Too Good At Goodbyes

TheIrishDevil posted a photo:

I know you’re thinking I’m heartless
I know you’re thinking I’m cold
I’m just protecting my innocence
I’m just protecting my soul

I’m never gonna let you close to me
Even though you mean the most to me
‘Cause every time I open up, it hurts
So I’m never gonna get too close to you
Even when I mean the most to you
In case you go and leave me in the dirt

I’m way too good at goodbyes

—

[Part I] [Part II] [Part III]

Part III

I couldn’t watch as he fell over the edge of the balcony. He was long gone before gravity took him – scrambler rounds were good for that. One muzzle-press to the temple. One squeeze of the trigger. A quick laser-bore through scalp and skull to clear the way, and the scrambler itself follows before your mark can blink. Their brains get turned to pudding in the next instant, and then they never blink again. I’m told that the most the vic feels is a ‘little pinch,’ just like the quaint old Docs used to say before giving an injection back in the day. Back when doctors were still human, and not emotionless CareBots.

“You and me, we don’t get to leave behind pretty corpses,” that used to be his joke when we were partners. Every time we had a close call and one or the other of us was bleeding out of places we shouldn’t be, he had to say it. I laughed and agreed every time. Even when I didn’t feel like laughing.

I loved him for that. Being able to make me smile and laugh when nothing and no one else could.

Scrambler rounds were expensive as hell. A pack of six could clear out a whole paycheck, easy. He’d bought some years ago, after one of our first big paydays together. Sat me down that night and split them with me three-and-three. We made a promise then. He’d save his last scrambler for me, and I’d save my last for him. Just in case. Contingency planning.

I’d scoffed and shrugged, but I agreed all the same. Never thought I’d actually use it.

It wasn’t long before I felt the first heavy drops of sooty rain hit the brim of my hat, then more across my shoulders. A second or two later, my AR HUD flashed an acid content warning; I shouldn’t stay out in it for long. And I wouldn’t. There was just one more thing left to do.

I finally looked down, long after I heard the heavy sound of body hitting pavement. There he lay on his back, stories below me, with arms and legs akimbo. Just then I had a funny little memory from decades ago of what snow used to look and feel like. A memory of flopping backwards into two inches of ash-grey flakes, already half-melted, and making grimy snow angels.

Laying there like that, in a slow-growing pool of his own blood, he looked like he was making one now. Lifeless blue eyes gazed up at the falling rain, every drop of it born from the endless cloud cover haze of the city. Apart from that pool of blood and another thin trickle from one corner of his vaguely-agape mouth, he looked fine. Like he was just stunned from taking a nasty spill. And as the rain fell heavier and heavier, all that red was slowly washed away.

A pretty corpse.

That night, I stayed out in the icy, contaminated rain far longer than I should have. He didn’t move. So neither did I.

—