he wrapped her in his arms, lifting her gently, pushing the jumper, purse and knife aside, lowering her with tenderness onto the blanket she had reading for them, taking over as she lay beneath him, her breathing hitched with pain and pleasure as she gave him this last gift, this last demonstration of her love for him...
---
He'd lain awake as she slept, wrapped around her with his head resting on her shoulder, feeling and hearing the pulse at her neck as he stayed still, treasuring every beat of her fragile heart... But when she awoke, she barely waited five minutes before standing up, grimacing painfully, tugging on her jeans and bra before turning to him, her eyes desperate, pleading. He sat up, pulling his own clothes on slowly, before reaching into his pocket, drawing out a cigarette with trembling fingers, lighting up with difficulty and shivering, though not, he knew only too well, from the cold.
She reached out towards him, taking the cigarette from between his fingers and drawing it to her own lips in a surprisingly intimate gesture, exhaling with a small cough in his direction, her eyes smoky blue as she traced her tongue over her lips, handing the cigarette back quickly.
It was the only time he saw a trace of nervousness in her gaze, a slight flicker of fear in the depths of her eyes, before it was gone, and she was reaching for the gloves he had pushed aside. She pressed them into his hands with a kiss to the forehead and a look of pleading hopefulness.
For the second time that evening, he wanted to say no, wanted to push her away and tell her he couldn't, that he wouldn't... and then her eyes fixed with his own, her cool, bony hand on his face, tears threatening to flood from her eyes... and he felt himself cave, felt his eyes burn as he nodded, looking away from her with his heart pounding in his ears as he brought the cigarette up to his lips once more, his breath coming out in sharp gasps as he exhaled, the nicotine doing nothing to calm him as it hit the bloodstream, rendering him empty, helpless and alone... His fingers closed around his thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise as he finished off the cigarette, flicking the end aside just as she leaned forwards and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, her smell surrounding him, taunting him, pleading with him... He knew it would be the last time; whether he went through with this vile, horrific crime or not, he could never hope to hold her, or feel her, or smell her again...
"Angel..." she murmured in his ear, stroking his hair delicately. "Angel..." Over and over it rang through his mind; gentle and desperate, loving and manipulative, disgusting and perfect... Her voice washed over him, powered into his bloodstream and infiltrated his thoughts as he shivered, letting her hands ease the gloves down over his fingers, tugging them to his wrists, gently squeezing his fingers through the fabric. She managed a small smile, and then a moment later she was reaching into the handbag, extracting a bottle of water, a small, white medical bottle which should have rattled but stayed oddly silent as she pushed them into his hands, her eyes still begging...
He couldn't look at her as he closed his fingers around it.
He pried the lid from the bottle, knowing what to expect, but hating the confirmation as he smelt the sterile tang of the plastic, the powdered undercurrents of the medicine itself... He bit back vomit, knowing what she wanted of him, knowing how much she needed him to help her... He caught the smile on her lips from the corner of his eye as he shivered and shook, placing the bottle on the floor. He picked up the water with shaking hands, twisting the lid from the neck, putting the plastic cap carefully on the floor, then reaching again for the medicine.
His hands trembled slightly as he delicately placed the neck of the medical bottle within that of the water; white powder fluttered down onto the surface of the liquid, seeming to pile up for a few moments before small particles of it began to dissolve, twirling downwards within the bottle before disappearing completely...
Some remained on the surface, and he reached for the cap, twisting it tightly into place before shaking the concoction with vigour, watching as the water turned a pale shade of white, looking, for all intents and purposes, like thinned milk... He pushed it at her a moment later, his stomach roiling, blood pounding in his ears; he couldn't watch, couldn't bear to see her drink it, and his eyes turned away as she glugged it down greedily, swallowing every drop, every morsel, before placing the bottle down, twisting his face around to meet her eyes, smiling that bitterly perfect smile that made his heart ache with love; it was irresistible- he couldn't help it in the slightest.
"Angel," she repeated, smiling, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head against his chest. His hands grasped her waist loosely, his chin resting on her head out of habit as she leaned into him. "Angel..." she crooned. "My lovely, perfect, angel..."
His eyes stung, his arms tightening around her, his hand moving to her hair as tears tracked down his cheeks. "Go to sleep," he told her softly, his voice cracking. "I love you... Go to sleep now..." He felt her smile, felt her squeeze him gently as she closed her eyes, and felt her lips brush the slight patch of bare skin at the V of his shirt..
