“I’m sorry.” Sasha says.

Her eyes are boring holes into the floor. Her shoulders are tense as if waiting for rejection.

“No. Hey, Sash, can you look at me?” Marcy placed her hand on Sasha’s cheek. The touch was gentle. She wouldn’t force Sasha to look at her if she wasn’t ready.

Sasha’s hand came up to brush the back of Marcy’s and Marcy twisted her palm so that their hands could intertwine. Sasha stared at their hands for a moment before hesitantly lifting her eyes to meet Marcy’s.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’ve been avoiding you recently…” Marcy pauses trying to figure out how to word her apology. She’d recited what she wanted to say over and over in her head, but now that she’s in the moment it doesn’t sound like enough. Sasha needed her and she wasn’t there. How could words be enough?

“I understand why. I wouldn’t want to be around me either.” Sasha looks down at her mud caked boots – Marcy realizes she forgot to remind Sasha to remove them when they entered the bedroom – and Marcy could see tears pooling in her eyes.

“No, listen to me. That was wrong. You're suffering right now and I should have been there for you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there and it made you feel disgusted with yourself. You deserve better than that.” Marcy gives Sasha’s hand a squeeze. Sasha pulls her hand away, curling it into her chest, and Marcy’s heart sinks.

“I don’t deserve better, Marce. People are dead because of me. I– You saw what I did.” The statement settles, heavy between them, but Marcy’s not done because she won’t leave here until Sasha knows that she understands now.

“You did what you had to. If you hadn’t you wouldn’t be here. You are a good and kind person. Nothing will ever change that.” She hoped that got through to Sasha. Marcy doesn’t know what she would have done if Sasha hadn’t come back. Yeah, she’d have Anne, but it wouldn’t be the same. There would always be a half of her heart missing.

A single tear cuts down Sasha’s cheek that she swipes away quickly. Even after all these years she still struggles with showing vulnerability around anyone, even Anne and Marcy. Things like that can be hard to unlearn after years on the streets.

The silence doesn’t last long because immediately after wiping the tear away Sasha gives marcy a small smirk and quirks her right eyebrow.

“I don’t know about nothing. I could always try and take over the kingdom.”

Marcy knows Sasha’s heart isn’t totally in the joke but she plays along because she knows that Sasha needs the levity right now.

“Honey, we both know Anne and I would kick your ass if you tried to do that.”

Sasha laughs through her nose and rests her forehead on Marcy’s shoulder.

All Sasha’s energy seems to leave her as her body goes limp. Everything that’s happened and all the neglect Sasha’s shown her body these past few days catches up to her and Sasha is left drained emotionally and physically.

Marcy makes a mental note to give Sasha another healing draught and maybe something to help her sleep. She always keeps a few of each in her study – considering how accident prone she was and how much trouble she had sleeping herself it was necessary – so she could swing by there a little bit later to–

Marcy’s thoughts are cut short when Sasha breaks the silence.

“I miss Grime.“ Sasha says. Her voice raw and scratchy.

Marcy’s heart breaks and she wraps her arms around Sasha’s shoulders, pulling her close. She wishes that she could take some of Sasha’s pain into her own body, that it could seep into her along with Sasha’s body heat.

Sasha’s lost every parent she’s ever known. Grime gave Sasha food and a roof over her head, but more importantly he gave her a life and unconditional love. Things she lacked for longer than any child deserved. Marcy couldn’t imagine what that kind of loss was like.

“I know.” Marcy whispers the words, quiet like she thinks that if she speaks any louder it will shatter the moment.

“I just want him back. Sometimes…” Sasha’s voice cracks and she swallows, starting over. “Sometimes I wish it had been me.”

Marcy’s blood turns to ice. She had a suspicion that was what Sasha was about to say but it still hurt more than anything to hear out loud.

“He would have never wanted that. He cared about you more than anything. And he’s not the only one. Anne and I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

Sasha burrows her face into the crook of Marcy’s neck and, for the first time since Marcy’s known her, Sasha lets herself cry.

This takes place in the same world as Phil Tippett’s Mad God. In that film there is a live vivisection and this is my take on it.

The scavenger came too slowly. 

Sickly yellow light and blood filled tubes filled his vision. He tried to move, move anything at all, but it was as if his brain were disconnected from his body. All he could do was look around. He couldn’t even blink.

A dull fear panged at the back of his mind. He knew what this place was used for but he couldn’t quite pull the memory from the muddled, inky depths of his mind.

He glanced around the septic room. The walls around him were blackened by mold and splattered blood, their paint peeling and stained. A tray sat by his bedside with a blood soaked fabric underneath antiseptic needles and medical knives and syringes strewn beside them. A single rusted metal clock sat on the far wall. 

His vision tunneled on the clock as horror dawned on him. The second hand seemed to slow and the ticking grew louder. 

The ticking sounded strange, as if someone was plucking a metal prong or releasing a metal spring, allowing the metal to return to its original form only to resume the process all over again with each time causing it to warp and distort the noise a little more. 

