Lame traffic earring- part two

The air tasted different here.

Too cold.

Too clean.

Like standing at the very top of a world that didn't want you in it.

He stood there, next to that... thing... that wore his face.

That borrowed his laugh.

The killer smiled, a sharp, easy thing,

and spoke of contracts and wishes,

of being bound by paper and ink.

I was falling already,

even without jumping.

My stomach plummeted, a heavy stone,

because the thing he called "Number Three,"

the ghost that was only "spare parts,"

turned to look at the killer and nodded.

He agreed.

He didn't know what he was agreeing to.

He didn't know me.

He accepted his new chains with a shrug,

while mine tightened around my throat.

No- no, this couldn't be happening.

It couldn't be. 

How can you just accept a title you know nothing about?

How can you stand there,

next to the very thing that killed you, and not feel a thing?

You used to call me lame traffic earring.

You still do- 

but you don't know the meaning behind it anymore.

You were my best friend.

And you don't even know it.

I feel bad for you.