A while later, she slipped into sleep, his tears still falling into her hair, even as her breathing fell slow and steady. Hands trembling, he lowered her to the blanket, resting her head lightly on the fluffy pillow, his hand on her cheek for a brief moment before he looked again at the knife, glistening slightly in the dim shafts of moonlight that seeped through the cracks in the ceiling. Next to it lay the bin bags, and he reached for them, ripping one free and opening it, placing it to his right and glancing again at the sinister blade that was to be Rosa's salvation... With sweaty, shaking fingers, he reached for it, his hand closing around the handle and gripping it tight in his fist as he tried to forget what he was about to lose, attempting to focus only on the feelings she declared for him, the love that they shared...
Half-blinded by tears, he placed her arm across his lap, his fingers seeking out the deformed lump below her elbow, growing awkwardly outwards, causing her so much pain... He caressed it for the briefest of moments, stroking the soft flesh that surrounded it, before lifting the sharp blade and pressing it against the skin... It sliced into the flesh with ease, and he could feel the warmth of her blood through the glove, feel the metal blade hit the bone, jarring slightly in its stroke. The skin he had severed flapped horrifically, his tears splashed onto her skin, diluting the blood against her arm as he tried not to heave, tried to stop himself from running away...
He swallowed, glancing at Rosa's face through his blurred eyes as she slept on, completely oblivious as six sleeping tablets hit her bloodstream at once, sending her somewhere between a coma and a deep sleep... He peeled away the flesh, tossing it into the bag, trying to ignore the pungent taste of copper that hung in the air, and the horrible churning sensation in his stomach...
When he turned back, he eyed the brittle bone that protruded from her arm, glistening with blood, taunting him as her voice echoed in his ears, her desperate misery and her violent despair repeating itself over and over again...
"They hurt me," she'd said so many times. "It's like they hate me, like I've done something wrong, like God is punishing me for straying from his path..." He remembered the rage in his stomach, the bitter disgust that she could be so truly misled... and suddenly, without thinking, his grief combined with his anger, transmuting into hatred and anger at the small bones that had torn her life apart, that would tear his love from him and rip him into shreds of despair, even when she could feel content, happy in her final act...
His hatred became violent and aggressive, the knife clenched tight in his fists as he hacked, tears splashing, his body trembling, mind screaming at him to stop, to carry on, to run away, to see it through... He wept, the knife slipping in his blood covered fingers, scratching a line down her arm and causing him to cry out in despair as it scraped across the bone, the noise grating against his ears...
Until his blade came to her cheek, Rosa remained silent.
---
"She wasn't meant to wake up!" Ciaran sobbed, his voice choked, spluttering. "She'd taken so many pills, she was just meant to stay asleep! She wasn't ever meant to feel it! She wasn't! I swear to God she wasn't!" His tearful voice wrenched at Alex's chest, and though she was bent over the bin, pale as a sheet and with her hands trembling as Gene held it up to her mouth, she couldn't miss the anguish, the bitter self-hatred and disgust that echoed in Ciaran's words. They resonated like a cymbal in a cathedral, ringing on in her head as he sobbed and spluttered, choking and crying as both Ray and Chris remained uncharacteristically silent, but for the occasional muttering of "think I'm gunna be sick!" as Chris wheezed under his breath.
"She didn't want to see it!" He sobbed, "She hated pain, and she hated tablets – we were trying to make it so she got what she wanted without any of that! She wasn't meant to feel anything! She was meant to stay asleep! Please, you have to believe me! She was meant to be asleep!"
Ray's voice was deadpan, empty, and arm that Gene had kept firmly around Alex's waist tightened. "What happened?" Ray asked.
Ciaran's sob was heart wrenching, pained and broken, and Gene's eyes clenched shut in disgust as the defeated teenager told them.
----
She started to waken as the knife cut into her cheek, her eyelids twitching, her body going into spasm, her mouth opening in gasps of pain as she came back from unconsciousness. His heart hammered, his hand stilling, his body freezing in shock and horror as she started to move, the actions stunted by the copious wounds on her body, the horrific growths that had brought this on, that he was meant to rid her of, that he was failing to erase... He couldn't move, her head resting in his lap as his hand lay limply on her shoulder, his eyes staring as she twitched and stirred.
A moment later, her eyes flew open, flashing like lightning in the darkness, her scream piercing the night air and making him weep with her, despising himself for the pain he was putting her through, hating every aspect of his being for failing to protect her from it. She didn't stop screaming, even when her eyes had clenched tightly shut. Instead, her body lifted from the floor, the veins in her unsullied arm standing out against her skin as she tried to escape her pain, to forget her own body...
As the scream stretched on, as it broke through the night and burned his ears, he found himself acting without thought, without control or consideration, his hand gripping the knife harder as he cut deeper, head spinning, one word splitting the night in two over and over again... Angel.
----
He was sobbing, his words lost as he wept on and on, gasping and rasping for air in the silence of the interview. It stretched on for several minutes, with no noise but that of Ciaran's grief. Ray finally spoke, though his mouth sounded dry, words spilling awkwardly from his mouth, lacking the accent, the annunciation that was ingrained so deep in Ray's character...
