Work Text:
I spend hours looking in the mirror. It’s not vanity. It’s practice. I imagine how it will feel to kill someone who has these eyes.
“That face is yours, not hers,” Brooks scolds as I glare at myself in the murk of our hideaway’s bathroom. “You’re one person. She’s another.”
Brooks is right, but I continue.
Shepard is 32 years old. I am 6 months old. I have all of childhood’s fear but none of childhood’s innocence, so I take comfort in the one thing I know that Shepard doesn’t: the face that will be the last thing she sees.