The ticking fell into a rhythm, matching his heartbeat as it started to quicken, and his eyes darted above him in panic. There were x-rays on the walls and a brief memory flashed across his mind. 

A syringe jammed into his throat. His strength beginning to wane. Light fading into spots of black and white.

A ringing filled his ears, but he wasn’t given time to recover as shadows entered the doorway to his room. They walk over and situate themselves by his bed (Bed? Table? He didn’t know. He couldn’t feel what was beneath him), becoming black silhouettes against the suddenly burning bright glow of the lights above him.

The bigger silhouette grabs a pair of plastic gloves and puts them on. The synthetic plastic stretches over his hand as he pulls it down and flexes his fingers, making sure it fits perfectly against his skin. He lets go of the bottom and the resulting snap is dulled by the fabric of his sleeve.

The smaller shadow’s glasses glint in the dim lighting as they grab one of the scalpels strewn across the tray by the bedside and hand it to the doctor. The movements are stilted, mechanical, almost as if the scene happening before the scavenger’s eyes was missing frames.

His breathing grows shaky as the scalpel gets closer to his chest and it vaguely registers that all of his clothes are missing. All he has covering him is a thick layer of dirty bandages, worn by the sweat and gentle rub of the layers he is forced to wear while exploring the unknown depths.

None of that matters because the scalpel cuts through the bandages and flesh with ease. Blood pours from the cut, dyeing the already stained bandages red.

The lack of pain does little to ease the terror of seeing his chest and belly split open in fact in some ways it makes it worse. Pain tells you you’re still alive. It tells you that you exist, especially in a world like this.

Everything feels like he’s seeing it through someone else’s eyes. He can’t feel the sharp pain of being cut into. He can’t feel the warmth of his own blood. He can’t feel the fingers digging into the newly created seam in his flesh, his chest being pried open and his ribs being broken, jagged and uneven, to expose his heart and organs.

His mind screams to do something, anything, to stop himself from getting torn apart, but all he can manage is a pitiful twitch of the fingers on his left hand that sends pins and needles through his arm.

The shadow’s hands disappeared into his chest cavity. The wet, sticky shlormp of blood and guts being roughly displaced could be heard as the doctor dug around inside him. 

Thick, congealed blood spurts from his body coating the doctor and walls a dark magenta. Slimy film and organs are removed and unceremoniously dropped onto the floor. The doctor diving back in immediately each time he pulls back.

This seems to go on forever before the distorted jingling of something metal hitting the messy linoleum floor could be heard. Jewelry, maps, and coins were being pulled from among his organs. 

He wondered if he was unique in any way. If anything being pulled from him gave him any semblance of individuality or if it was all something the doctor had seen before. 

He knows this is where scavengers are brought to die. How he’s dying isn’t unique just like how the mission he carried out in life wasn’t unique. Was he just another identical cog that came and went? Inconsequential and irrelevant?

Was he just like that hair doll he watched be trampled to death? Just another pointless, inevitable demise that no one will notice?

He doesn’t know and he probably won’t ever know.

The scavenger is forced to look away as handfuls upon handfuls of items are pulled from his stomach to try and provide distraction from the thoughts toiling away in his brain. 

His eyes settled on the far wall where some of his blood had splattered during the procedure. His mind detached as he watched the blood ooze down the wall, light glinting off it in a way that accentuated every rivulet of blood that slowly slipped down towards the floor.

He doesn’t know how long he was staring but he was shocked back to the present by the wet slap of damp paper hitting the floor below. His eyes are drawn back to the arms that are up to their elbows within him. 

The next thing the shadow pulled out wasn’t anything he’d seen before. It looked like another being, stiff and rigid as if it had been dead for a while. The doctor looked it over for a second before it was dropped to the floor, treated with the same dignity as the gold and guts before it.

Two more are pulled from his body and dropped before one comes out writhing and crying, sharp and piercing, cutting through the artificial sound of machines beeping and respirators forcing air in and out of useless lungs. 

The smaller shadow, the assistant, offers a small bin the wiggling body is thrown into. The doctor doesn’t even give it a second glance. The assistant, however, gently wraps it in a fuzzy pink blanket completely out of place in this environment. There’s a hint of care that can be seen through the blood, grime, and protective gear obscuring the assistant’s face - care that shouldn’t be there considering where they are and what she’s doing - but it is closely followed by sadness and the scavenger understands the being’s fate. 

Nothing lasts here, let alone something as helpless and fragile as that thing pulled from his belly. At least something cared for it, however briefly, before it had to go.

She carefully cradles the thing in her arms and rushes off. The doctor doesn’t even acknowledge the absence, continuing to prep something as the crying fades down the hall.

He hears a switch flip just out of his line of sight and the tools attached to the operating table come to life. The one on his right whirred to life, its jagged teeth spinning in a circle, and pushed into his head, drilling through the bandages and bone to reach his brain.

