[D-ne has not slept all night. Soon, the wish will be off the table. Soon, the choice will be made for her. Soon...
The motive didn't get to her. Not at first. She meant what she said, all wishes have a price. That's what the legend of the Monkey's Paw said, didn't it? But... Getting the paw itself out of the booth, that... Like an omen. Like destiny. It was all used up, all the wishes were gone. The very nature of the paw drove people to wish on it, so while her plan was to save herself and B-ko, she doesn't know...
What did she wish for?
Last week she was scared enough. Waiting for the Demise Game to kill her, if she hadn't followed its orders. Now, she has no idea. Is B-ko alright? ...Are the boys? She didn't think she would, but she misses their antics. The four of them, in their little equilibrium. The Bookmark of Demise shattered that. She has no idea if her wish saved anyone...and hearing from management that this wish is real, not some give-and-take-
D-ne leaves her room quietly early this morning, the silver razor she received from the booth tucked in her sleeve. She has to find someone. Anyone.
Down the dressing room hallway. No one.
Down through the lobby. No one.
Down the east wing, looking in each room, silent as she can...]
Edited (close your action tags ash) 2016-10-18 20:33 (UTC)
[Quiet as she is, she will likely hear Valjean from a little distance down the hall before she sees him. His voice is low, of course, in keeping with the hour, but song does carry.]
God on high Hear my prayer In my need You have always been there
They are young They're afraid Let them rest Heaven-blessed
Bring them home Bring them home Bring them home
[When she sees him, he's on the far side of the dining hall, beyond the long table, kneeling in prayer before the cross on the wall. There's a few differences in his setup there - he's moved in a low table from the lobby and draped a spare white tablecloth over it, so that two silver candlesticks can stand on either side. They cast a dim light over the darkened hall. Just now, he preferred the atmosphere to the convenience of electric lights.
He's always awake this early, and he prays every morning. But this is the first time he's visited the merchandise booth, and to receive the candlesticks - his candlesticks - felt like a sign. This has been a trying week for them all. It does his heart good to feel as if God is still watching over them.]
The people here are kind and good They all deserve to return home The summers die One by one How soon they fly On and on
D-ne stands there for a good ten seconds. The old man has been kind to her, and unlike so many others, it seems like it isn't fake. It's not just polite courtesy for politeness sake, like her own, it's genuine. Why...?
She then remembers the days in the old school building. A-ya and B-ko arguing, C-ta staring on. Her own gentle nudging to keep them from getting too heated. Just four kids looking for rumors and urban legends, four kids passing the time. B-ko's radiant smile and pouting face.
Those days... She wants to return to those days. She wants to make it so...they never did Kokkuri-san in the first place.
Nothing can change her mind. D-ne must act quick, before anything drags her down. Further down the hall, to the costume shop. She grabs the first things she can see, which are an overly-large police uniform top and...a strange scarf, made of hands. Whatever. She just needs enough that any blood she gets on her won't stain what she's wearing. As she's about to leave, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
(the hair's too long, eyes aren't the right color, she's too small and slender, she isn't perfect)
B-ko's red ribbon in her hair gives her strength.
She hurries back to the dining hall, stepping in this time and holding her breath. Is he still singing? That would cover up any sound she does make.
[Valjean is very nearly a life-long fugitive. His life in Paris for the past decade has been quiet and peaceful, but he hasn't quite lost that prey animal's instinct; that part of himself that's always keeping an eye and an ear out.
Unfortunately, it can be difficult to sing and pay attention to your surroundings at the same time. This has never been an issue. Even Inspector Javert has never tried to sneak up on him mid-song, and he's had the opportunity. It's as if the very laws of the universe forbade it.
Or perhaps the problem is that he truly doesn't believe anyone here would attempt to kill him. The time for the wish is nearly run out, and all has been peaceful. He has worried about it; he's not so naive as to think a murder among their number impossible. People break for far less. But maybe he should have had more faith in these people. Regardless, he is still singing, and doesn't look up from his prayer as D-ne enters.]
You can take You can give Let them be Let them live
If I die, let me die Let them live Bring them home Bring them home Bring -
[A horrible, creeping thought just about destroys her. It's as she's right behind him, slipping the silver razor out of her sleeve with a trembling hand.
She's never killed anyone before.
She's never been responsible for another person's death.
