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Tommy really thought that killing someone would have been more of a challenge.
He hadn't actually meant to kill her. Well, that was a lie. He hadn't wanted to kill her, yes, that was a much more accurate way to put it. He hadn't wanted to kill her. He’d still meant to.
Tommy had never wanted to kill anyone. He had to, of course, it was necessary for his own survival. For the survival of both of them, really. He’d needed to do it. He hadn’t wanted to, that was something he’d swear, but he’d needed to. He'd never wanted to hurt anyone. He wasn't violent by nature, and he made sure it was as painless as possible. For both of them.
But, even despite all his precautions and reservations, he was still surprised at just how easy it was to actually do it. To actually kill her, to dispose of her, to slip so graciously into the space she'd once occupied, to steal her skin and voice and- and not her name. And anything, everything , bar from her name. At least for the time being.
So yeah, in conclusion, Tommy really expected that killing her would be much more challenging.
There was less blood than he'd imagined, for a start. Sure, there was still some. Quite a bit, actually, if he thought about it. But that made sense. The blood wasn’t usually avoidable, after all. It dripped from his wrists and shoulders, from his thighs and chest, but there was much less of it than he'd expected would come from murder. Killing her was also much quieter than one might expect. She hadn't screamed, hadn't fought, hadn't resisted in any capacity at all as he killed her.
In fact, all things considered, she went rather calmly to her death. When they finally got there, he was both relieved and shocked to see that she'd already dug her own grave. Evidently, she'd been expecting him. She even stepped into it herself. They conversed, for a while, and in the end he was truly sad to see her go. But she had to. They ended on good terms. Or at least, as good of terms as they possibly could, taking the situation into account. She handed him her face, handed him her memories and skin and scars, handed him her life, before smiling one last time. In the end, he’d like to think that she was happy.
The hardest part, at least for Tommy, was returning to the family afterwards. They didn't notice, of course, not really. He was good at his job, after all, so all he got were a few surprised frowns and exclamations of how much he'd changed. He would've laughed at the irony if it weren't so painful to hear her name accompany every single one.
They were happy. Truly, inarguably, happy. As happy as they always had been.
It disgusted him. His skin crawled at their ignorance, at the fact that he could sit there in their midst, able to tear their world apart in a moment, able to crush everything they’d ever known with just a few simple sentences, and that they'd no doubt tell him that it wasn't possible. That he couldn't have killed her, that he had always been their little girl.
And, in a twisted way, they weren't wrong. He'd always been there. Always been watching, trying to force his way into the light, trying to make her -- them -- see the truth. But it would've always come to this in the end, he realised now. It was either this or staying in the shadows. And that would’ve killed them both.
The guilt pressed down on his chest. Of course, it wasn't the only thing that pressed down there, and he kept his arms folded around his torso in an attempt to keep the infinite guilt from spilling out of him. He hunched his shoulders, fingernails digging into his palms. He donned oversized hoodies to hide not only how much he'd changed, but also the scratches she'd left all down his arms.
By the end of it, he thought he'd done a pretty good job. They hadn't found out.
In the end, it was Tommy's own sensitivity that brought it all crashing down. They all called him her name -- of course they did, they had no reason not to --, and every time they did seemed to cut into him like a knife. Soon enough, he could no longer conceal the deep marks the words left across his shoulders and legs. Peculiar places, he knew, but he'd learned from her to avoid the wrists at all costs.
She lingered over his shoulder as he sat them down, watching her family as they mourned. ' You have no need to, ' she would call, one hand pressed gently against his back and the other waving around. ' You have no need to mourn, I am right here. We are right here. '
They couldn't hear her. They couldn't hear him, either when he said the same. All they heard was the voice of their daughter’s -- sister’s, niece’s, granddaughter’s, -- murderer. 'I'm right here!' she called, and Tommy echoed her cries. ' I'm right here! Don't cry for me, I'm sitting before you now. I am changed, but I am here. '
They didn't listen, not really. Tommy could see the look of mournful regret in their eyes as they looked into his own. The look that seemed to cry ' come back to us ', ' where did we go wrong? ', and ' you took her away ', all at once. The look that Tommy knew meant would never truly see him. Just a corpse wearing their daughter’s face.
They did change, after that. He would've applauded them. They used his name, watched without objection as he revealed himself to them piece by piece. But he could tell. He could tell how forced it was, each time they spoke to him. The effort it took their tongues to form his simple, two-syllable name. The creeping disgust on their faces when they saw how he'd changed. The distant glaze across their eyes whenever they looked at him, lost in memories of their little girl. Their little girl who never really was, who's never coming back, who they'll never know when they lost.
He sympathised with them, truly, he did. It couldn't be easy, looking your child's murderer in the eyes. It couldn't be easy, thinking someone you love is dead.
But his sympathies only stretched so far. After all, however hard it was to look at the person you believe killed your child, or thinking someone you love so much is dead, he would argue that his part was so much harder. To know your family, the very people who should love you unconditionally, see you as nothing but a killer, a subpar replacement of their own. To attend the funeral of someone you know is alive and well, just changed. To stand off at the side, abandoned and alone, as your family sobs and mourns your own life.
Sobs and mourns while the person they believe to be dead finally feels alive.