Warm tears spilled from his eyes, past bruised lips that stung lightly at the water's touch, left salty sourness on the tip of his tongue. Eyes that reflected the world like steamed glass, blurry and distorted, shining a dull indigo as he seemed to stare out into nothing even as he met her pretty, pained gaze. His lips parted, lingered agape, trembling to utter the things he thought, then pursed in resignation. Brynn laughed—a soft, choked sound like a cough, lacking its humorous backing, incomplete like the sky without its blue or his world without the pouty kitten he'd gotten used to seeing in the mornings—and whispered something akin to "You're cruel, Cat."
His arms were cold as he pulled her closer, lined with tiny goosebumps and a pale, white, lack of colour as all the healthy pink undertone drained from his body the same way his mock happiness did. He hated her for the way he loved her, hated her for how she'd gotten to him in less than a week with her little smile and annoyingly stubborn sense of justice and the contrasting shyness that made her redder than a ripe tomato when he felt to tease. He wanted to throw away like she wanted, throw away all the memories she'd planted, and burn the feeling he'd missed that the kitten had given him—he needed to forget how it felt to be wanted. He hated loving her. Even if it was hardly developed, this so called love of his, and merely seeds of adoration and a need to protect the only thing that had been special to him in years of being alone, it was stil that dreaded heart pounding and stomach churning love thing
he despised. Yes, he hated her for it, making him love her. And he did, until she grasped his shirt and whispered more selfish things and stared at him with all her innocence and beauty and made him melt all over him.
She untangled him, reduced him to a little puppet that could only do her bidding and felt only for her. Cat was his kryptonite. She was the bane of his existence all while being his reason for bothering. And she'd done this right under his nose, when he had hardly suspected the free loader he'd adopted one evening would be anything but a pretty little toy when he was lonely. He loved her, he had to admit. He loved everything about her as much as he hated it all. He wanted to to hold her as much as he wanted to throw her in that lake and do as she had asked. Get rid of her once and for all, kill all the muddles feelings—his best bet, exactly what he needed to solve his problems. But she still stared up at him with those eyes, those doe eyes he couldn't deny.
He was tired of it all. Sick and tired. Exhausted, even, and he thought of rest as he downed the whole bottle beside him, his head light and breath thick with the scent of wine. She was light as a feather in his arms, so he held her with one, grabbed an extra shirt with the other and swaddled her like a newborn once they hit the cold, stinging air. Freezing temperatures bit at his bare chest like millions of needles shoved deep into his skin, and he welcomed the pain with the shadow of a smile that was merely weakly quirked lips. Branches crumbled under his heavy, determined steps, leaves crunched and birds flew far away at the sound and sight of him. The lake wasn't far, but it felt like hours until he finally saw its vast blue-green, but as he approached it, hours suddenly weren't enough.
And what would he do now? Kill her?
He brought her closer. Warm puffs of air pressed from her plump lips, ghosted his neck, gave him a slight feeling of happiness and serenity and warmth like a fire that lasted only a second, but lingered in his thoughts long enough to tempt his wavering resolve. Slowly, he drew his finger against her shivering face—her skin was feverishly warm, yet with a cold dampness as the humid air condensed on her red cheeks. Irrational urges and impulses coursed through him, coaxed him closer to her pretty lips agape as if inviting him to—
Throw her in. Her weight rolled off his arms easily, plopping into the cold water and rippling disturbingly out to jerk the peaceful flowers and leaves and petals that floated along the blue surface, bother the lake for a few seconds before it stilled and the world around him moved on without much of a care, if any at all.
“Ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｙｏｕｎｇｅｒ , ｔｈｅ ｓｋｙ
ｗａｓ ｃｌｏｓｅｒ. Ｓｏ ｍｕｃｈ ｃｌｏｓｅｒ.”