Counterfeit Love

And I was running again.

This time, into the woods.

The flaw here was, I didn't know the woods like I knew the compound.

I was flying blind, dodging trees, getting tangled up in brambles, then, finally, tripping over a log, sending me flying.

"Fuck," Finch hissed, just a little too far behind. Too far to catch me, to prevent my forward fall.

My arms shot out, bracing.

The impact knocked out my breath, reminding me of childhood when I would swing too high, get too reckless, lose my grip, and go flying, then slam to the ground, too shocked and airless even to cry.

"You're alright, princess," he assured me even before he even knew if I was or not. But his reassuring voice washed over me, almost made me believe it. Almost.

But I wasn't okay.

I couldn't be okay.

Because he knew.

Or suspected.

But suspected was as bad as knowing.

And this one person in my life hadn't known about that part of my past was going to do what everyone else did.

Look at me with pity.

Consider me fragile and breakable.

The surge of grief over losing that freedom was swift and crippling.

"Alright, come on, stop being so dramatic," he said, voice teasing as he squatted down next to my shoulder, looking down at me. "Let me make sure you didn't bust that pretty face," he added, nudging me the tiniest bit with the tips of his fingers. "Chris, come on," he demanded, getting worried, hands reaching out, grabbing my shoulders, rolling me onto my back. "Take a breath," he demanded, tapping two fingers into the center of my chest.

"Don't pity me." The words burst out, raw and slippery, desperate to be heard, to be obeyed.

"Pity is a fuck of a thing," he told me, letting out a long sigh as he dropped down on his butt beside me, leaning back against a tree I'd narrowly missed. "You don't want anyone to feel it for you, but if they don't feel it, they're fucking assholes, y'know?" he asked, reaching in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter.

It sounded like he knew about pity. About having others feel it toward you. About not wanting it, but understanding it was unavoidable.

"Be a fucking asshole," I demanded, pulling in a ragged breath.

"Afraid I can't do that, angel," he told me, shaking his head. "But I won't give you pity. How about I give you some righteous anger? I'm better with that anyway."

"I don't mind anger."

It was why I got along better with Ferryn than anyone else at this point. She'd turned her hurt into hard. She'd taken her brokenness and sharpened those edges so that no one could hurt her again. If they tried, they'd bleed. And I felt like I could breathe around her, around that rage. Because I kindled it deep in my core as well. Even if I tried hard to bank down the flames. Even if I tried to pretend it wasn't a part of me.

"Good. Because what I am picking up from what was in that file, sweetheart, makes me want to bust some heads."

"No one is supposed to see that file."

"I figured that, what with how it was under the mattress and everything. I was right, though."

"About what?"

"About you having a diary. It just wasn't the kind I was expecting. That's a kill book, isn't it?" he asked.

Smoke dancing around his handsome face while he casually talked about murder was a look I'd never forget. Or, at least, I hoped I would never forget.

"Yes."

"You got five."

"No."

"No?" he asked, brows drawing together. "There were crosses."

"I didn't get them. But they are gone," I told him, not sure how much I wanted to reveal.

"You ever killed someone, angel?" he asked, eyes piercing.

"No," I admitted. It felt weird to feel disappointed in myself for something that was normal for the vast majority of the population of the world. But in my world, around my people that was rare. Almost unheard of. I didn't have to ask, but I did. "Have you?"

"Yes."

"Do you regret it?"

"No."

"Do you feel like a bad person because you don't regret it?"

"Regret is a fuck of a thing too, right? You can't change it, so why waste the time? But, no. I don't regret it. See, there is killing and there is murder and they are very different things. Innocent men out exercising and getting gunned down? That's murder. Me taking down someone who wanted to kill me? That's killing. Taking down bastards who hurt you? That's killing. Maybe that means my moral compass is skewed, but I don't give a shit. Some killings make the world a better place. Some people don't belong here."

"You think it's okay to take justice in your own hands?"

"When the system fails, when you know it never has a chance in the first place? Yeah. Rather see Michael Cartright dead," he said, shooting off one of the names from my file, "than to know what he is out there doing, knowing I could stop it, then just letting it go on. I'll take those black marks on my soul. I'm already going to hell. Might as well get some real good seats down there. Drive the fucking bus even."