This will be her fault. An innocent person, her fault. Her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault-
D-ne blinks. Her vision blurs. She slices at the right side of his neck from behind.
Unfortunately, D-ne doesn't know where a person's vitals are. She misses.
But it isn't fatal, and the startled cry he lets out instead is far from a death rattle. Valjean's on his feet in an instant, pressing a hand over the wound as he turns about to face his foe. A thousand impulses are suddenly screaming to him all at once - there is power in me yet - and for a moment he squares his stance, broad shoulders braced as if to fight, or maybe shove his way past and flee.
Upon recognizing his attacker, he does neither.]
D-ne?
[The look on her face pierces the roaring in his head. She is young, and she is afraid. Blood is oozing out from between his fingers, slick on his palm, but she is so young.
Valjean lets out one heavy breath, then shifts into a less aggressive posture and holds out his free hand.]
[Her first thought is that well, she's dead. Here, in the early morning hours in this damn opera house, she is going to die, because Valjean is so much bigger and stronger than she is.
Nothing seems to work out the way she figures, though. She grits her teeth.]
No. N-no, I- I have to- it's not personal--
[She jerks forward to try and stab him again, indiscriminately.]
[She may have snuck up on him, but Valjean is not so old and withered that he'll stand there and allow himself to be stabbed. He darts his hand back, stepping away from the blow. He'd expected it - she would not have come to this point if she were so easily turned aside - so his voice is still carefully calm when he speaks.]
I know, I know. [He never really thought it personal.] My child, it does not have to be this way. If you stop now, I can make some excuse, and no one will have to know about this. We will all go on as we have been.
[He offers his hand again. This is more than a sack of silver, but he has been given chances he did not deserve.]
[For a moment, it looks like he might have gotten through to her. She blinks to keep herself from crying and grits her teeth, but she doesn't advance.]
Stop making it harder.
[That moment passes, and she charges, slashing at his hand.]
[Valjean's second mistake, perhaps, is that her tone of voice makes him shift forward rather than back. For a moment it seems as though she will change her course, and for all that her tears are probably a good sign, he'd rather try to give comfort than stand and watch her cry.
Guard lowered, he is not fast enough to evade this time. He does try, but the razor leaves a deep slash across the palm of his outstretched hand. He gasps sharply in pain, drawing it back to his chest.]
D-ne -
[Base instinct knows that he needs to step back, to flee if he will not fight a child. But the pain caused his other hand to jerk away from his neck for a moment, and the blood is running faster down his front. He can feel it sticking to his chest. It isn't enough to kill him, and even now he knows he could live if he got away and tended to it.
But it hurts, and the loss of blood is beginning to go to his head.
[D-ne's never going to have a better shot. With a barely restrained scream, she shoves the razor into his chest. There's no way she can stop there, of course, and goes into a flurry of stabs.]
Just let--
[B-ko-chan. Stab.]
-me kill you--
[B-ko-chan. Stab.]
-you unrelenting old man!
[B-ko-chan. Stab.
Whatever she can reach. His chest, his face, pushing with all her might so she might topple him. It's good that she's so close, because it's impossible to restrain the tears, and it's so very hard to see through them. She roughly rubs her left eye with her free hand, between stabs.]
[The assault presses him back into the table he's set. He tries to brace against it and instead falls amid a clatter of silver. Unable to catch himself, he hits the ground hard, and still she attacks. Valjean tries to shield his chest, but the razor only bites into his face. There's blood in his mouth and eyes.
Still, it takes several cuts before he breaks eye contact with her and turns his head away.
He should be strong enough to easily fend her off. He could have, had he tried that from the beginning, but it's too late now. A cold blackness is starting to creep up on him, narrowing the world to these few seconds, and though he tries to catch at her arm to stop this, there's no real power behind the gesture.
After that, he stops resisting. He isn't quite dead yet, but his breaths are harsh and thick with blood, and he cannot even gather the strength to speak.]
[There's something to be said about the adrenaline of killing a man. D-ne can push his arm away effortlessly, with one final stab to Valjean's collar. It's like she can do anything. It's like...
...well, honestly it's kind of horrible. She wanted to smile kindly at him for his last sight, but she can't manage. Why? Even though he's dying for a good cause.