He hears the bone grinding to dust, sees the boredom in the doctor’s posture, and knows there’s nothing special about him. He’s just one of hundreds they go through every day and yet a part of him wants to escape and live out his life even if it is in the world of suffering he is surrounded by. 

He doesn’t need to be special. He just wants to be.

He guesses it doesn’t matter because he’s already–

…

Everything was burning. The homes, the people, and even the great bridge, which had once been a symbol of unity between the two factions that had just massacred each other, had been turned to ash. Death was everywhere.

As Abby looked at the destruction from her tiny raft, floating far away from the island, she couldn’t help but feel utter despair. There was no returning now.

The causes she had once thought were noble had created all this death. She realized, not for the first time, how misguided those causes were. All those paths led to was destruction.

The flickering flames danced as they consumed the island, glittering off the turbulent water in an ever changing mosaic. In a twisted way it was mesmerizing. She couldn’t turn her eyes away as a ringing filled her ears and her mind went blank. The image seared itself into her mind so she’ll never forget.

She startled as she felt shifting in her arms. She glanced down at the sleeping baby she had escaped with. He was burrowing himself deeper into her chest, eyebrows furrowed and goosebumps raised along his exposed arms.

She wished she had something to swaddle him in but she’d only escaped with the clothes on her back so she adjusted her arms and body to try and shield him from the biting wind.

It appeared to work at least a bit because his face relaxed and he nuzzled her shirt.

She wasn’t sure which faction he belonged to, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that a child would get the chance to live.

He was stuck with her as a parent though.

That prospect somewhat terrified Abby. All she knew was death and destruction. She never knew her parents. How could she be a good parent to this baby? He was so soft and fragile unlike Abby who was all scars and rough edges. When she looked down at him there was an odd warmth that bloomed in her chest that thawed some of the cold, jittery panic that threatened to overcome her.

The baby was so small he seemed to weigh nothing. There’s no way he was heavier than five pounds. At that thought a protective urge surged within her.

She had been powerless to stop the destruction behind them so she wanted more than anything to protect his innocence at least a little longer. He shouldn’t have to brave the harshness of their world or situation.

Not yet. Hopefully not for a long time.

She chuckled a bit when she realized the irony of her own thoughts. The old her would have hated how soft she’s become. She would have helped perpetuate the death and destruction amongst the flames but she couldn’t do that anymore. She tore herself apart for a cause that never wanted the peace she fought for in the first place. She wants to finally protect rather than avenge.

Abby looked back up one last time to the island she spent the last ten years fighting and killing for before taking a deep breath and turning towards the distant shore of the mainland.

Moving forward was all she had to hold onto. The past was unreachable, burned to the ground and covered in corpses. She didn’t know what would happen or how, but she hoped beyond hope that it wasn’t more of the destruction that they had run from.

“Some people were born just so they could be buried.”

Is that true of me? The thought chilled Sadie to the bone. Was her entire existence worthless? This wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed Sadie’s mind. She often contemplated the point of her existence. She could never come to a conclusion that wasn’t depressing.

The difference this time was that she was thinking this in front of her father’s fresh grave. The wet earthy scent that came with the recent rain was helping Sadie keep grounded as her thoughts began to drift back to the first time she’d heard that line.

That line was something her father had told her once at her brother’s funeral. It had Infuriated her at the time. He had neglected and abused her brother until he had committed suicide and then had the gall to turn around and act like this ending was inevitable.

How could he deny what was right in front of him? It felt like just another way for him to let her know how useless she was and how little he actually cared about them. How little value her and her brother’s lives had.

Why was she sad standing here in front of his grave when those were the types of things he’d say to her? Was she mourning him or the loss of any type of closure their relationship could have possibly had? Sadie doesn’t know.

She doesn’t even know why she’s here in the first place. Is she hoping seeing the grave will provide her with some sort of closure? A definitive end to their already broken beyond repair relationship? Some sort of closure for years of pain? Closure that Sadie so desperately wants. That’s an ache so deep in her chest that she feels may never cease.

The late morning sun shone through the trees dappling the grave with light. She traced the words carved into his headstone with her eyes and scoffed at the irony of them.

It read that he was a loving father and husband. Whoever engraved those words didn’t know him very well. Those words caused the ache deep in her chest to surge, squeezing her heart in a vice like grip.

She wished he had been the loving father the engraving claimed he was. She wished her childhood would have been filled with laughter rather than fear.

Why? The question pops up unbidden to her mind.

What was the point of it all? It all seems so pointless? What could she have possibly done to deserve his anger? She was just a child. She never tried to be bad, but it seemed like that was all she ever was.

“Some people were born just so they could be buried.”

Maybe that applied to her father too. But in a way he had left his mark. A permanent mark on her so maybe being buried wasn’t his only purpose.

A wave of guilt crashed over Sadie. How could she think that? He was dead and she was thinking about how that may have been his only purpose in life. She was thinking just like him.

She felt sick, but also overwhelmingly angry. He’d told her that when she was just a child, he’d done so much that he never seemed to remember and so much that Sadie would never be able to forget.

