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They should’ve gone to Paris.
The thought runs through Elizabeth’s head a million times a day, never leaving. She would look for him instinctively, her eyes scanning her surroundings for the familiar pinstriped pants and green eyes. But she could never, would never find him. Booker was gone, she had made sure of that.
But was it worth it? Was any of the suffering they both went through even worth it? The answer was bitter in Elizabeth’s mouth. No, it wasn’t worth it. She had thought that killing him would right everything in every universe but it didn’t happen here, not with her. The regret is hot in her stomach or is that guilt? She can’t tell the difference anymore.
Elizabeth could pretend all was well, go back into her fantasy world of Paris but still she would be looking for Booker, whether she knew it or not, her subconscious altering her chosen reality. He would appear to her in drawings sometimes, she would pass an artist sketching away only to find Booker’s face on the paper. Sometimes when the wind blew she could smell the familiar scent of gunpowder, whiskey, and something that was distinctively Booker. It made her heart twist.
For so many years Elizabeth had dreamed of Paris, and now she was here. Yet the pain remained. A pit in her stomach to never be filled. All she wanted was Booker. All she needed was Booker.
He had given his life, willing, for her. Time and time again. His vow towards her fulfilled, as well as he could’ve done it. Only instead of fixing her, it left Elizabeth damaged beyond repair. She thought she was getting revenge, justice. But all she got was tribulation, the silence without Booker agony.
They should’ve gone to Paris.