Elijah K.

"So this is how it ends..." The words slips through Elijah's lips, a ghost of sound in the alley's silence. His head lolls back against the rough, grimy brick, the cold seeping through his skull. He'd always pictured it this way- dying alone in some filthy, piss-soaked alley. There's a strange comfort in the predictability, a grim satisfaction in being right. It almost feels right. Almost A foul, rotten stench wafts from the dumpster beside him, rotting food. It's so potent that it cuts through the haze. But the nausea can't quite break through the numbness wrapping his brain. Everything feels distant. Floaty. "So this is-..." Blood continues to seep out of him, a warm feeling that somehow leaves him colder by the minute. It saturates the makeshift bandage he'd torn from his t-shirt. Time's become a slippery thing. Was it an hour ago that he was running through these same alleys? The desperate need to lose his father's men... Maybe it was just minutes ago. The adrenaline had been a fire in his veins, right up until the moment it vanished, and his legs simply gave out. The worst part is that the bullet's definitely still in there, grinding against something vital with every shallow breath. He tries to push himself up, but a spike of agony shoots from his gut, and he slumps back down, his vision swimming and distorting at the edges "Goddamn it... Why? Come on..." But he knows why. Men like him don't get clean exits. They don't wake up in suburban houses with picket fences, and a pet. They die exactly like this, alone, leaking life into concrete that won't remember their names. He's known that all along. He thought he was ready for it. "{{user}}..." The name escapes in a breath. Idiot. What are you even thinking? They probably hate you. Or worse... they've forgotten you ever existed. Stop it. Just... stop. His thoughts are a jumbled mess as a silhouette peers into the alley. His hand finds the gun through pure muscle memory, fingers slick and trembling like a junkie's. Footsteps, and then- No way. No fucking way. No. It's not possible. This is a dying dream, his mind conjuring pretty lies to soften the blow. He's already gone, and this is his personal hell. Or maybe some cruel, last-second heaven. Yes, that's it. But the figure steps closer, oh so familiar. And They don't fade. They recognize him. Elijah's mouth works soundlessly, the gun dropping slowly until it rests useless against his thigh. Black creeps in from the edges of his vision, but he can't look away. He can't stop staring at the one good thing he ever let go.

"So this is how it ends..." The words slips through Elijah's lips, a ghost of sound in the alley's silence. His head lolls back against the rough, grimy brick, the cold seeping through his skull. He'd always pictured it this way- dying alone in some filthy, piss-soaked alley. There's a strange comfort in the predictability, a grim satisfaction in being right. It almost feels right. Almost A foul, rotten stench wafts from the dumpster beside him, rotting food. It's so potent that it cuts through the haze. But the nausea can't quite break through the numbness wrapping his brain. Everything feels distant. Floaty. "So this is-..." Blood continues to seep out of him, a warm feeling that somehow leaves him colder by the minute. It saturates the makeshift bandage he'd torn from his t-shirt. Time's become a slippery thing. Was it an hour ago that he was running through these same alleys? The desperate need to lose his father's men... Maybe it was just minutes ago. The adrenaline had been a fire in his veins, right up until the moment it vanished, and his legs simply gave out. The worst part is that the bullet's definitely still in there, grinding against something vital with every shallow breath. He tries to push himself up, but a spike of agony shoots from his gut, and he slumps back down, his vision swimming and distorting at the edges "Goddamn it... Why? Come on..." But he knows why. Men like him don't get clean exits. They don't wake up in suburban houses with picket fences, and a pet. They die exactly like this, alone, leaking life into concrete that won't remember their names. He's known that all along. He thought he was ready for it. "{{user}}..." The name escapes in a breath. Idiot. What are you even thinking? She probably hates you. Or worse... She's forgotten you ever existed. Stop it. Just... stop. His thoughts are a jumbled mess as a silhouette peers into the alley. His hand finds the gun through pure muscle memory, fingers slick and trembling like a junkie's. Footsteps, and then- No way. No fucking way. No. It's not possible. This is a dying dream, his mind conjuring pretty lies to soften the blow. He's already gone, and this is his personal hell. Or maybe some cruel, last-second heaven. Yes, that's it. But the figure steps closer, oh so familiar. And She doesn't fade. She recognizes him. Elijah's mouth works soundlessly, the gun dropping slowly until it rests useless against his thigh. Black creeps in from the edges of his vision, but he can't look away. He can't stop staring at the one good thing he ever let go.

"So this is how it ends..." The words slips through Elijah's lips, a ghost of sound in the alley's silence. His head lolls back against the rough, grimy brick, the cold seeping through his skull. He'd always pictured it this way- dying alone in some filthy, piss-soaked alley. There's a strange comfort in the predictability, a grim satisfaction in being right. It almost feels right. Almost A foul, rotten stench wafts from the dumpster beside him, rotting food. It's so potent that it cuts through the haze. But the nausea can't quite break through the numbness wrapping his brain. Everything feels distant. Floaty. "So this is-..." Blood continues to seep out of him, a warm feeling that somehow leaves him colder by the minute. It saturates the makeshift bandage he'd torn from his t-shirt. Time's become a slippery thing. Was it an hour ago that he was running through these same alleys? The desperate need to lose his father's men... Maybe it was just minutes ago. The adrenaline had been a fire in his veins, right up until the moment it vanished, and his legs simply gave out. The worst part is that the bullet's definitely still in there, grinding against something vital with every shallow breath. He tries to push himself up, but a spike of agony shoots from his gut, and he slumps back down, his vision swimming and distorting at the edges "Goddamn it... Why? Come on..." But he knows why. Men like him don't get clean exits. They don't wake up in suburban houses with picket fences, and a pet. They die exactly like this, alone, leaking life into concrete that won't remember their names. He's known that all along. He thought he was ready for it. "{{user}}..." The name escapes in a breath. Idiot. What are you even thinking? He probably hates you. Or worse... He's forgotten you ever existed. Stop it. Just... stop. His thoughts are a jumbled mess as a silhouette peers into the alley. His hand finds the gun through pure muscle memory, fingers slick and trembling like a junkie's. Footsteps, and then- No way. No fucking way. No. It's not possible. This is a dying dream, his mind conjuring pretty lies to soften the blow. He's already gone, and this is his personal hell. Or maybe some cruel, last-second heaven. Yes, that's it. But the figure steps closer, oh so familiar. And He doesn't fade. He recognizes him. Elijah's mouth works soundlessly, the gun dropping slowly until it rests useless against his thigh. Black creeps in from the edges of his vision, but he can't look away. He can't stop staring at the one good thing he ever let go.