What was the point? Sadie wasn’t sure which thought she hated more that her suffering had purpose or that it was pointless.

If it had purpose that means she had to go through it to be who she is today. That before she wasn’t “good and kind” like everyone claimed she was now. If it was pointless then it didn’t need to happen. She could have gone through her life happily and still learned the important “lessons” that people say her suffering taught her. Both of those options just served to further accentuate the ache deep in her chest.

It felt like she was going to explode from the pain, but she also felt so weirdly numb. The pain is engulfing her but everything seems muted and slow like being underwater. It was sort of like drowning.

That thought snapped her out of her contemplation. She blinked hard trying to get that thought out of her head before it spiraled.

Water had been used by her father in ways that made it impossible for her to take anything other than a shower. She shook her head trying to banish the thoughts and growing panic. Staying here wasn’t giving Sadie the answers she so desperately wanted. All it was doing was further confusing her.

“Some people were born just so they could be buried.”

Maybe that’s what she needed to do with her father’s memory, put it to rest. She wishes it was that simple. That she could bury her memories of him with him. That could be poetic and in a way her father’s sentiment would be correct. Just not applied to the person he was talking about.

She would never forget her brother. He was so kind and loving. The complete opposite of her father. She just wished that it was possible to bury her father and live with just the memories of her brother. But both made their mark and both are permanent because, try as she might, forgetting wasn’t possible. She would live with it, but maybe now she was free to choose how exactly she lived with it.

It’s not exactly hopeful, but it is the start of something new. A new possibility, she just wished it didn’t start with pain and conflict, but it was better than nothing.

Sadie took one last hard look at the grave, turned on her heel, and walked away. She would never return to this place and that was for the better.

Dawn ran on autopilot. The rage and pain of her loss driving the downward thrust of the bat in her hands. The man below her had helped take the person most important to her. He held Ben down when he was shot in the head. She had been beaten and helpless to do anything but watch.

She changed the trajectory of her slash from the man’s body to hit his face. The bat made purchase with his jaw with a sharp crack. Blood splattered as his cheek burst open with the force of the hit and a few teeth were knocked loose.

She lifts it up once more for a decisive blow when the man’s gun, that she’d knocked away earlier, is pointed right at her. Time seems to slow as their eyes meet and a thrill shoots through her. This is what she was waiting for. But the hardness leaves his eyes and he lets the gun go. The clatter of it hitting the ground causes confusion to flicker through Dawn’s mind. Why would he do that?

Then she sees the look on his face and it clicks into place. That look in his eyes is the one she’s seen too many times when looking in the mirror. He’s daring her to finish it. He wants her to.

That confusion turns to red hot anger. How dare he? He can’t regret what he’s done now. He already helped take Ben away. It’s too late. For a split second she considers slamming the bat down over and over, making him pay for what he did. Giving into the beast inside of her that craves the brutality and claws at her chest to be let out. But just as quickly as the thought flickers through her mind it vanishes and an overwhelming nausea takes its place.

She’s so sick of herself.

She hesitates for a moment, looking like she’s about to bring the bat down, before she lets it go. A ringing overtakes her ears, blocking out the noise of the bat hitting the ground behind her.

She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut, anger threatening to explode, as she starts to pace. Her left arm curls into a fist by her side while her right palm comes to rest on her forehead, nails digging into her scalp. Dawn wants it to hurt. Needs it to hurt. Her anger screams for an outlet. It’s too much.

She whirls on her heel to stare down the man on the floor.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” She growls the words through her gritted teeth.

The man’s eyes glance away and he remains silent.

“Why didn’t you shoot?!”

Her head starts to pound as pressure builds from anger too big for her body. Tears fall down her face that she didn’t realize had even sprung to her eyes. Anger at her own weakness surges within her, pushing her further into her spiral.

Both hands come to rest on the sides of her head, pushing against the pulsing in her skull.

She increases the pressure until the pain grants some clarity to her thoughts.

A bitter chuckle falls from her lips.

Her shoulders start to shake. It’s almost as if something broke and a switch had flipped.

She flings her hands out to the side, palms facing the ceiling, and a crooked grin contorts her face.

“Are you afraid someone will come around and try to avenge me too? No one will. I don’t have anyone! You helped kill the last person who gave a shit about me!”

Her voice rises in pitch as her desperation seeps through. The intent behind her mission was clear. This wasn’t about revenge. Not really.

She starts to laugh harder. Words tumbling out that are little more than incoherent pieces of the rushing thoughts in her head.

“Of course.”

The laughing turns to full blown cackling.

“Of course this is what happens. I’m such an idiot.”

She takes a step backwards and her legs buckle. Dawn falls to the floor, slamming her tailbone onto the ground while her back hits the soft sofa in the middle of the room. A jolt of pain shoots through her but it feels distant like it’s floating just out of reach. She’s aware of its presence but she can’t reach out and touch it.