"What did you do with the body?" he asked, his next gulp so loud and pronounced that it registered with the recorder, obvious to Gene and Alex as they sat stock still, both fighting with their stomachs, their anger, their disgust...
"Joe..." Ciaran whispered. "Joe came, and-"
"Joe Ellison took the body?" Ray asked.
"No," Ciaran replied, voice blunt, sickened, uncaring. "He'd heard her screaming."
----
Her scream faded away as the pulse at her neck faltered, stuttered, and then stopped completely. His fingers shook as he pressed them harder against her skin, praying in vain for the reassuring flutter of her artery beneath his fingers, for a sharp intake of breath... And, born of the fear that clenched in his stomach, he found himself begging for the scream, for the ear-splitting agony that had torn his heart in two...
He tried desperately to resuscitate her, to force another beat from her heart, to breathe air into her lungs enough that she could speak, say that she loved him one more time, say she wasn't sorry, say-
"What've you done?!" His head snapped up at the sound, his arms darting out to wrap protectively around Rosa's mutilated body, her blood seeping into the clothes he had thrown back on what felt like hours ago...
He could feel the sticky warmth of it as it seeped through the fabric and stuck to his skin, could taste the copper on his lips where he had tried to resuscitate her, smell the mind-numbing, sickening scent of blood that made him want to pass out, to turn the knife on himself...
He couldn't make out a face, but the voice was familiar, from long nights sitting in the pub watching the man drink himself stupid as he regaled story after story.
As Joe stumbled forwards into the light, dressed in a pair of pyjamas and shivering in the cold, he fell to his knees and tried to drag Rosa from Ciaran's arms.
"Call an ambulance!" Joe said, panicked, jerking his hands backwards as they touched her blood, the scarlet liquid staining his skin, just as Rosa was tugged swiftly backwards, away from his touch. "Call 'em! Call 'em now!" His voice was high, fearful, terrified, and he was trembling.
"I can't!" Ciaran sobbed. "I can't... she's gone! She's-she's gone! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"You- you killed 'er," Joe whispered, his eyes widening, sweat dripping down his face. "You killed 'er, you- Rosa... You killed Rosa, you just-"
"NO!" Ciaran wept, shaking his head, "I didn't! Please! It wasn't what you think! It wasn't, I promise! Please, don't tell! Please! Please don't tell!"
But Joe was crying, his body trembling as he struggled to his feet, staggering from the warehouse with tears streaking down his face, his legs quivering and shaking as he walked, swaying dangerously from left to right, as though drunk.
"Please don't tell!" He yelled after Joe's retreating figure, still clutching Rosa's lifeless body to his chest. "Please Joe! Please don't tell!"
----
But for Ciaran's rasping breaths, the tape was quiet for a while, nothing else but the sound of breathing, crying and gulping... Finally, he spoke again, his voice thick with emotion, grief, disgust and revulsion.
"Thought he was gunna tell... thought the cops were gunna get me right there and then, but he didn't... He went to see Sophia; they were friends, and she was with Jezza – him and me were the only ones who knew, but he wanted her to know what I was like..." the bitter laugh that left his throat might have been scornful, were it not punctuated by another gasp and a stifled sob. "She was bloody over the moon, told him not to tell... dunno what else she said, but he didn't do anything, and she was down at the warehouse an hour later with a bag of stuff, telling me to get rid of the body and clean up after myself..." His teeth were chattering loudly, his gasps for air deep and ragged as he spoke.
---
She came out of nowhere; or at least, he thought she did. He'd been so absorbed in Rosa, in the horrific act he had just committed, that he wasn't even aware of her until she was at his side. In the hour that had passed, he'd managed to ease the white jumper over Rosa's torso, covering her rapidly chilling form and hugging it tight in a vain effort to keep in the warm, ignoring the scarlet smears that ruined the perfect white and closing his eyes, her scream and her gentle whispers echoing in his ears endlessly, the sight of her blood burned into his iris, and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he would never be able to rid himself of it...
When Sophia started talking, her voice soft and yet somehow demanding, he had jerked his head upwards, gripping Rosa to him ever tighter as he searched her face in the darkness.
She was knelt at his side, her hands covered in gloves, reaching into her small bag and drawing out a nail file, grasping Rosa's limp fingers despite his protests, scraping beneath the surface with such scrutiny and expertise that he had wondered, for a bizarre moment of clarity, where she had learned it.
"I'm getting rid of the fibres," she explained softly, scraping repeatedly without meeting his eyes. "Bag this stuff up," she ordered, nodding towards the bottles, the blanket, the pillow, Rosa's bag... "We'll take it home and burn it there."