About the time she yanks the razor from his body does she realize her left eye still itches. She takes a few steps back and again rubs at it, harsher and harder, only to realize she's smeared blood on her face, all around her cheek.]
Mmngh- [Awful, disgusting, get it off-
One rough rub later and she's blinked away the itching. If she were thinking more clearly, she'd realize that persistent itch, that blurring was her contact shifting, jostled from her first attempt to wipe away tears. She'd realize that contact now lays on the floor, just near Valjean's prone body.
But she doesn't. She thinks the blurry vision is simply a result of her crying, and she's much more focused on the fact that she has blood on her face and it's fast approaching morning. She has to discard the clothes. She has to wash herself off, she has to hide the razor. She-
She looks down at Valjean. He'll be dead soon. She doesn't know where to stab to make it final, and if she tries she'll probably just hurt him more. It's a chilling and upsetting discovery, that she doesn't like the feeling of hurting him. She doesn't know if she'd like the feeling of hurting anyone.
A fair bit too late for that, though.
Careful not to step in anything, D-ne backs away. The razor drips blood, but she's too dazed to do anything to stop it.]
I- I'm--
[What use are apologies now? D-ne stumbles from the dining hall, to go clean up the evidence in the laundry room.]
[Valjean hears D-ne's words, but before he can even think about replying, she's gone.
Without her there, time seems to stretch out. Every labored breath lasts a year. He swallows the thickness in his throat and opens his eyes. Despite it all, the room is still cast in the light from a single candlestick. As if from a great distance, he can see the other one. It rolled away as he fell, somehow clear of the blood spilled on the floor, where it's now quietly catching the light. Beyond it, there's the empty doorway.
He swallows again, and slowly hoists himself up onto one elbow.
Standing's impossible, but he can push himself across the floor. One hand presses against his chest, fingers splayed as if he can somehow keep all the blood inside. He hasn't got any real plan, only the vague idea that he might somehow find someone to help. It's probably too late. But he won't just lie here and wait to die.
He passes the candlestick, and reaches the door. The hallway looks impossibly long. They all know each others' habits well enough by now, and he knows he cannot expect anyone to come this way soon. Eliza will likely be the first, whenever she wakes. He regrets the thought of her finding him like this. His heart is pounding too quickly in his head, and his energy's flagging.
In the end, he only makes it a few more paces before he has to rest. Valjean understands, when he lets his head drop forward against his outstretched arm, that he likely won't raise it again. He would have liked to get out with the rest of them. He wanted to say goodbye to Cosette. But if this is how it is to be...
...then may God have mercy on them all.
The hallway grows dark. He could almost swear he hears distant singing. Then, nothing.
[The thought that her battle has only just begun washes over D-ne as she scrubs her hands and face in the laundry room. The straight razor, which has tracked blood all the way here, rests at the bottom of the sink, still stained red. As soon as she's done with her skin, she'll soak it until it's clean. The too-big police top's discarded on a washing machine, along with the damn hand scarf. Both are covered in Valjean's blood.
She's killed a man. Now, she has to get away with it. As she cleans away the blood, she thinks.
There's no one in particular that she could pin this on. The top will throw them off. The fact that strong Jean Valjean was the one to die will throw them off. It's not good enough, and she doesn't have time. There's still the clothes to...
She recalls starkly how many people here don't know how to use the laundry machines.
The clothes won't be a problem.
After far too much time scrubbing, she leaves the blood-splattered costume behind; someone didn't know how to use the washing machine properly and panicked, afraid starting it would draw attention with its noise. That's what happened. They instead went to hide the murder weapon and-
And clean the blood trail! If the hypothetical culprit doesn't want anyone to find the clothes...then the blood trail would be a problem for them. If she can make it look like someone tried to clean it, that'll help, won't it? She can stash the razor in the storage room - if no one finds that, it'll help her so much - and grab something to scrub the floor with.
It will be...well, far from a "perfect crime" but at least she can throw the rest of them into confusion, and that might be all she needs. She won't even have to walk past the dining hall; she won't have to see his body.]
[She won't have to see the murder scene, at least. All of it that's visible from the hallway is the blood trail, smeared across the floor from the doorway to the spot, a few feet away, where Valjean's body rests.
He seems smaller now than he did only minutes ago. He's lying face-down, one arm pinned awkwardly beneath his torso and the other still stretched out as if reaching for the lobby. Naturally, he doesn't move when D-ne enters.]