The unbridled rage that was a blazing inferno inside her snuffs out in an instant and all that’s left in its place is that bone deep tiredness that feels like it will never go away. The kind sleeping won’t fix and feels like it will always be a part of you.

Her eyes unfocus as the helplessness washes over her.

Nothing was ever going to change. She would always end up right back here. There was an inevitability to this cycle of loss, mistakes, and pain that she found so funny in the moment.

It’s as if the world wanted to make her live with the ghosts of all those that had died because of her.

Dawn struggles to gasp air into her lungs between bouts of manic laughter and her sides begin to hurt.

She vaguely registers the man sitting up and the gun being cocked but she doesn’t care. She leans her head back onto the cushions, nose pointing to the water stained ceiling, and lets her eyes fall shut. She’s ready. All she wants to do is rest.

Her laughter slows in time with the ebb of energy from her body. Her will and ability to feel begin to leave her.

It takes all her energy but she manages to push three words past her lips.

“Just do it.”

The breathy chuckles peter out and she waits, focusing on the slow inhale and exhale of air from her lungs. She’s so goddamn tired. Even breathing takes too much energy and focus.

Those few minutes she sits there feel like years. The bang that would signify her final blissful moment before an eternity of rest never comes.

Her eyes creak open just slightly so she can glance down towards the man in front of her.

He’s hunched over, head on his knees, left hand tangled in his hair while his right hand limply holds the gun. He looks small, defeated. She doesn’t have the energy to startle when he breaks the silence.

“Just leave.”

She blinks slowly and slightly tilts her head to get a better look at him. The words take a second to register. When they finally do she’s left with one question.

“Why?”

He finally glances up, meeting her gaze, and she can see the dark rings under his eyes. They look almost as bad as her’s. Blood oozes from his cheek and drips from his chin onto the wooden floor. The quiet noise it makes is the only thing that breaks the silence between them.

He opens his mouth and tries to speak but his voice breaks. He closes his mouth and swallows down the lump in his throat before trying again.

“I’m tired of all…” He gestures at his surroundings and the gun in his hand vaguely “this. I can’t do it anymore and you clearly can’t either.”

Dawn breathes in deeply and sighs. He’s right. She can’t do this anymore.

“Why did you drop the gun?”

She knows the answer but she wants to hear him say it. She wants the confirmation.

“The same reason you dropped the bat.”

She should probably just leave but she wants any little bit of closure she can find even if she is just grasping at grains of sand in the wind. She may already suspect the answers but she needs to hear it.

He seems willing to talk so she may as well take advantage.

“Why didn’t you two kill me that day? You should have. I was the one who pissed you all off, not Ben.”

Dawn pushes herself up so she can sit up straighter. The awkward movement causes her shoulder to twinge. It still hasn’t healed fully from being dislocated that day.

“Glen wanted to send a message. It was obvious you didn’t care much for your own life but you clearly cared about him.”

She knew that was the answer she was going to get but hearing it out loud still hurt. Her heart squeezed. It felt like it had been bruised.

In a sick twisted way she was relieved to hear it. To know she was in part to blame. It felt weirdly vindicating to know her self hatred was well founded rather than misdirected.

Her vision blurred but she was determined not to let the tears fall. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She wouldn’t show that kind of weakness.

“He didn’t deserve that.” Dawn’s voice comes out hard and quiet.

He looked like he had been slapped and had the decency to look ashamed. Dawn continues.

“The last thing he asked of me was to always remember him. He was about to get adopted. He was so excited but then… He really didn’t deserve that. He was too good .” The ‘for me’ remains unspoken. He was too good for Dawn and he was too good for this world.

“I didn’t… didn’t know. I…” his voice cracks again and Dawn can’t feel anything towards him, let alone sympathy. All that’s left after this admission is a hollowed out feeling like someone scraped out all her insides leaving her just a shell.

Dawn levels the man with a glare. Her ocean eyes pierce into his making sure these next words hit.

“I don’t care. I will never forgive you.”

His eyes squeeze shut and he turns his head away. His lips are pressed into a thin line that must be painful considering his injuries.

Dawn heaves herself to her feet, the pain of the last few hours finally making itself known as her body throbs in protest. She pushes it to the back of her mind as she walks towards the door. The man doesn’t acknowledge the movement, he makes no effort to move.

Dawn couldn’t care less at this point. She’s so tired that she can’t muster up the energy to feel anything right now. When she gets to the doorway she pauses, looking at the darkened stairway, and realizes she doesn’t know how to keep living without her anchor.

A groan reverberates behind her which is all the push she needs to move through the entryway. She’ll just have to do what she’s done her entire life up until this point- put one foot in front of the other and try her best to survive. It isn’t living but it’s the best she can do with the hand she’s been dealt in life.

The first step creaks as she starts down the stairs.

There’s so much that she’ll always be forced to remember and so little she’ll be able to forget.

Dawn jerks awake with a strangled scream caught in her throat. Her muscles tense, unable to move, as her eyes dart around trying to search her surroundings for danger.

