perilous | hemmings

xxiv

central park, new york, 2014
7:13 a.m.

"sage," i whisper, peaking out from our cover.

"yes?" sage asks, body shaking viciously.

"take off your mask." i say quietly, taking my own off.

she gives me a questioning look, but obliges, and looks around, horror soon showing on her face.

"oh my god." she breaths, looking at our dead best friends, the dead gang members, the dead cops. the blood that has stained the dirt and grass. the blood spilling from our pulsing open wounds. everything has been ruined.

"oh christ," she says, tears falling. "everything's gone wrong, luke. everyone's dead and we're so bloody i'm going to be sick. this was so stupid. this my fault and i can't ever be sorry enough, darling."

"it's not your fault. we've got this! we'll kill all of these dammed whores. we'll move to wherever you want and vacation for life! money and fame and love. doesn't that sound great?"

"it won't happen!" we were talking in quick, hushed whispers. people outside of this conversation wouldn't understand a word we're saying.

"everything has gone wrong," she repeats, this time, standing.