Ch. 11

Theresa ran along the rooftops for a good fifteen minutes before she had to catch her breath.

The flowers and braids had fallen out of her hair long ago, but Theresa didn't care. She sat down and thought about why she had run after her confession. Had she been scared? That seemed logical, but why was she scared? Well, Undertaker had seemed pretty mad at what she had done and said. That probably meant he didn't feel the same way. 'Wait a minute,' she thought to herself. She started recalling the past few months she had spent with Undertaker. All the compliments, the sweet gestures, like putting flowers in her hair and the dress, even saving her from the Italians. Were those all gestures of love? If so, she had never picked up on it because she had constantly told herself that no one could ever love her. 'Then why was he mad?' she asked herself. Well, there was only one way to find out. She got up, ready to go back to Undertaker, apologize for running, and find out if he loved her the way she loved him.

Theresa jumped across the rooftops until she landed gracefully in front of the shop. She reached for the handle, but found the door was open slightly. 'That's odd.' She slowly opened the door further and slipped inside the shop. It was unusually dark, and Undertaker was nowhere to be seen. Theresa went upstairs but he wasn't there either. As she came back down the stairs she heard voices coming from the back examination room. She moved towards the door, which was slightly ajar, and saw a strange white light. The conversation became more audible.

"See, I told you that you'd look better in red." said one voice.

"I'm just glad you didn't go overboard." said Undertaker.

"So why did you want this again?"

"If she's just going to run away with my heart, there's no point in continuing. Besides, the young earl can always find another informant."

"Oh, that's so poetic! It almost makes me wish I wasn't doing this." At this point Theresa moved to get a better view. Inside the next room was Grell Sutcliffe, death scythe at the ready, and Undertaker lying on the floor with a large slash across his chest and his Cinematic Record casting the light she had seen earlier. Theresa was so shocked at what she was seeing she was frozen in place.

"Well, it's a little late to turn back."

"Hmmm, I suppose you're right." Grell said. "Alright let's get this over with."

"Thank you Grell." The red reaper flashed a toothy grin as he raised his death scythe. Theresa found she was still powerless to move as the scythe sliced through Undertaker's record, ending his life. As the light faded, Theresa finally was able to move. She burst through the door and was at Undertaker's side in an instant. She was fighting tears as her hands trailed across his face and then moved down to the cut across his chest.

"Grell, bring him back." Theresa said through gritted teeth.

"Hmm, no can do sweetie." Theresa stood and whirled on Grell, her hand finding its way around his throat. "I said bring him back or I swear I will rip you limb from limb!"

"Look even if I wanted to I can't! Once a Cinematic Record is severed it can't be returned to the person." Grell said in a choked voice. Theresa released him and her voice lowered to a whisper.

"Get out." There was no complaint from the reaper as he left the shop.

Theresa returned to Undertaker's body and knelt beside him. As Theresa sat there she felt the tears force their way from her eyes. Everything had finally slipped away from her; her job, her pride, her self-confidence, and finally, the love of her life. Why was the world so cruel to her? Was she dealt a hand filled with nothing but darkness and depression? Every time she was given a piece of happiness it was destroyed. No, not destroyed, shattered beyond all repair. This wasn't fair! Undertaker didn't have to die!

Theresa's grief boiled into rage in less than a second. She flung her glasses off of her face, not wanting to see anything that could trigger any memories, and walked into the main room; she needed to break something. Her hands found a ceramic jar and flung it across the room. Before it even made contact with the wall Theresa had picked up another object and shattered it. Her vision clouded further as she continued to break things, her cursed instinct taking over again. It was her instincts that told her to trust Undertaker, to comfort him when he was upset, to confess her love to him, and to run right afterwards. And yet her instincts hadn't kicked in when she saw Undertaker on the brink of death. She could have done something, said something that would have stopped this.

Sometime during her fit of destruction she returned to the back room. Once her eyes saw Undertaker's dead body, Theresa finally froze. The rage drained from her, and she fell upon him, her head laying on his chest. Her hair fell around the two of them, engulfing them in a strange blanket. The warmth had left Undertaker, and his comforting heartbeat was nowhere to be found, but that familiar scent was still there, the scent that Theresa once thought represented the beauty of death; how ironic. She started to cry again, and when her tears were spent she still didn't move; there was nothing for her to do. Sleep finally came to her, though she didn't know exactly when. The days blurred together as Theresa laid there, not moving, barely breathing. She faded in and out of consciousness, knowing that she couldn't die, but not exactly caring whether she did or not.

The whole time she lay there, Undertaker's voice echoed in her mind. "To lose you would be a fate worse than death."