“I guess I just miss you, is the problem.” A brush of fingertips against smooth stone, as gentle and affectionate as a kiss.
“It’s not the same without you,” he confides, before crouching down and placing the small bouquet by the plaque. Straightening again, he can’t help but read over the engraving–years and a name, so simple, a poor substitute.
“Goodbye, love, I’ll see you again next weekend.”
A migraine is building behind your eyes, pressure and heat and sludgy solid sickness. It’s been a while since you’ve had one–not since you were a teenager–and you thought your were done with them for good.
Then again, you did take a tire iron to the back of the head, so it’s not like it’s your fault.
A wet trickle makes it’s way down your neck–blood, most likely–and you’d like to wipe it away except that your hands are tied behind your back and you’ve never been particularly flexible.
“This is the last time I do a favor for Jenny.”
Just as well, considering this one’s posthumous anyway.
Raoul had always loved her, from the first moment he laid eyes on her. Bright smile and crinkled eyes and a smear of dirt across one cheek. He had admired the way her legs looked in that floral skirt, the curve of her back easily accommodating of the sledge hammer across her shoulders.
Just some renovation, she had said, and Raoul–the naive, lovestruck idiot that he was, newly moved into the apartment across the hall–had nodded and tried not to make too much a fool of himself.
But Jenny had always had a fondness for fools.
“Oh, sure, watch over your boyfriend. No big, he’s an accountant, what’s the worst he could get into?” You growl, shifting your arms, your wrists, your hands futilely–desperate to escape. “Getting into business with corrupt cops, that’s what! Fucking hell, Jenny, you have shitty taste in guys.”
You might have a concussion, what with the irritability and talking to a dead person, but then again, anyone would be irritable in this situation. And you wouldn’t put it past her to somehow be able to listen in after her death.
A rattle of chains grabs your attention, makes you quiet and cautious. You don’t actually know who hit you over the head and tied you up.
“Hello?” A voice calls, one irritatingly familiar to you for all that you’ve never actually had a conversation with the idiot. “I’m here to settle my girlfriend’s debt.”
Now both of you are going to end up dead. Goddamnit, Jenny.