Every shadow seems like an unseen danger before her eyes land on a familiar form less than 3 feet to her right. Oz, her brother, sleeps soundly, undisturbed by her sudden thrashing and ragged breathing.

He always did sleep like a rock and it usually worried her because of how dangerous that was in their world but right now she was grateful for it.

She takes a deep shaky breath as the memories of where she is come slowly back to her. That’s right. She’s no longer kept in those cells. Her and Oz are free. They managed to find shelter in a church for the night.

She looks around, reacquainting herself with the place now that she remembers where she is.

Her eyes are drawn to the stained glass windows that are illuminated by the moonlight. Reds, blues, and yellows form pictures of a story that Dawn is unfamiliar with but give her something to focus on while she gets her breathing under control.

Her muscles relax bit by bit and she lets her eyes fall closed. The cool night air chills her wet hairline and neck.

As control returns to her body and the shaking lessens, her thoughts drift back to the nightmare that woke her in the first place and the words that have plagued her since she heard them.

“Because we are also what we have lost”

That was one of the last things Dante had said to Dawn before the life left his eyes.

It was said tauntingly like he knew he had won in some way despite the fact that Dawn was now free and he was gone. And at first it was easy to brush it away and chalk it up to Dante’s hubris and delusion, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, Dawn couldn’t help but feel like he was right.

She was free and yet she didn’t feel free at all. She felt shackled to those pits she’d been forced to fight in. No matter how far she went her past still followed her with every waking hour. Even her dreams offered no reprieve from the memories.

Dawn was starting to believe that this was all that she was - a bitter, empty husk due to all that she had lost, completely devoid of goodness and happiness. But she persevered for her brother, Oz.

He was so hopeful and excited to see the world in spite of how barren it was. She was glad that at the very least her loss had made it so that he had been able to keep his wonder. That was what she tried to remind herself of on her worst days. Some days it works, but others… she’d rather not think about those days.

Those days are the worst. When she can’t keep the overwhelming anger, sadness, and pure emptiness that she feels contained and nothing is safe. On those days she’s just a vessel for destruction and everything is in the blast radius. This is when the survivor who championed the pits comes out. The cruel and brutal beast that is a permanent part of her now, a part of her that she fears may be who she truly is.

Maybe the part of her that hates hurting people and wants to help is the front, the mask the beast hides behind. Dawn isn’t sure and she doesn’t know if she wants an answer.

That beast is what filled the holes of what she had lost. Maybe that was what Dante meant. That the brutality that she showed in the pits and to him was what she was now because of what she had lost. So in a way he had won. He had succeeded in killing her because the person she was now was incongruent with the person she was before. The person she was before was dead and the beast was all that was left.

Maybe Dawn’s just being dramatic, blowing things out of proportion, but she’s alone with her thoughts right now and she tends to spiral when that happens. Well, actually she tends to spiral all the time no matter the circumstances, but it’s especially bad when she has no distractions.

Dawn looks over at the window. It’s still dark out. It probably will be for the next few hours. Well there goes doing anything that could be even somewhat productive.

She then looks over to Oz. He’s sleeping peacefully. His face is so relaxed and she can’t help a spike of jealousy from shooting through her. How can he be so at peace in this hellish world? She knows she shouldn’t be jealous, she should be glad. If anyone deserves rest it’s Oz. He’s the one who keeps them going. Dawn’s just the one who does the dirty work. If she was alone she would have given up a long time ago.

In this moment though Dawn is struck with how young Oz looks. He is young, but this life ages people and they very rarely retain their youth. And another pang hits her. One filled with jealousy, but also sadness, anger, and an aching, painful type of relief. She’s succeeded in protecting the one thing that matters most.

The ache is what finally gets her to move. She sits up very slowly, wincing while she does it. Dawn lifts her shirt to inspect the bandage making sure she hasn’t reopened her wound. The bandage is clean, well as clean as it can be, with no signs of blood. Dawn sighs in relief. The last thing they need is for her to reopen the wound or for it to get infected.

She quietly finishes getting up and takes one last glance over at Oz before heading over to the door to the building. The sun still wasn’t up, but at this point she didn’t care. She was going to do a perimeter check or anything productive to take her mind off of everything.

Would there ever be peace for her? Is there any way that she could get back, even just partially, all that she had lost? Or would the beast always remain? Dawn didn’t know, but she did know that the hope Oz held onto all those months wasn’t unfounded.

Project Babylon existed. What her and Oz had been searching for was actually out there. So maybe, just maybe, there would actually be a future. Maybe she would learn to hope again and maybe for the first time since the pits once again not be what she had lost.

And with that final thought she pushed the door open and slipped out into the darkness.

There’s one memory I always go back to. One moment that I think I truly felt peaceful. It’s not a significant moment or anything that would sound as impactful as it was. It’s a short quiet moment. One that feels personal but is most likely universal in the actions though not in the feelings I experienced.

