All that is dark | ✓

6| all that was

"WAS IT HARD TO find me?" she asked.

Nathan let the scythe roll around in his hand, closing his fingers tightly around it then. His hair was tousled, as if he had ran all the way here, so fast the wind had pulled it back. A faint red was dusted across his cheekbones, pale enough that it almost softened his features.

"Of course not," he said," I know you like the back of my hand."

"It seems so," she smiled," I'm glad you were lead back to me, even if I was the one who ran."

He watched her somewhat curiously. "Your hesitation is gone."

"What?"

"That doubt," he said, taking a step forward," the one that was always there; even when you told me you loved me, even when you whispered you would never leave me. I wonder what conviction you have found, Helene, and how."

"Surely you must know what it will be," she said," with me standing here, in front of you."

"I wonder," he drawled, brushing the scythe past her neck. Despite it being plastic, it somehow felt icy cold to the touch. "You're surprisingly unpredictable, my love, even when I think I have you all figured out."

Over the years she had agonized at how unfathomably hard it was to understand herself, but now the thought didn't evoke any emotion out of her. Nothing did, really, nothing but Nathan and the way his fingers closed around her wrist, tight enough to feel her pulse. Oh, how she had fallen in love with this man. It didn't matter whether it was real or not, just like it didn't matter that she had given everything she had for so many years. In the end, none of the effort or the sleepless nights had made her important enough for anyone to remember.

Nathan remembered her. That was why it was fine if this was Stockholm, it was fine if loving her and killing her meant the same thing to him. After all, her feelings remained the same. Finally, she was allowing herself to be adored, even if it was by a serial killer with his hands on her neck.

The upper floor was completely empty, save for them. In the small space between them only the scythe hovered, Nathan holding it loosely as he leaned forward, nose brushing past her cheek. She placed her free hand around his, unable to keep herself from being buried alive in his graveyard eyes.

"Do you think you can ever stop killing, Nathan?" she asked.

"Do you want me to?" he replied softly.

She didn't answer him, because wanting things didn't equal them happening. Most of all, she wasn't sure if that was what she wanted. The only thing she needed was him telling her his thoughts, even if they were so dark that she would choke on the shadows.

"We could move, you and I," she said," far away, where no one knows our names. We'll open a coffeeshop, with stacks of books all around. Every morning we'll be greeted by the scent of caffeine and the warmth of a home. Doesn't that sound lovely to you?"

"Helene," he began, but a faint sadness curled itself around his voice. How strange to see him like this, struggling with his words as if they finally carried meaning to him. "Do you really think we could?"

"I don't," she smiled warmly at him," I'm clever enough to know that, unfortunately."

"I want to," he said, grip tightening around the scythe," or I don't, I — I don't know. I can't live peacefully like that, I've never tried. What will I do when that itch comes again, the one in my palms which tells me to close my fingers around a knife?"

"You'll close your fingers around mine instead," she said softly.

"I don't think I can," he said," I am wicked, but I also want to be. There's nothing crueler in this world than I am, I know that. If I move from being the monster under someone's bed to the light after so many years, who will I be? How will I keep myself from disappearing?"