[ WEEK SIX – KILL LOG (NATALIE) ]

[sheriffexe]

[ And it's not even Thursday.

It's Friday night, in fact. Late and actually Saturday at this point. This time the Sheriff has no interference and it is just Will, standing by the bonfire with his hunting knife in his hand, waiting for Natalie to come out.

Because, well, of course she's going to come out. Why wouldn't she? ]

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[robitussin]

[At one moment, she's trying to pry his arm away from her neck because she can't breathe, and then - oh.

If she could breathe normally,she would scream. As it is, she makes a voiceless cry of agony, her eyes widening and her mouth opening in pain. It makes her stop fighting. Relaxing isn't quite the right word, perhaps, but she goes limp in his grasp, expression twisted into pain and despair.

Her hand tightens around his arm, but somehow, it reads as a request for something different this time. Don't let him do anything like that again, she prays. If this is how it's going to end...

Make it fast.]

[sweats]

[ He told her he would make it fast. He only hurt her because she fought.

And now, she isn't fighting.

So, the knife comes out quickly, spray of blood over his hands and the dirt on front of them. He doesn't hesitate, drops his arm from her neck for only a few seconds before --

The knife slides clean across the throat as if he's practiced this many, many times before. He is experienced in one way or another with the movement and his mind sticks, for a moment, to Abigail. To Garret Jacob Hobbs in the kitchen that morning. How fitting that he slices Natalie's throat while she gunned down Hannibal.

How fitting.

When the knife is through, he drops her down to ground with little fanfare and watches her die with a blank expression. He has to wait, he has to see her pulse leave and then --

And then he'll eat her heart. ]

[robitussin]

[Once the knife comes out of her chest, she closes her eyes. Just breathe, think of something else, she tells herself, this will be over soon—

Then, as the knife drives it's way through her neck... All the fright, all the sorrow, every moment of fear and despair doesn't prepare her for the swell of raw, animal panic. I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm going to die, she thinks. Her eyes fly open in pain and terror. She doesn't necessarily expect him to drop her to the ground, but she's too weak to get up or do anything but stare at him from where she lays in the dirt.

For a moment, she tries to bring her hand up to stop the bleeding, but in the end she doesn't have enough time to move it all the way to her neck. As her strength leaves her, her hand ends up falling onto her chest. She keeps trying to talk, making low and guttural noises through the blood bubbling out of her throat, pouring into the ground. None of it is actually audible.

In the end, she looks out towards the water as she starts to feel incredibly weak, as her vision starts to go black around the edges. All at once, she thinks of a night not too long ago - kneeling on the bank, one hand grasping hers, one hand gently squeezing her shoulder. Fingers intertwined. A boy she may never see again.

Her fear gives way to sorrow, to longing, as the life leaves her eyes. Her last thoughts: Jason. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.]