Contains allusions to murder and necrophilia. Some swearing.

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When all's good and done, he'll kill you,

He stutters over the reasons and the how and what he'll do after with that pretty little figure of her's, because he doesn't like to think about that crazy man's world. His heart skips a beat, thinking of her motionless carcass bleeding on carpet like the one they have back at their old, bloodied home and chokes on words—DON'T/DIE/DARLING.

He'll kill you dead, so fast your heart'll have three beats left,

He stutters again, over every syllable.

I'm counting on it,

She never stutters, because baby's got a death wish.

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(At his door, she smiles, with his handiwork all over her,

I wanna destroy the world.

He smiles back,

My, my, you pretty little death-wish thing, BABYDOLL, anything for you(r body).)

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She knows he'll kill her one day. He's never been good with the living.

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When that day comes, and she's pressed against the wall, knife to her neck (and hands edging for an opening through her thighs but never entering because, he knows better than to fuck with the living) that she thinks between half-almost-nearlythere tears that,

God, I don't want to die,

(Bitter at herself, she screams, how can that only occur to me now).

Instead, she kisses him and thrusts him against any available surface and waits until she's done with him (because she knows better than to fuck with the dead) to breaks twenty-seven of his bones (only twenty-six that are technically, but the other one totally counts, trust me).

She sleeps in bed with the blood from his veins and dreams of her boy back at hom—town.

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(She whispers, Have you tired of trying to save me? when he stops sending regular teams of solider boys to take her home.

His word choices go from yes to no to iloveyou and don't quite know where to stop and just like everything else involving her it drives him CR—RAAZ—ZY.

Mental images of six-year-old parties at carnivals with spinning carousels, strawberry ice-cream Sundays with blood, hold the ice-cream, please, invade him. She's done this to him so, now, she doesn't deserves an answer.

The crazy in her pretty little head would just gnaw all the sense of it away, anyway.

It's not worth it anymore; there's not enough of her mind and sanity to salvage.

He just wait for that man to kill her, so he can take that (violated) body of her's home to mourn.

Hell, he thinks to himself, maybe I'll kill her, myself, just so he never gets the pleasure.)

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She packs up all her stuff (

-eleven packets of salt because they never sell the good anymore,
-a million notes of the experiments but only so she can burn them, she swears, because she doesn't want to die anymore, she doesn't (or, at least, not here),
-a map of a world she'll never get to see because the dead don't get flyby points,
-love letters he wrote her, but only while imagining her dead, speaking of her mother/father/sister/brother's death's in such beautiful detail that she oh-so fell in love (and he wrote the last in her baby brother's blood, DARLING, I'LL KILL YOU, and God, her heart sang),
-and that jar where he said he'd keep her heart, safe, in his sight when her body becomes his own private blown-up sex doll,

) and goes hom—where that boy always wanted her, she surrenders.

(minor flaw) Forgetting that there's no one waiting there anymore who wouldn't kill her on sight.

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(He screams at her, during his fifty-seventh attempt to bring her, goddamn, home. you're not gonna get to go home, babe, you know that right, right, at least not alive?

Haul my dead ass to town, darl', cause corpses don't have a home.)

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Stumbling over the front gate, she swears that those guys were aiming at her, damn it (they were) but they're dead now so it's okay.

He's planting rosebushes by the rosebushes because you can ever have enough thorns.

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Boy, boy, boy, if you knew the corpses I've seen, she sings, giggling, like she never, ever left, you'd say I'd need help but I sup

He shoots her as soon as he turns around to see. On sight, as instructed. Army boys are so diligent, his (dead at her hand so many years ago she almost forgot) mother would be so proud.

Boy, she chokes over gun bullets in her abdomen, I think I need hel—

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Girl,

He doesn't have bullet in his stomach or stutter in his syllables because he's all grown up (she wondered how long until he realized she was a lost cause but, really, irony sucks),

You aren't welcome here (home, say it with me, home) anymore.

There's not enough of you left in that little head, anyway.

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(The Dead, she replies, don't have a home,
though now I have a grave, so, good enough.)

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NOTES:

1) So, I have no clue. Some girl ran away with a necrophiliac scientist guy. This made a whole lot more sense in my head. ScientistGuy courted her, I think, and steadily made her crazy, killed her family. Flashbacks may confuse, keep that in mind. I only wrote it to get it out of my system.

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