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Amy’s head is resting on Alex’s shoulder, breathing softly through her nose. With the way her head is angled, strands of her hair spill over.
(She looks so peaceful)
Now was his chance. Now or never.
Carefully pushing hair out of Amy’s face, his hands rest on Amy’s neck, they flatten out against her throat, fingers curling around her necks slowly as she exhales, softly through her nose, cold hitting the backs of his hands, he feels the rise and fall underneath his hands. The silent fragility of a human breathing, of how she trusts him with her life, with her heart, like how dogs when they trust sleep not curled up, exposing their organs because they feel safe.
It feels disgusting to take advantage of that
He can’t.
Alex’s hands withdrew, his eyes slamming shut as Amy stirs; beginning to lean in more into Alex as she sleeps, her hand resting against Alex’s chest, palm facing his shirt, fingers curling around the shirt, pulling Alex closer.
He needs to do something else, his bare hands can’t do that. Craning his neck to the clock it’s 11:59 PM, it’s late. Alex snakes his arm around Amy’s waist, his other arm collects her legs, underneath her knees to support her weight.
Alex approaches the bedroom and pushes the door open, it creaks in response. He shuts it behind him and lays Amy on her side of the bed. The curtains are open because Amy always opens them to let rays of light in the morning if it isn’t too bright. (She and Alex had sensitive eyes.)
Alex pulls the covers over Amy, tucking them snugly around her. He slides the blinds shut as well as the curtains. Sitting on the edge of the bed on his side, the mattress dips beneath the added weight.
Peering over at Amy’s face, a peaceful expression is painted on it. Alex leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
What was he supposed to do now? He could go along the same lines… he wasn’t going to strangle her… asphyxiation. He could hold a pillow to her face and she’d be none the wiser.
That settles it.
Alex reaches forward for the pillow lying on his side of the bed, his fingers dig into the soft fabric. He scoots closer to Amy who remains asleep, deep breath in, deep breaths out.
Leaning over Amy’s sleeping form, Alex’s fingers dig into the soft exterior of the pillow, it hovers above her face as he stares, drinking in her serene expression. This is the way he wants to remember her. Not what he was gonna do or how she may react if she knew.
Before Alex can back out the pillow is pressed against Amy’s face, he holds it still as he adds weight onto it, arms trembling at the actions.
He can’t.
Alex’s hands tremble as he wrenches the pillow away, revealing Amy’s undisturbed face. Was she in such a deep sleep it didn’t wake her? Or was his attempt merely weak? He couldn’t afford that outcome when he did go all in. He Couldn’t risk Amy waking up in panic, the fear being of him and consuming her. he wouldn’t be able to finish the job and he couldn’t live with himself making Amy live with the fact he’d tried to harm her alongside the fact she was infected. She was sick and it was all his fault.
He needed something more certain, more potent.
There were knives in the kitchen. If he drove it into her heart directly, she wouldn’t feel anything and it would be quick. She was still asleep, and Alex allowed the pillow to fall to his lap for a moment. He reached out, carding messy strands of that golden-like hair, casting a halo around her head.
Alex places his pillow back onto the spot with the other matching pillows, he exits the bedroom swiftly and finds himself in the kitchen; his stomach flipping as he opens the drawer where all the knives are stored. He busies himself with selecting a knife rather than letting his thoughts run astray. He picks up the sharpest looking one and shuts the drawer. Slipping back into the bedroom, he slides into the bed next to Amy.
“. . . I’m so sorry,” Alex manages to choke out, it’s in a raspy whisper and he knows Amy can’t hear him even if he wanted her to, and did he really want her to hear that? Ask why he was apologizing and assure him that it was okay, that it was okay despite what he was about to do. (She’d only assure him because she doesn’t know or understand. It’s of no fault of her own.)
He wasn’t okay, none of this was okay.
Alex shifts over to Amy, raising the knife past his shoulder. His palms are clammy as his fingers tighten around the handle. He needs to gain momentum, the more momentum he has the more it would increase his chances of doing it successfully; ending it fast.
Alex’s eyes screw shut tightly, refusing to open them. The knife is driven down with sheer force, his huffs of air punctuated by the sound of skin being punctured, and something… wet.
A soft groan in response.
Oh God.
Amy’s eyes flutter open blearily as she blinks a few times in an attempt to clear her vision. Alex looms over her, there’s something warm and wet on her chest. Hot, piercing pain explodes within her chest.
“Alex…?”
He bites down on his tongue, drawing blood as the metallic taste fills his mouth; assaulting his senses. His palms are slick with sweat, slick with her blood, seeping into the creases of his hands, he grips the knife tightly. “Sssh,”
Amy breathes raggedly, it’s labored, her eyes focus in on the patch darkening into the fabric of her shirt. Is that blood? “. . . Alex, what are you doing?” She forces out as her throat constricts, only the air she already had is in there, it chokes her.