It is nearing seven in the morning, and D-ne has to cover her mouth to keep the scream in her throat from slipping out.
He's coming for her. He's coming to punish her. Even death can't stop him, she's going to die-
D-ne watches the world blur again and hurries into the storage closet, collapsing to her knees just out of sight and catching her breath.
What did they say about that boy from school? Though he was split in two, his top half was reaching out, trailing blood, trying to find his legs...
She'll stay there like that for some time, one hand at her chest and one around the clean razor that she still has to hide. She'll remind herself why she did this, what's waiting for her, and how turning back is impossible. She'll remind herself she's known these people for a week and a half, and whatever happens to them when she gets out of here (because she just knows it can't be good, it won't be good)- she can't turn back. She'll dry her eyes and remove a box filled with blankets, and wrap the still-wet razor in them and place it back on the shelf. She'll take the cleaning supplies...and start to hear voices.
Ah. Well.
She'll wait until there's a crowd and then slip into it, like she was there the whole time.
At least she won't have to worry about her red eyes; no one will wonder why she's crying, when such a kind man has been brutally killed.]
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kabunevermind) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ahandorsomething2016-10-18 12:57 pm
no subject
The motive didn't get to her. Not at first. She meant what she said, all wishes have a price. That's what the legend of the Monkey's Paw said, didn't it? But... Getting the paw itself out of the booth, that... Like an omen. Like destiny. It was all used up, all the wishes were gone. The very nature of the paw drove people to wish on it, so while her plan was to save herself and B-ko, she doesn't know...
What did she wish for?
Last week she was scared enough. Waiting for the Demise Game to kill her, if she hadn't followed its orders. Now, she has no idea. Is B-ko alright? ...Are the boys? She didn't think she would, but she misses their antics. The four of them, in their little equilibrium. The Bookmark of Demise shattered that. She has no idea if her wish saved anyone...and hearing from management that this wish is real, not some give-and-take-
D-ne leaves her room quietly early this morning, the silver razor she received from the booth tucked in her sleeve. She has to find someone. Anyone.
Down the dressing room hallway.
No one.
Down through the lobby.
No one.
Down the east wing, looking in each room, silent as she can...]
no subject
God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there
They are young
They're afraid
Let them rest
Heaven-blessed
Bring them home
Bring them home
Bring them home
[When she sees him, he's on the far side of the dining hall, beyond the long table, kneeling in prayer before the cross on the wall. There's a few differences in his setup there - he's moved in a low table from the lobby and draped a spare white tablecloth over it, so that two silver candlesticks can stand on either side. They cast a dim light over the darkened hall. Just now, he preferred the atmosphere to the convenience of electric lights.
He's always awake this early, and he prays every morning. But this is the first time he's visited the merchandise booth, and to receive the candlesticks - his candlesticks - felt like a sign. This has been a trying week for them all. It does his heart good to feel as if God is still watching over them.]
The people here are kind and good
They all deserve to return home
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone...
no subject
D-ne stands there for a good ten seconds. The old man has been kind to her, and unlike so many others, it seems like it isn't fake. It's not just polite courtesy for politeness sake, like her own, it's genuine. Why...?
She then remembers the days in the old school building. A-ya and B-ko arguing, C-ta staring on. Her own gentle nudging to keep them from getting too heated. Just four kids looking for rumors and urban legends, four kids passing the time. B-ko's radiant smile and pouting face.
Those days... She wants to return to those days. She wants to make it so...they never did Kokkuri-san in the first place.
Nothing can change her mind. D-ne must act quick, before anything drags her down. Further down the hall, to the costume shop. She grabs the first things she can see, which are an overly-large police uniform top and...a strange scarf, made of hands. Whatever. She just needs enough that any blood she gets on her won't stain what she's wearing. As she's about to leave, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
(the hair's too long, eyes aren't the right color, she's too small and slender, she isn't perfect)
B-ko's red ribbon in her hair gives her strength.
She hurries back to the dining hall, stepping in this time and holding her breath. Is he still singing? That would cover up any sound she does make.
no subject
Unfortunately, it can be difficult to sing and pay attention to your surroundings at the same time. This has never been an issue. Even Inspector Javert has never tried to sneak up on him mid-song, and he's had the opportunity. It's as if the very laws of the universe forbade it.