He stared at her, bewildered and confused as she wiped the file on the inside of her bag before continuing with her task. He could do nothing, feel nothing, and simply sat there for what felt like forever, until suddenly she turned on him, her eyes blazing angrily.
"Do you know what you've done?" She snapped when he didn't move. "Do you know how much trouble you'll be in if anyone finds out? Get rid of it, Ciaran, and be quick!"
He followed her orders in a moment of helplessness, gathering the pillow and blanket and pushing them into a bin bag, followed by the top Rosa had worn earlier on, the small purse, and the two bottles. He kept the gloves on, tying the bag up with a large knot, his fingers shaking so hard it took two attempts, before he tossed it aside. He reached for the knife and the other bin bag, closing his eyes against the burning image of mutilated flesh, tying it tight and biting back a wave of nausea, glancing at Sophia as she put the nail file away, a question in his eyes.
She shook her head with disgust, glancing at the smaller bag that now hung from his hand. "No," she said, "you can get rid of that lot yourself... I'll burn the rest, but you'll have to do something with that." She looked pale, and he couldn't blame her for denying him that escape, couldn't find it in himself to be upset, or worried.
Taking the bag and knife in his hand, he headed towards the back of the warehouse, walking on legs that trembled, his knees knocking together, causing him to stumble into various discarded boxes as he made his way towards the back entrance. He stopped when his eyes fell on the discarded purse and necklace, his legs buckling underneath him as he fell to his knees, glancing across at Sophia on the other side of the warehouse, hunched over Rosa's body...
He hesitated, then reached out and lifted the purse up, tracing it lightly with his thumb for a second of wistful longing, before drawing out his lighter. He flicked it on, watching as the fabric beneath the peeling plastic coating caught alight, licking at it lustily, the acrid burn of plastic a welcome change to the damp tang of blood. He dropped the purse back onto the floor, squarely on top of the locket, and stood up.
He hesitated only briefly, his heart pounding fearfully in his chest, before he moved behind a nearby shelf, tossed the bag and knife behind it, and then threw a dirty tarpaulin over them.
He waited ten minutes, and then returned to Sophia, nodding slightly, and then averting his eyes as she spoke.
----
"She told me to put Rosie in the river..." his voice was soft, oddly calm, though still evidently hurting. "Said it'd wash me off her and you lot wouldn't be able to get me... I just... I just did it because there wasn't anything else to do... And- and at the time, I'd thought maybe she was trying to help me..."
"She wasn't?" Ray's voice was surprised, and Ciaran's answering laugh bitter.
"No. She was looking out for herself and Jeremy- couldn't have him finding out her kid brother knocked off his daughter, 'cause old Jezza would hit the roof and dump her." He spat the words out, disdain and hatred evident. "She hasn't told me as much, but you sit in a cell long enough, you figure it out... Only thing she was bothered about was bloody Jeremy; if he'd copped it before Rosie, she wouldn't have cared if I'd got found out at all..."
"So, yer sister told yer to dump the body?" Ray asked, sounding sickened.
There was silence, presumably nodding, then a murmured, "Yes."
----
She drove off with the bag in the back of her car, speeding into the dismal dark of the cold London morning and out of sight, leaving him standing at the door to the warehouse, Rosa's body cradled against his chest, the leather gloves still on his hands as he held her. He waited until the lights were out of sight, and then stepped slowly outside, his fingers gentle on Rosa's skin as he carried her towards the river. He glanced, for a few moments, at the wooden fishing boat Sophia had placed nearby, ready for him to push out onto the water and place her in the river... he ignored it, walking towards the water's edge and trembling as he looked down at her lifeless body.
In the dim light of morning, the wounds he had inflicted were even more ugly than before; dulled down in the darkness of the warehouse, the visual impact had been less, only the smell and the feel of it really enough to turn his stomach. Now, the tendons and muscle were plain to the eye, glistening red and pink as tears rolled down his cheeks and onto her face. Blood was still seeping from each of the wounds, staining the white of her jumper and spilling down over her skin. He bit back a sob, kneeling down and pressing a hard, desperate kiss to her forehead.
"I love you, Rosie," he whispered, sobbing into her blood-matted hair. His hand sought hers, eyes glancing one last time at their interlaced fingers, the leather of his glove stopping their skin from touching... Her middle nail was split slightly, and, in a moment of madness, he scratched the glove across it, breathing heavily when the thin strand of black thread snagged slightly and repeating the action several times...
Moments later, he'd lowered her to the water, still kneeling on the cold concrete floor as the currents caught her body, and she was tugged away from him one last time. When he looked down at his hand, the leather was slashed, a deep cut just visible amidst the mess of Rosa's blood; he could barely feel it.
----
Hope it was ok!
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Mage of the Heart