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For a couple of months we forgot that Warner was scary. He smiled like four and a half times and we decided to forget that he was basically a psychopath with a long history of ruthless murder.
“What happened to you, man?” I whisper. “Where’d you go?” “Hell,” he says. “I’ve finally found hell.”
His lips are at my ear whispering, whispering Come back to life, love I’ll be here when you wake up
That’s all I ever was, I realize. A spare part kept in captivity. A backup weapon in the case that all else failed. Shatter me. Break glass in case of emergency.
“What reason would you have to be afraid of Warner? He’s such a nice guy. Loves children. Big talker. Oh, and bonus: He no longer murders people professionally. No, now murdering people is just a fulfilling hobby.”
“All right, beauty queen, food’s ready.”
I imagine love, I imagine wind, I imagine gold hair and green eyes and whispers, laughter I imagine Me
“Your thoughts are very loud,” Warner says, still staring out the window. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say, feigning shock. “I’d turn the volume down, but I’d have to die in order for my brain to stop working.”
Juliette Ferrars, one of the most feared, most lauded heroes of our known world, is crying over a dog. Perhaps no one else would understand, but I know that this is the first time she’s ever held one. Without hesitation, without fear, without danger of causing an innocent creature any harm. For her, this is true joy. To the world, she is formidable.
To me? She is the world.