That moment I think of was one summer day when I was alone and submerged in the pool.

I was underwater looking up while letting myself sink in time with the slow release of air from my lungs. As I sunk lower and the bubbles rose to break the surface I was struck with the beauty of the moment.

The thing about water is that when you’re surrounded by it everything feels calmer. Noises are muted, movements are slower, light twinkles and seeps through the barrier but doesn’t feel blinding.

The world often feels like too much to me. Too much noise, too much light, too many people that frighten me or burn me out. It often leaves me feeling hollow and so tired. But in that moment nothing was too much and for once my mind was quiet.

I could stare up at the world above, distorted by the gentle turbulence of the water’s surface, and take it in without feeling overwhelmed.

The gentle sway of the water lightly rocked me back and forth and lulled me, soothing the anxiety right beneath my skin and making my issues fall to the back of my mind.

I wished I could stay there forever. My mind is never quiet and my fears never quelled. But something so calming can never last forever. Reality always has a way of crashing back into me.

I tried so hard to stay there as long as I could, taking a snapshot of time to hold onto, but soon enough the burning in my lungs became so urgent that my body tried to drag air into my lungs against my will and I was forced to kick off the bottom to break the surface.

It was immediate. Everything came rushing back.

The barrier between me and the world was gone and so was the peace.

When beheading with a guillotine was a public execution people used to bet on how many times the eyes would blink after the head was severed from the body. The person was no longer alive but their brain was still active causing the eyelids to twitch. Once it stopped the life would leave their eyes.

But what happens when someone is shot in the head? The brain goes flying everywhere. There’s nothing to fire off signals so the body doesn’t twitch, the eyes don’t blink, the life immediately leaves without a trace. There’s no last few moments of movement. It’s immediate. Permanent. Immutable.

It happens in the blink of an eye. One second they’re there and alive the next…

That image doesn’t go away. It’s burned into your eyelids. Every time you blink, every time you sleep, every time there’s a sudden loud noise- it always comes back to haunt you. There’s no escape.

That’s one of the hardest parts. Outside of the guilt. Knowing it should have been you. That you would do anything to have one more second with them and you would trade places in a heartbeat. That this outcome came from your own actions. You weren’t the one who pulled the trigger but you created a domino effect that lead to that moment. And you can never take it back.

You didn’t mean to. You’re so sorry. You’re so fucking sorry but you can’t turn back the clock.

You’ve held many things in your hands, and You’ve lost them all.

This is the latest in a long string of losses that weighs on your soul or what’s left of it. Each loss feels like it’s chipped away at your heart and it’s gotten to the point where it feels like it’s crumbled to dust and blown away in the wind.

You’ve tried so hard to keep it intact but it feels like you’re desperately trying to grasp at grains of sand in a storm. Each time you collect even a fraction it’s blown away and you’re left desperately grasping at the pieces as they pass through your fingers.

It feels broken beyond repair. The one thing keeping you going is a promise you made one night under the stars. A promise you made on a whim because you felt it would never come to pass but ended up being some of the last words that passed between you two.

You promised to never forget them. Even if you weren’t together you would each carry on the other’s memory. It was a silly promise made between two lonely kids that were afraid and uncertain. But now you aren’t together and memories are all you have.

You will never forget.

When I look in the mirror all I see is a stranger.

Bright blue eyes, once my single pride in my appearance, stare back at me, leveling me with a tired glare. They say eyes are windows to the soul but the ones looking at me are empty. There’s no spark, no burning passion I once triumphed. When did everything change?

I know the answer but don’t want to voice it. Nothing changed. I had felt this hollow for as long as I could remember but learned long ago to hide it. Nothing good comes from showing it to other people.

I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, desperately throwing myself into my passions to distract myself from it. But I would push so hard and so far that I would burn up and fizzle out.

Never completely. Somehow I managed to keep some embers lit and over time I would stoke the fire until it is once again a raging inferno. But, almost like Icarus who flew too close to the sun, I would burn myself up. It’s like I never learn. I inevitably end up right back here at the starting line. Tired, hollow, and wishing I didn’t exist.

The weird thing is the person in the mirror is always a stranger. No matter where I am in this cycle I’ve stuck myself in. It’s like I’m watching a movie of my own life. A passenger to my own story.

The more desperately I push myself to try and wrestle back some semblance of control the faster I facilitate my own downfall.

The eyebrows of the reflection furrow, trying their hardest to meet in the middle. The tired glare becomes piercing as the ocean eyes harden. Why am I like this?

Something hot and fiery burns in my chest and I bite down on my tongue to prevent the scathing words from leaving my mouth. Red, hot anger flares up. Of course the first thing I’ve felt in months would be this bitter, hostile emotion. I can never process things like a normal person.

There’s the urge to slam my fist into the mirror, to yell and rage at the person on the other side, because they’re the one I hate the most. But I don’t. I hold it back.

An iron tang blooms in my mouth as my tongue starts to bleed. I clench my fists and dig my fingers into my palms. I wish for once that I didn’t regularly cut my nails so that the sharp edges could dig in and cut the callused flesh beneath them.

