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CHAPTER ELEVEN / VOL. I, THERE IS NO MOVING ON
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DEPRAVITY MUST BE HEREDITARY. Wickedness winds it's way into every strand of DNA and vitriol runs through the bloodstream until all that you are is unbridled rage and gore that cannot fathom the gentleness of a notion like mercy. Will has always known that pulsating spleen finds a home in her. She has known since the day black blood spilled down her face, coating her lashes and pooling around her cornea—since she first felt that bitter tug at her heartstrings and thought that taking Luke's awaiting hand would satisfy the monster in her. She sent him away that day and didn't tell a soul about how they spoke in the shadows, how she almost told him yes, and how right the word would sound leaving her trembling lips.
That memory lives in her bones, splintering each time she pictures the look on his face—the one that looks most like disappointment. Though it wasn't the first time someone had looked at her like this, it was the only time that mattered. She had almost stretched out her meager hand and gripped his like a lifeline, a final act of desperation as if broken bones and lost causes would be worth it all.
Will knows how rage consumes you and leaves boneyards in its wake. She's seen it often enough to know when the slow dance of decay has begun. One sliver of humanity at a time before it devours you. Will can see the look in his eyes—the muddled guilt, and satisfaction, and fear. Leo keeps looking back over his shoulder towards the dwindling haze of smoke and muted light. Even when the smoking building is far behind them, he still glances back every minute, half expecting to see burning bodies chasing after him. He must be thinking the same thing that Will is—how your ghosts will follow you to the grave.
"Leo," Piper says, placing a gentle hand on his bony shoulder. "You feeling okay?"
He tenses at the contact before easing into her touch and allowing his shoulders to slump as he lets out a sheepish chuckle. He's still trying to remember that he's deserving of comfort, despite how his hands smolder and how the good in him has slowly started to wither. "Yeah... not bad for a brainwashed zombie. Thanks for saving us back there, Beauty Queen. If you hadn't talked me out of that spell—"