Or perhaps the problem is that he truly doesn't believe anyone here would attempt to kill him. The time for the wish is nearly run out, and all has been peaceful. He has worried about it; he's not so naive as to think a murder among their number impossible. People break for far less. But maybe he should have had more faith in these people. Regardless, he is still singing, and doesn't look up from his prayer as D-ne enters.]
You can take
You can give
Let them be
Let them live
If I die, let me die
Let them live
Bring them home
Bring them home
Bring -
no subject
She's never killed anyone before.
She's never been responsible for another person's death.
This will be her fault. An innocent person, her fault.
Her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault her fault-
D-ne blinks. Her vision blurs. She slices at the right side of his neck from behind.
Unfortunately, D-ne doesn't know where a person's vitals are. She misses.
no subject
But it isn't fatal, and the startled cry he lets out instead is far from a death rattle. Valjean's on his feet in an instant, pressing a hand over the wound as he turns about to face his foe. A thousand impulses are suddenly screaming to him all at once - there is power in me yet - and for a moment he squares his stance, broad shoulders braced as if to fight, or maybe shove his way past and flee.
Upon recognizing his attacker, he does neither.]
D-ne?
[The look on her face pierces the roaring in his head. She is young, and she is afraid. Blood is oozing out from between his fingers, slick on his palm, but she is so young.
Valjean lets out one heavy breath, then shifts into a less aggressive posture and holds out his free hand.]
Give it to me, D-ne.
no subject
Nothing seems to work out the way she figures, though. She grits her teeth.]
No. N-no, I- I have to- it's not personal--
[She jerks forward to try and stab him again, indiscriminately.]
no subject
I know, I know. [He never really thought it personal.] My child, it does not have to be this way. If you stop now, I can make some excuse, and no one will have to know about this. We will all go on as we have been.
[He offers his hand again. This is more than a sack of silver, but he has been given chances he did not deserve.]
Come, you can still turn back from this.
no subject
Stop making it harder.
[That moment passes, and she charges, slashing at his hand.]
no subject
Guard lowered, he is not fast enough to evade this time. He does try, but the razor leaves a deep slash across the palm of his outstretched hand. He gasps sharply in pain, drawing it back to his chest.]
D-ne -
[Base instinct knows that he needs to step back, to flee if he will not fight a child. But the pain caused his other hand to jerk away from his neck for a moment, and the blood is running faster down his front. He can feel it sticking to his chest. It isn't enough to kill him, and even now he knows he could live if he got away and tended to it.
But it hurts, and the loss of blood is beginning to go to his head.
For a crucial moment, he is breathless.]
no subject
Just let--
[B-ko-chan.
Stab.]
-me kill you--
[B-ko-chan.
Stab.]
-you unrelenting old man!
[B-ko-chan.
Stab.
Whatever she can reach. His chest, his face, pushing with all her might so she might topple him. It's good that she's so close, because it's impossible to restrain the tears, and it's so very hard to see through them. She roughly rubs her left eye with her free hand, between stabs.]
no subject
Still, it takes several cuts before he breaks eye contact with her and turns his head away.
He should be strong enough to easily fend her off. He could have, had he tried that from the beginning, but it's too late now. A cold blackness is starting to creep up on him, narrowing the world to these few seconds, and though he tries to catch at her arm to stop this, there's no real power behind the gesture.
After that, he stops resisting. He isn't quite dead yet, but his breaths are harsh and thick with blood, and he cannot even gather the strength to speak.]
no subject
...well, honestly it's kind of horrible. She wanted to smile kindly at him for his last sight, but she can't manage. Why? Even though he's dying for a good cause.
About the time she yanks the razor from his body does she realize her left eye still itches. She takes a few steps back and again rubs at it, harsher and harder, only to realize she's smeared blood on her face, all around her cheek.]
Mmngh- [Awful, disgusting, get it off-
One rough rub later and she's blinked away the itching. If she were thinking more clearly, she'd realize that persistent itch, that blurring was her contact shifting, jostled from her first attempt to wipe away tears. She'd realize that contact now lays on the floor, just near Valjean's prone body.