The pain is grounding. It eases the emotions bubbling right below the surface threatening to break free. But it doesn’t quite satisfy that part of me that wants to hurt. That wants the distraction.

The air in the room has become suffocating. My breathing becomes haggard. Desperation claws at my chest in a way that I never know how to stifle. One hand snakes into my hair and digs into my scalp, trying to ground me again with the pain. I go to squeeze my eyes shut like it will block out the thoughts rushing through my head but I catch one final glimpse of the person in the mirror who is more recognizable to me than ever in that moment.

There I am. The real me. The broken and fragile little kid that I hide. It’s not as comforting to see someone I recognize as I thought it would be. I squeeze my eyes completely shut and let the panic run its course. I don’t want to see that person in the mirror anymore.

This was all Gwen’s fault. If only she’d paid attention to the signs. Seen Harry spiraling because of Peter’s death. She could have stopped history from repeating itself. She could have prevented yet another violent confrontation with a friend.

Yet here they were in the sewer of all places.

A large reptilian hand crushes Gwen’s chest, pinning her to the wall. The pressure prevents her rib cage from expanding, making breathing difficult, and darkness starts to creep in at the edges of her vision.

Her hands are restrained by the reptilian man’s second hand, her left webshooter is crushed, and the antidote lies near the water by Harry’s feet. He hasn’t seen it yet. She struggles futilely against the larger and stronger creature that used to be her best friend. She searches his eyes looking for any hint of the man he was before, for any hint of Harry.

She looks into eyes she doesn’t recognize. All they convey is pain and anger. She knows that look. It’s one she sees often when staring in the mirror and she knows what she has to do.

Before she has time to hesitate she acts, kicking Harry in the chin. His grip on her hands loosens and she has just enough time to reach up and yank off her mask.

“Harry! It’s me! It’s Gwen!” She shouts.

The pressure on her chest lessens as his pupils revert from the slits they had become. Recognition flits across his face.

“Gwen? But how could you? ... Peter was your best friend.”

“I know...” her voice cracks. This isn’t how she wanted any of this to turn out. She was just a stupid kid who got amazing powers and didn’t realize her own strength.

“I deserve whatever comes my way but you can’t fall down this hole Harry. The serum will continue to change you until there’s no turning back. I can’t lose another friend because of my actions.”

He seems to be coming around but then his pupils return to being slits and a roar bursts from his throat, reverberating through Gwen’s own chest. Fear grips her. Ice pooling through her veins. The grip on her right arm loosens and she takes the opportunity to shoot the antidote with her webs and yank it into her hands. In one swift move she stabs and injects the serum into his neck.

He reacts just about as well as she expected. He throws her into the wall to his right. All the breath in her lungs being forced out upon impact with the concrete wall. A large crack can be heard and she’s not sure if it was her bones or the wall that made the noise. She struggles for air, desperately gasping while her lungs seem to reject the action. Every gulp she takes is cut short by pain shooting through her ribs and back.

Gwen tries to stumble to her feet but the world tilts sideways and something crashes into her from above, making it all go black.

When she comes to there is a steady trickle of water onto her head and a solid pressure on her back. The cooling sensation of the water on her head distracts her from the throbbing behind her eyes which she’s grateful for. She blinks her eyes into focus trying to take in her surroundings.

Harry lays not even 20 feet from her, sprawled on the ground, no longer in his reptilian form. He’s unconscious as water pours in from above. It’s filling the lower chamber that they are in and Gwen tries to move for the first time since awakening. Her movements are halted by the rubble that collapsed on top of her, held up from crushing her head and chest by a thick pipe. She’s trapped.

Gwen tries desperately to push the rubble up and off of her, to get to Harry, but her muscles scream at her with every movement. She pushes with everything she has left. It doesn’t move.

She collapses and gasps out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She takes one last gulp before pushing with everything she has once again still to no avail.

She looks over to Harry in despair. His head is barely propped above the water by the jagged rock it rests upon. Something crumbles further, causing water to rush in quicker. If she doesn’t get to him soon he’ll drown and she’ll lose yet another person she cares about.

She’ll have no one to blame but herself.

That thought pushes Gwen to try once more. This isn’t just her life at stake. It’s Harry’s. Harry who she failed just like Peter. Harry who she wasn’t there for when he needed her most. She wouldn’t fail again. She couldn’t.

With shaking arms she pushes herself up, rubble be damned, she’s getting Harry out of there. Her injured body shouts at her that it’s too much but she drowns it out. A guttural cry rips from her throat as she pushes through the pain and slowly but surely throws the rubble off of her.

She stumbles her way out, grabbing Harry. Things are hazy as the bone deep exhaustion seeps in. The moments pass in a blur as she makes her way out. There’s no way she doesn’t have a concussion. But Harry’s safe. Maybe it’s not too little, not too late. Maybe she can have a second chance. She has to make this right.