“It’s okay,” Alex croaks, throat tight. He leans over Amy again and the steady rise and fall of her chest is no longer steady as if she is hiccuping. The lump in his throat is tight. “You’re safe now, it’s going to all be okay now.” He can’t breathe, he can’t think.
If she breathes, he breathes.
“I’m doing this for you,” Alex’s voice is gentle, lowering as he speaks. He’s attempting to be soothing but it’s only making it worse. Amy’s eyes are beginning to burn the blood staining into her shirt, the ache welling down beneath her skin from what she believes is a stab wound.
Amy’s hands reach up instinctively, pressing against Alex’s firm chest in an attempt to push him away. “What did you do?” she rasps out.
Alex doesn’t budge no matter the attempts. His arms come around her, encasing her despite the warmth leaking from her. She catches the glint of the knife as her head knocks against his chest.
He brings the knife upwards again and Amy’s hands immediately come up to block it, a nasty slice to the hand and she winces, the sound coming out as low hiss of pain.
“Please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” Alex pushes Amy’s hands to the side. His knife raises again and it plunges towards the intended destination, and that’s when Amy attempts to heave herself from Alex’s grasp. She manages to get upright before she’s pushed down again. The knife comes down again and again.
Amy’s movements are restricted by the weight above her. Her hand latches onto one of Alex’s wrists, the one holding the knife above her as her nails dig into the skin. She tightens her grip and her knee comes up rapidly to put space between them as her other hand attempts to wrestle the knife from Alex’s grasp; straining to do so as red bubbles from the slice causes her grasp to be slick. The knife slips onto her chest briefly, but Alex grabs it faster than she can muster strength to do so.
It’s seeping into Alex’s jeans now, the dark shade of crimson so apparent against the light beige of the wall, the blue of the sheets, of her shirt.
Amy’s knee slams into Alex’s stomach again, and again, her breath catches in her throat when she hears Alex huffing in response to the repeated contact. As she’s pulled off of the mattress. her hands fly out in front of her desperately pushing, her legs moving in tandem to attempt to scramble away her back is to the the mattress, her knees come upwards, palms flattening against the mattress; trying to push herself farther before she gets up.
Every inch, every breath, the ache deepens. Her head is spinning and her eyes are swimming with tears. Her nails dig into the sheets. Amy’s eyes dart everywhere, examining to see if she can find an open space to get out. She’ll drag herself, hands and knees if she has to.
Each rapid intake of short gulps of air is excruciating. Amy’s hand presses against the wound, the growing patch of blood seeping through her shirt. Her hand trembles as it stains red. Her knees scramble to push her body upright, something coils around her ankle, keeping her anchored in place. She kicks and kicks to no avail because she’s back in Alex’s arms, Arms that held her with such care, hands that reverently touched her face with awe.
He needs to finish the job because she’s suffering, he can’t bring himself to do it though with the way she’s staring at him with those big brown, watering eyes. Her pupils dilate as she stares upwards. It’s selfish to draw out her suffering but he can’t do anymore to her. It’s for the best, it’s better than watching that thing rot her from the inside out. And he’s here with her, right? That counts for something. He’s Here with her and that’s all that matters, he gets a little longer with her and that’s all that matters.
He’s allowed to hurt over this too, right? He wouldn’t be doing this if he was selfish, because he couldn’t bring himself to do what he must. What if he hurts her more trying to finish her off?
Alex stares downwards at Amy through a mottle of his own tears, his hand running through her hair. She stiffens beneath his touch, lips drawn tightly together and her head knocks against his chest.
He takes her face in his hands, thumbs stroking Amy’s face. Such soft skin, red spreads across her cheek and he attempts to brush the smudge away, only painting it deeper into her skin. He leans forehead pressing his forehead against hers, his throat tight. “I love you.”
Amy’s breathing is beginning to slow, she’s struggling to keep her eyes open. Alex’s eyes shut as well this time, brimming with tears and such burning heat that only eases when it trickles down his face, dampening the drying stain that dyed Amy’s once fair skin red, dancing as it mingles down her face.
Alex swallows, carding his fingers through Amy’s hair, carefully separating strands. She doesn’t argue or protest. She doesn’t keen into his touch either. He doesn’t think she would but regardless, she can’t do that anyways.
Not anymore, that is.
Alex’s arms tighten around Amy, cradling her head. It’s better to see this, do this, than see everything that made Amy, Well, Amy, fade away.
He’d done the right thing, despite the ache in his chest that tells him otherwise.