I wanted her to know what the color yellow was. How sweet it made her lips look under that burnt-toast hair that wasn’t ever quite straight. She should know what clouds look like, what the hell a sky is. Why some places feel warmer than others under that thing she’s never acknowledged, the sun.
But it was so much more selfish than all that crap.
I wanted her to see my face. Wanted her to call me handsome, maybe talk about how sexy she thought my tattoos were or something.
I’d give much of what I’d had for her to be able to see her wedding dress, whenever I racked up enough money to buy the thing. So I could teach her to drive my motorcycle.
That bit of the plan had been sketched in. In between the lines, etched in where I’d leave her, how I’d sneak her in, books on how to properly give someone anesthesia. Books meant nothing to her; she had no clue I was doing this extra stop.
She wouldn’t want me to.
In a matter of months I’d gone from wanting nothing more than a homicide-suicide, but now I had to live. I had to see her in that wedding dress – and I had to have her see me.
I needed azobenzene. Needles, anesthesia. Painkiller.
I needed to keep THEM off my tail enough to get the surgery done and get her out of there.
Going through with the assassination, proposing to her, giving away my position, I didn’t care.
But goddamn.
I needed her to see.