“I always knew I would take a bullet for you,” I say as pain ebbs through my chest. She crouches beside me, clutching at my shirt. Sobs echo from her as my lids grow heavy from the weight. “And I always knew you wouldn’t take one for me,” I whisper as I shut my eyes.
It’s simple, really.
I’ve always been gullible, quick to give my heart out and slow to take it back.
And I have bad judgment.
Terrible.
Either that or bad things find me anywhere.
I can’t… I can’t cut them off, even when I know that they’re harmful to me, that simply carrying on with the relationship will destroy me.
My sister always said it’d kill me eventually.
She was right.
–
I thought that I was getting better.
Better at making choices, better at reading people and seeing past the illusions.
From a scale from one to electing-Donald-Trump-as-president, I’d say I was probably closer to the electing-Donald-Trump-as-president’s end of the spectrum when making judgment calls on who to trust.
Being centuries old didn’t mean I had wisdom.
I was just old.
And tired.
I hoped too much, was too gullible.
When I had met her, I’d been wary, perhaps the beginnings of me starting to shape up and learn from my past mistakes.
Beginnings weren’t enough.
–
Two months later, when I finally saw her flaws, it was too late.
While somewhat genuine, the secrets she hid were deadly.
My sister couldn’t pull me out of the mess this time.
“Run,” she had warned me. “Run, while you can. I know you’ll die for her, but will she die for you?”
I never answer her that night.
–
I don’t run.
I stay, knowing that deep in my heart, she doesn’t care for me as much I as care for her.
She pretends as if everything is fine, as if there isn’t shadows creeping into our lives everyday.
It’s only a matter of time.
–
I’ve been lucky, that each time I’ve messed up, I’ve managed to come out of it alive.
My sister has compared me to a cat before, and it’s somewhat fitting because I have survived nine incidents where I should’ve died
But cats only have nine lives.
–
The attacks aren’t a surprise.
I’m prepared, and fight well and there’s a slight glimmer of hope, me being the optimist I am, that we’ll both make it out alive.
I’m prepared, but she’s not.
The barrel of a gun glints from the corner of my eye and I leap before thinking, taking the bullet.
Pain, pain, pain.
It’s not enough to render me useless, but it’s enough to break my easy rhythm, allowing them to regroup.
She screams, the high sound piercing the air, doing little to help.
My sister is on her way but she’s not fast enough.
I struggle desperately and I manage to hold out until my sister arrives.
She dispatches the remaining ones with ease, scoffing lightly when I check her over for injuries.
“I’m fine,” she mutters. “Now, talk to her.”
I’m torn.
I am aware that I won’t be lucky enough to survive another attacks like this.
“Hey,” she greets me nervously. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth and shut it.
“No,” I admit after a moment of hesitation. “I don’t think-”
Her eyes widen and she steps back, her hands flying to her mouth.
A loud bang.
A scream of horror and anger from my sister.
I fall to the ground, knowing she watched the gun rise and aim at me, knowing she let the bullet hit me.
“I always knew I would take a bullet for you,” I say as pain ebbs through my chest. She crouches beside me, clutching at my shirt. Sobs echo from her as my lids grow heavy from the weight. “And I always knew you wouldn’t take one for me,” I whisper as I shut my eyes.
fadeslikewhispers 