Subject: I remember this gun.
Author:
Posted on: 2015-08-21 18:20:00 UTC

A long-barrelled Webley revolver. Six shots. Six lives. Taken. By me.

"Um, Crissie? Are you alright? You're, um... you're crouching on the edge of the bunk again. And brooding."

I turn to look at him. At his face, so free of scars. "You know why! You know what's waiting -- what's out there! In the beyond!"

"Aaaand with the random loud voices. Okay, no more staying up late watching reruns of Christopher Nolan movies, young lady."

"I'm older than you!" I can't look at him any more. Gotta get something. Get my knives. Good for making things as dead as his gun. Their handles are red, like blood, and pain, and loss-

"Okay, Cris, seriously, you have to know you're saying all that out loud, right?"

I am? That's ridiculous. The only people who can hear these thoughts are the dead--

"I haven't got time for this -- oh, for Pete's sake, now you've got me doing it!" Myall pistol-whipped the console a few times. "Give us something else! Anything else! Dress me up as a little girl and get Professor Snape to knock me up! I don't care! Anything's better than this, you smug metal piece of sh--"

---

Next genre: Noh theatre.

I'm horrible. >=]

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