"If human beings are not drowned," asked the little mermaid, "can they live forever? Do they never die as we do here in the sea?"
"Yes," replied the old lady, "they must also die, and their term of life is even shorter than ours. We sometimes live to three hundred years, but when we cease to exist here we only become the foam on the surface of the water, and we have not even a grave down here of those we love. We have not immortal souls, we shall never live again."
x
The world is dark and quiet.
The TV has turned to static – the rolling coverage of what they are calling The Greatest Tragedy in Modern American History has finally ceased for the night and, despite the chaos and glory of the day, all that is left is a soft glow and a gentle buzz in a badly cleaned room.
They'd ended up in a motel rather than just sleeping in the car as planned, partly to see some nice video footage of their masterpiece (the radio coverage had been great but there's nothing quite like seeing the terror in the reporters' and witnesses' faces as they take in all that had been done) but also because he thought a bed would give them a little more space and room for creativity than the back of the car (not that it had stopped them several times today). The second reason had become rather redundant though, as they'd done little more than snuggle and some light making out to the grief stricken cries of Westerberg's parents, before she'd fallen asleep on his chest.
Not that he blames her; it's been a long day, one that's taken her places she probably didn't expect when she woke up. Hell, his day was not supposed to end with her beside him either.
He studies her under the dim glow, Heather looks smaller, gentler when she's sleeping – he's seen her powerful, he's seen her weak, seen her in command, seen her afraid, but he hasn't – he realises – seen her at peace. She's facing towards him, legs curled up on the couch like a cat, body moulded tightly enough to his that he dares not shift, lest he wakes her.
Veronica had never slept like this with him, not since their first night anyway. After they murdered Heather she slept fitfully whenever she could sense he was nearby and, after he killed Kurt and Ram, she very deliberately turned to face away from him whenever she slept – pulling the blankets between them as if they were some sort of impenetrable shield.
Heather is sleeping as if she trusts him.
He could kill her, he thinks, he wouldn't even need to get up from the couch and wake her, he could just reach into his pocket and press his gun against her temple or strike his switchblade against her throat. He could wrap his hands around her pretty, pale, perfect neck right now and she wouldn't notice until it was far too late. He'd get away with it too – a woman left dead in a scummy motel like this would be assumed to be a whore – and the police have more important, upper-middle-class, deaths to deal with today.
It would be more prudent really, it would get rid of a loose end. He'd gone into today ready to kill her, looking forward to knowing all her power would be gone in a blink of an eye – maybe she'd even be blamed for it all, if details of the petition ever came to light. Of all of the deaths he'd planned for Westerberg, hers was meant to be especially sweet.
He really doesn't like when things don't go to plan.
And yet, he finds he does not want to kill her, not since her eyes lit up the same way as his when they'd reset the bomb, not since she'd kissed him so fiercely the moment it went off that he had to steady himself against a tree to stop from falling over, not since she'd turned up the volume of the TV the moment they'd entered the motel room...
He's so caught up in his thoughts that it takes him a while to notice that her eyelids have flittered open and she's watching him carefully.
"What are you thinking?" she mutters, voice still hazy with sleep.
"That I could kill you right now."
She doesn't start, even though even he can see that some of his words are self sabotage – that part of him wants to start a fight with her, to give himself a reason maybe or an explanation – to prove that all girls are like Veronica or his mother, ready to leave him the moment they see him for who he truly is.
"You've been able to kill me all day," she says instead, "and I you, yet here we are - alive. Now carry me to bed will you? I'm too tired to walk."
He nods and obliges, turning off the TV and gently scooping her up in his arms as she continues to nestle up to him, mostly asleep again by the time he tucks her in.
She doesn't fear death, he realises, not really – doesn't necessarily crave it the way his mother did, but she feels the call of the void the same way he does – the same way he thinks maybe everyone who doesn't quite belong in this fucking cookie cutter world with its stupid rules does – a way to break away, to be free, to put an end to all the noise and uncertainty.
He doesn't think or feel like other mortals. Sure, he has emotions, he can feel joy and excitement at a plan gone right, sad when his mother left him to go where he could not, anger when Veronica hung herself – ruining everything he wanted to do, but he doesn't react to trivial feelings and annoyances. He isn't moved to tears the first time he sees a baby smile, doesn't weep when some stupid movie character gets diagnosed with cancer, he watched hundreds of people die today – their friends and families wailing for them - and didn't once feel any pain.
Sometimes he knows he doesn't have a soul. That if there is a heaven then his mother and Veronica are there – maybe even Martha and the other two Heathers, but if he dies – if he even can die – he will leave existence forever with no divine judgement. That, if he wants to leave a mark on this planet, he must do it here and now.
It makes him strong, it makes him more powerful, makes him superior to all around him.
Sometimes it can be lonely.
But here she is, with him, beautiful, brave, trusting – even as he shows her the full extent of his power over the world – over her. He thinks about how victorious she looked having shot a bullet through her best friend's heart, about her sly smirk as they happily watched their enemies burn, about how he wants to live days like this with her over and over.
Their souls may be made of nothing but empty air, but they are the same.
They have a lot of work to do.
They can do it together.