teen romance. ( richard gecko )

V. HOW MANY BULLETS

9 months after.

"And it's not like I don't love you, because in some kind of sick way I do. I adore you and you really do just have the prettiest fucking eyes it's just... well they'll never be as pretty as his."

Carter didn't think it'd hurt this bad. His hand on her cheek, she means. But it stings, burns to the point where she thinks a blister might build up. And she wants so badly to push her face into it, she wants it to sting because just maybe if she presses hard enough it'll be plenty strong to make her feel some sort of pain.

Because apparently no matter how many times you imagine a bullet going through your head it just doesn't seem to happen unless you make it happen. And that's what Carter doesn't seem to get, especially as she lays on the grungy hotel bed with her brother beside her on the other and she's staring at the ceiling trying to doze off to sleep but instead of counting sheep she catches herself counting how many times Richie said she had the most prettiest eyes. Counting how many bullets she could put through her head before she felt something.

"You're sick, that's what you are! Just a sick, fucking bastard whose dad never loved so how could you ever love someone else!? How could you know how to love someone else!?"

Carter thinks it's funny, the fact that although it's been nine months which means six banks robbed and close to an ending of another meaningless year she still can't seem to find a way to wipe him from her mind.

She falls asleep to the thought of him holding the same struggle as her. The struggle of losing the imagination of the other.

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a/n: sorry for another short chapter, came up with this at three in the morning last night and thought it was nice with the song i chose. i half edited.