But she doesn't. She thinks the blurry vision is simply a result of her crying, and she's much more focused on the fact that she has blood on her face and it's fast approaching morning. She has to discard the clothes. She has to wash herself off, she has to hide the razor. She-
She looks down at Valjean. He'll be dead soon. She doesn't know where to stab to make it final, and if she tries she'll probably just hurt him more. It's a chilling and upsetting discovery, that she doesn't like the feeling of hurting him. She doesn't know if she'd like the feeling of hurting anyone.
A fair bit too late for that, though.
Careful not to step in anything, D-ne backs away. The razor drips blood, but she's too dazed to do anything to stop it.]
I- I'm--
[What use are apologies now? D-ne stumbles from the dining hall, to go clean up the evidence in the laundry room.]
no subject
Without her there, time seems to stretch out. Every labored breath lasts a year. He swallows the thickness in his throat and opens his eyes. Despite it all, the room is still cast in the light from a single candlestick. As if from a great distance, he can see the other one. It rolled away as he fell, somehow clear of the blood spilled on the floor, where it's now quietly catching the light. Beyond it, there's the empty doorway.
He swallows again, and slowly hoists himself up onto one elbow.
Standing's impossible, but he can push himself across the floor. One hand presses against his chest, fingers splayed as if he can somehow keep all the blood inside. He hasn't got any real plan, only the vague idea that he might somehow find someone to help. It's probably too late. But he won't just lie here and wait to die.
He passes the candlestick, and reaches the door. The hallway looks impossibly long. They all know each others' habits well enough by now, and he knows he cannot expect anyone to come this way soon. Eliza will likely be the first, whenever she wakes. He regrets the thought of her finding him like this. His heart is pounding too quickly in his head, and his energy's flagging.
In the end, he only makes it a few more paces before he has to rest. Valjean understands, when he lets his head drop forward against his outstretched arm, that he likely won't raise it again. He would have liked to get out with the rest of them. He wanted to say goodbye to Cosette. But if this is how it is to be...
...then may God have mercy on them all.
The hallway grows dark. He could almost swear he hears distant singing. Then, nothing.
Jean Valjean is dead.]
no subject
She's killed a man. Now, she has to get away with it. As she cleans away the blood, she thinks.
There's no one in particular that she could pin this on. The top will throw them off. The fact that strong Jean Valjean was the one to die will throw them off. It's not good enough, and she doesn't have time. There's still the clothes to...
She recalls starkly how many people here don't know how to use the laundry machines.
The clothes won't be a problem.
After far too much time scrubbing, she leaves the blood-splattered costume behind; someone didn't know how to use the washing machine properly and panicked, afraid starting it would draw attention with its noise. That's what happened. They instead went to hide the murder weapon and-
And clean the blood trail! If the hypothetical culprit doesn't want anyone to find the clothes...then the blood trail would be a problem for them. If she can make it look like someone tried to clean it, that'll help, won't it? She can stash the razor in the storage room - if no one finds that, it'll help her so much - and grab something to scrub the floor with.
It will be...well, far from a "perfect crime" but at least she can throw the rest of them into confusion, and that might be all she needs. She won't even have to walk past the dining hall; she won't have to see his body.]
no subject
He seems smaller now than he did only minutes ago. He's lying face-down, one arm pinned awkwardly beneath his torso and the other still stretched out as if reaching for the lobby. Naturally, he doesn't move when D-ne enters.]
no subject
It is nearing seven in the morning, and D-ne has to cover her mouth to keep the scream in her throat from slipping out.
He's coming for her. He's coming to punish her. Even death can't stop him, she's going to die-
D-ne watches the world blur again and hurries into the storage closet, collapsing to her knees just out of sight and catching her breath.
What did they say about that boy from school? Though he was split in two, his top half was reaching out, trailing blood, trying to find his legs...
She'll stay there like that for some time, one hand at her chest and one around the clean razor that she still has to hide. She'll remind herself why she did this, what's waiting for her, and how turning back is impossible. She'll remind herself she's known these people for a week and a half, and whatever happens to them when she gets out of here (because she just knows it can't be good, it won't be good)- she can't turn back. She'll dry her eyes and remove a box filled with blankets, and wrap the still-wet razor in them and place it back on the shelf. She'll take the cleaning supplies...and start to hear voices.
Ah. Well.
She'll wait until there's a crowd and then slip into it, like she was there the whole time.
At least she won't have to worry about her red eyes; no one will wonder why she's crying, when such a kind man has been brutally killed.]