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There was blood. So much blood.
It covered her hands, from trying to stop the bleeding. It covered her cheek, from putting her head in her hands to let out an animalistic scream of regret. It soaked through her shirt from holding on too tight, as if that alone would bring Guqqie back.
And it was red, Aimsey realized between shaky gasps for breath, staring down at her wet, bloodied hands, covered in blood she wished was her own instead.
What had faun expected, anyway? For it to be purple? Something inhuman? Some sort of indication that she had killed an alien rather than a person, some detail to fixate on in order to distance herself from the truth: that faun had murdered her spouse in cold blood?
No. There was no compartmentalizing this. There were no excuses to be made.
Aimsey was shaking, tears blurring her vision as the sky became darker and darker, and, for a moment, Aimsey could pretend that Guqqie was only sleeping. Aimsey smiled slightly despite herself. She always looked so peaceful when she slept.
Sniffling, Aimsey went to wipe their eyes, only to smear blood across her face. And the illusion was broken.
“I’m s—” sun hiccuped, “—so s-sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, starshine. What have I done? I’m s-so…” Aimsey broke off, gagging suddenly at the taste of blood in her mouth.
He let go of Guqqie for a moment, feeling as if she was going to be sick.
Instead, he dry heaved, chest spasming and struggling for breath.
Exhausted, Aimsey collapsed on the grass next to the body of her wife — God, was he a widow now? — and allowed themself to close their eyes for a moment, before the thought of Guqqie lying dead beside bloom made her too nauseous to stomach.
Shakily, Aimsey stood with a newfound resolve.
“I’ll bury you tomorrow, my love,” she whispered, and began to gather rocks and flowers to turn into a makeshift tomb. For the final touch, bloom caringly placed a few soul lanterns, knowing what they meant to Guqqie.
“I’ll bury you tomorrow,” faun repeated, and hobbled back to their — now only his — cabin to try and wash up.
It took ages to scrub off a majority of the blood, and even then, some of it was too stubborn, too crusted and stained. Aimsey was marked, branded, and a part of her knew that even when it all finally washed away they would still feel it, like a phantom limb.
It was difficult to look at herself in the mirror.
It was easier, instead, to pretend the bloodied body in their reflection wasn’t them, but someone else. Someone who needed cleaning up. Someone who needed taking care of. That was something he could do. Something he was good at.
(But was she, really? When it came down to it? Guqqie had been honest with them and he’d driven a knife through her chest).
Yes. Taking care of people was something Aimsey could do.
With shaking hands, she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed the blood — blood she convinced herself was a stranger’s — off of a body — a body sun convinced herself was a stranger’s — and avoided her reflection as much as possible.
Sleep should have been hard, but it came easy. As soon as Aimsey tumbled into the bed, a bed so clearly made for two, he was out almost instantly.
(It turned out that murdering the love of your life on a whim was an exhausting thing).
The butcher was haunted by nightmares, of course, but that was to be expected.
The nightmares weren’t any worse than reality.
In the morning, Aimsey woke feeling like the dead — which was much too ironic for comfort.
It was difficult to drag themself out of bed. The empty space beside him seemed to stretch on for miles, her hand instinctively reaching out in the night to hold on to someone who wasn’t there anymore. (Who never would be again. Because of him).
But Aimsey had a job to do.
Faun was nothing if not noble — or she used to be, and wanted to be — and bloom owed it to Guqqie to honor them properly. He owed them that much.
It wouldn’t change anything. She knew that. But it was something.
Today, Aimsey was going to dig a grave and bury a body and fight every instinct he had to bury herself beside it.
The walk to the flower field gave Aimsey time to think.
He’d gathered the necessary materials, even went as far as to bring a bucket of water and a cloth and a freshly cleaned outfit so that the corpse Guqqie would be nice and clean in death. (She always looked so peaceful when she slept).
It was likely an Earthly tradition, Aimsey knew, to clean and clothe and prepare the body before a burial, to try and represent them in death as they were in life, but he thought that Guqqie would appreciate that.
Aimsey swallowed a lump in her throat.
It had been different from how Beep had described. Guqqie had been different.
Her reason for hiding her identity hadn’t been manipulation — they had been scared, and rightly so. Guqqie had stood with her back to Aimsey and allowed herself to be dangerously vulnerable, and Aimsey had killed her. And as she died, she bled red.
There was no satisfaction. No feeling of righteousness, of a world protected and a job well-done. Only grief. Only regret. Only the realization that, while they may have been an alien, in the end, Guqqie was more human than Aimsey had ever been.
Aimsey wiped away the tears that blurred her vision. There was no time for crying. He had a job to do.
The sight of tulips and daisies, fresh and unbloodied, made them nauseous.
“Come on,” faun urged himself. “You have a job to do.”
With a deep, steadying breath, Aimsey trudged on, dread pooling in her stomach.
The afternoon sun was settled comfortably atop the sky, which was clear and blue and all too pretty and unaffected by the events that had taken place only a day before. It should rain, or something, shouldn’t it? faun thought, but was also thankful that it wasn’t. Preparing and burying the body would be much more difficult if it was raining, after all.
As Aimsey neared the spot where they had left Guqqie only hours before, she froze. There, where the body should be, nestled in a bed of flowers and cradled by soul lanterns, was an empty spot, an imprint of a body no longer there.
(Later, Aimsey would find them, back in the cabin, puttering about in the lab. She would enter the room and stare, like a deer in the headlights, before collapsing into sobs at Guqqie’s feet in supplication.
And he wouldn’t notice it yet, not immediately, but Guqqie would be different. Colder.
“How are you here?” faun would ask, over and over, and Guqqie would only smile — something unnatural and foreign-looking on her face — and say that she’d done it.
And when they asked Aimsey to help them with an experiment, rather than yelling and screaming and crying and cursing him for what he’d done, how could bloom say no? What could the lamb do other than walk willingly toward the altar?)