“No,” she said, her eyes glistening. “No. You’re not sorry. You’re just scared.”

She leans back in her chair, her eyes falling onto the blade of the black tomahawk in her hands. She turns to look at the rope anchored with tight knots on the large rusty hook in the wood pillar next to her holding him up via simple pulley system. His screams ring in her ears, but muffled and far away.

He sobs and apologizes again, making promises as fragile as the rope he hangs from.

Was she sad? Yes; immensely, in fact. But no tears stung the corner of her eyes, no skip in her breathing to indicate anything of the sort in the slightest. Quite the opposite actually; a picture of controlled calmness.

She looks up at him once more; exhausted and done with this scenario.

He pleads again, but this time, a sharp tinge begins to appear in his words. His once appealing cries turn to bitter curses at her uncle, and at her. He curses the day her uncle turned all his attention to her; curses the day she didn’t die with her parents a burning baby in the car wreck; curses the day her uncle died, murdered in cold blood while she hid cowering in his safety room; curses the fact that she lived, and he died.

“I’M GLAD I SHOT HIM, YOU HEAR ME YOU FUCKING BITCH?! I freed him from you. You could never have taken his place. You are nothing like him; like me. I was the one to succeed him. Not some orphan guilt tripping him. Weakening him. I WAS THE ONE TO BURY HIM WHILE YOU RAN AWAY LIKE THE FUCKING COWARD YOU ARE!”

Her chest heaved up and down slowly as a sigh left her lungs. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly in thought.

“That means I should thank you. Doesn’t it? You’re the reason I’m here, and you there,” her head tilted in realisation. Her violet eyes trained on him, burning like acid through his mind.

He stilled, silenced at the revelation. She smiles, a twitch of irony pulling up a corner of her mouth. She bobs her head forward, a bow in gratitude and respect for all his care taking of her alongside her uncle all those years.

She holds out a hand; and a lighted cigarette is slipped in delicately between her fingers. She takes a deep draught, tasting the bitter tea-like flavour on the back of her tongue. The wisps of white smoke is expelled with a breath.

She casts him one more forlorn look. He spits back at her.

Another twitch of irony.

The tomahawk blade into slams into the wood pillar, cutting the rope in half with a singular clean strike.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, her eyes shut tightly, her ears pick up his increasingly softening screams as he plunges 50 feet downwards into a sewer processing plant pipe. She takes another puff of the cigarette. The sound of him hitting the water is cut out by the raging noise of gallons and gallons of sewage liquids pumped into the main open vat pipe prior to the filtration sectioning.

Her head tilts, resting on the back of the chair until she sees the concrete piped ceiling.

The shadow cast by the brim of a classic fedora falls across her face, blocking out the yellow lamp light. Nimble fingers pluck the cigarette from her lips.

The glow of its ember end lights up Sugar’s face briefly, but still too dim to illuminate his face entirely. Her sad, sad eyes sweep the face hidden under that hat, almost lovingly. Gentle fingers caress the side of her face tenderly. A jet of white smoke rushes past her cheek and dissipates in her blood-red hair.

Grabbing the handle of the tomahawk, she rips it out of the pillar with an angled tap. She stands up, dusting the ash off her gray silk dress. Surprisingly, this one remained fairly clean after another ordeal. She still preferred to cleave heads in with an axe though. But an engagement she just had to attend unfortunately came up after this little… confession. Hence the necessity to keep the dress clean.

Sugar picks his plain black blazer off the chair and shakes the wrinkles out, slipping it back on, the cigarette between his teeth.

She takes one more look at the ledge of the floor, secured only with thin poles of railing, and scoffs. To work out the last recesses of frustration, she pitches the cheap metal chair over following the old man and watches as it disappears beneath the vapour clouds.

He flicks the stub of the cigarette over the railing and adjusts his cuff links, waiting.

Love backs up and spins on her heel, turning her back towards the watery grave. A little resentment still lingers in her bottom lip. But there is no time for that. Her eyes fly upwards again, frowning at the rebel tears that irritated the corner of her eyes.

Sugar cups the side of her face and wipes away the rogue tears with his thumbs. Love smiles back at him appreciatively. They share a tender, sweet kiss. Arm in arm, they stroll out of the area leisurely, like lovers heading off to a movie.

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