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A City it is Said that Borders with the Land of Dead

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“Please go back to bowels of black, from silent shores to me once more, through veils and gates and seas of slate, to blood wet moors where I await ashore”

Priscilla was hugging him and he was hugging her back as best as he could. He wished that she had ran while she had had the chance, that he could have forced her to run, but he couldn’t and it was too late now anyways. The police were here and they wouldn’t let her go.

She was too bright a spark to be extinguished so soon. His only consolation in all this was that he would finally die after so many years. He would finally be dead. But not Priscilla. She didn’t deserve to die. In that moment, he felt remorse for allowing her to see that he wanted to die. He should have just found a way to kill himself. But there was no time for second thoughts or regret. They had come, and they both would die. He heard the gunshot before he saw the engraved bullet lodge in her skull and felt the pressure of her body slip.

And now… they would kill him. At least he would meet Priscilla again in that far away dim remembrance of Elysium. Another gunshot, the force knocking him to the ground. Wait, what were they doing? Were they… leaving? No! No! Come back! Please! He wasn’t dead! Couldn’t they see he wasn’t dead? He heard the door shut from where he was, laying there staring at Priscilla’s face, the bullet wound still bleeding. Please. Come back. Just kill me.

He would have chuckled bitterly if he had had a mouth to do so with. Of course he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t ever stay dead could he? No one would kill him. Would he ever die? Would he just be forced to keep living? Why not? After all, they did do it for over a century. Why not? If he had had tear ducts, he would have broken into miserable sobbing, but as it was, he was forced to keep staring at the already congealing blood all over Priscilla and the floor, some of it staining his body.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, had used all his energy to stop her from calling the police just to help him, but had failed. She had killed herself for him because she couldn’t bear to live without him, and now everything was all wrong. She should be the one alive, with a long and hopeful life stretching out ahead, not dead because of him, dead so he could die, and he wasn’t even dead. Thanks to those incompetent soldiers, both his last hope of death, and the thing that made not being dead more bearable were gone.