Foster is... he doesn't know what he's feeling, if anything.
"How?" He asks, but it's a touch emptier than his usual enthusiasm for death would have implied. "How? Drowning? Bludgeon? Strangulation? Cut me open, a bullet to the brain, decapitation, electrocution? Impalement? Through the eye?"
As he advances through the list, his volume rises, a mounting intensity like excitement, like ardour and vehemence and anticipation and... anger. Agitation crept in, and something else took over. He couldn't figure it out at first, why he felt not just expectant but wronged.
But it's because it doesn't matter now.
Taako's offer, now, after the opportunity that really counted... it's too late. It's too late, it's too late, it's too late.
It's too fucking late.
And once it clicks, he understands exactly what hurt about it. Why he was so ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓.
"Why... didn't you kill me then?" He asks, intertia taking him to the question he'd been holding, hiding, coiled like a cask of acid in his aching chest. His tone is somewhat dispassionate, hollow at first, but the momentum builds, and with every word it swells inside of him, emerging with an increasing pedantism that belies his simplistic refrain. "Why didn't you kill me then? Why didn't you kill me then?Why didn't you kill me then?"
TW: suicidal ideation IT'S PROBABLY A LITTLE LATE FOR THIS CONTENT WARNING FUCK
Foster is... he doesn't know what he's feeling, if anything.
"How?" He asks, but it's a touch emptier than his usual enthusiasm for death would have implied. "How? Drowning? Bludgeon? Strangulation? Cut me open, a bullet to the brain, decapitation, electrocution? Impalement? Through the eye?"
As he advances through the list, his volume rises, a mounting intensity like excitement, like ardour and vehemence and anticipation and... anger. Agitation crept in, and something else took over. He couldn't figure it out at first, why he felt not just expectant but wronged.
But it's because it doesn't matter now.
Taako's offer, now, after the opportunity that really counted... it's too late. It's too late, it's too late, it's too late.
It's too fucking late.
And once it clicks, he understands exactly what hurt about it. Why he was so ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓.
"Why... didn't you kill me then?" He asks, intertia taking him to the question he'd been holding, hiding, coiled like a cask of acid in his aching chest. His tone is somewhat dispassionate, hollow at first, but the momentum builds, and with every word it swells inside of him, emerging with an increasing pedantism that belies his simplistic refrain. "Why didn't you kill me then? Why didn't you kill me then? Why didn't you kill me then?"
Then he takes another breath.
"Why did you wait?"
And then:
"Why do I have to wait?"