Her

We are together. It should be enough that we are together. But, honestly, it's not.

It is cold, but I roll down the window. The wind bites me and tears at my hair. It's nice. It's palpable. Real. I wish I had been wearing a hat so that the wind could steal it from me and have something to play with. I want to see it have fun. Everything should be given the chance to have fun. No matter how brief or basic, it is a right. It's important.

"I'm cold," He states.

I chuckle and turn my head to look at him. His shoulders are hunched and he is shivering. I watch for a few seconds before rolling the window back up. It fascinates me when his body reacts to a feeling, when it creates a visible emotion. I see glimpses of it sometimes when I am particularly emotional. It gives me hope that there is more inside of him than the black and white palette he thinks himself to be. It makes me understand why he has hope that there is more inside of me than a furious monster. But he is wrong, and I am right. I do not catch glimpses of myself changing like I do with him.

One arm still hugs his black and white striped jumper. It is his personality, but instead he looks like a criminal. We're both runaways, going against the rules, creating our own. It's romantic. Except, it's not. It's frightening and exposed. We are not safe anywhere. I want to be safe. I want to know that with him, I will always be safe. But I am not, and neither can I keep at bay the darkness coming after him. It will take those glimpses of emotion from him again. I will no longer catch a light in his eye, a quirk of his lip, a shiver up his spine.

His change is good, but it terrifies me. One day he will gain that ounce more and he will not be able to stand to look at me anymore. My only wish is that he will not go insane at the memory of what he saw that night. He will be glad that I got captured, and he will run again and feel freedom forevermore.

He shakes his head, flourishing his fluffy hair like an advert for conditioner.

But he is far from vain.

"Thank you," he says.

"Welcome," I reply. He is the only one who deserves my politeness. He is the only one who does not demand it from me. He is the only one who has been gracious towards me after seeing what me and my scythe do. He is he only one who has kept his mind and his life after witnessing my vengeance. Occasionally, just occasionally, I wish we had never found out that he could. I wish he could be innocent towards why my scythe chose me. I await with fear and furor the day he is sickened by what I do.

His work is beautiful. I am saddened that he cannot understand this, yet can perceive that I am more than a monster. He says my scythe chose me to be a Fury because I have too much compassion, and he likes that. He says that whatever happens he will not forget this fact. But I am not more than a monster, and he is no less than an angel. One day he will realise this, too. His like of me will turn into absolute revulsion.

I focus on the road. It has no end. We have no destination. We run and run and run until our scythes catch us, and then we will go back to where we started.

Maybe we'll run away again. Maybe we'll just accept it and go back to what was before. Maybe he will already hate me by then.
Only one thing is for certain: we have limited time with one another.

I won't miss the lack of screams, the lack of anger, the lack of crying, the lack of pain, the lack of blood. But the horrendous intimacy of the van, the frustrating waste of time when he pulls over to look at an interesting-looking rock, the annoyance that he would never budge or compromise on his views in an argument. I'll miss the stifling heat. The freezing cold. I'll miss his scents, his textures, his sounds. How he would convince me to find something beautiful in what I hated, just because he liked it, how I would find a trivial rock fascinating because he was intrigued by it.

I do not look forward to losing these things.

I do not look forward to becoming Furious again.

The longer we run, the more time we have to create memories to grieve over.

So we run.