Everywhere now reminding me I am not who I used to be. I'm afraid this has just begun. Consequences for what I've done.

I keep thinking that if I don't open my eyes, I'll be OK. The smells, sounds, feelings...why should I open my eyes and add horror to yet another sense? Masochist. Always the masochist.

I force my eyelids open to no surprising sight.

The same concrete walls, the rusted bed frame in the corner. Shackles hanging from various spots around the room. The floor, its color indistinguishable save for the smears and stains of blood. My blood, of course. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself, as if physically attempting to hold in the terror that creeps from my pores. At least I'm alone. Or am I? The steel table that normally holds an array of blood letting and similar items of torture is covered with a thick sheet. The shapes that tent the fabric hint to a vaguely humanoid shape underneath. I look away, shaking my head. Nope. No reason to look under there. In fact, why don't I just turn my gaze from everything but the door. I know it's heavy, locked, and impossible to budge when I was, what I was...before. I'm stronger now. I cross the room with a bravery I don't actually feel.

Again, no surprise when the door swings open before me. The surprise is who is on the other side.

"Tommy!" The priest strides into the room, alleviating only the most minuscule amount of fear. His expression is severe, unsmiling. He sets his eyes on the shape on the table, and then to myself. I shrink away until his lips turn up into the horrifying mockery of a smile that I'm used to. He gestures me forward, into his embrace. I comply despite my misgivings. His cold lips press against my forehead, and I'm almost comforted until I hear the slam and click of the door being pushed shut. I glance up, hoping my fear isn't as obvious as I think.
"No, Tommy, you don't understand. We need to get out of here. If He comes here..."
Tommy presses a finger to my lips. "Shh, Madelyn. We have work to do."
I blink, confused and wary. He pushes me away, stepping towards the table. Without knowing why, I shout "Don't!" 

He pulls the sheet off in a cloud of dust and exposes the being beneath. She appears to be about seventeen. She's tall enough so that her feet dangle slightly off the table, her athletic frame is chained to the cold steel. Her soft brown hair frames rounded features. A light fringe of bangs fall above bright green eyes, held wide open despite the body's inertness. The sight of her sends a shock wave through me, and I back up until the back of my knees hit the dirty mattress. I don't have to study the body to know little features such as chewed finger nails, and a small scar above the top lip. Tommy caresses the girl's face almost affectionately.
"I've found her, Madelyn. The perfect body for you." He looks to me. Smiles. "I told you I would bring you back."
My hands grasp at my sides, seeking the comfort of my knife, my notebook, my iPod...anything. Instead, I clench them into empty fists.
"I'm not dead. I...how did you find her? She's been hidden..."Tommy ignores the sputtered questions, gazing at my bound doppelganger. He seems displeased, even as the girl turns her head to him, expression showing the inquiry that I previously voiced.
"No, no. She isn't right. She isn't ready. Not yet." He glances around the room, contemplating the surroundings. He nods to himself, and begins unchaining the body. I only watch, unsure or unwilling to approach or intervene. When the body is released, the brown haired girl sits up, sliding off the side of the table and falling into Tommy's arms. Her face is all trust and innocence. He seems pleased, as he leads her over to a pair of hanging shackles. I want to call out to tell her to run, but I fear her fate will become mine. I bury my head in my hands as Tommy wraps the cuffs around her wrists. Falling onto the bed, I mumble to myself, trying to ignore my environment in hopes that it will prove to be just another delusion.

The abrupt sound of a sharp, metallic snap brings my attention forefront once more. The Necromancer, my friend, my lover...he stands before my hanging twin. The wooden handle, the nine silvery strips of cord, they're all so familiar. The thin wound seeping blood from the girl's back is familiar, as well. He hits her again and I jump from the bed, a shout of objection on my lips. Tommy turns to me, his face and his collar already speckled with minute traces of blood. His face is a snarl as he points to me with the hand not clutching the whip.
"Madelyn Alexis DeWittier, move no closer."
I'm halted in place, his will forcing me into immobility. No. No. He can't do this. HE CAN'T DO THIS. He smiles, pleased once more. "We must make her perfect. He scars must match yours. Your beautiful scars." His arm rises and falls, tearing strips of skin from the girl. Not a sound escapes from her lips. My maker would be so proud. With each blow, the stripes on my own back sting and tingle. With each blow, the smell of blood grows stronger. I watch the silent torture, meted out by the man who I deluded myself into trusting. The priest pants with exertion, a fine mist of sweat beading on his forehead. Abruptly, he tosses the blood stained whip onto the floor. "Close," he mutters. "Not quite ready, yet."

I want to shrink away from him as he approaches. His once handsome face is stippled with her blood, his eyes are dead and empty. He places a hand at my hip, running his fingers down my thigh and calf to grip the hilt of the knife sticking out of my boot. Pulling the blade out, he places a frigid kiss on my unresponsive lips. I taste myself in her blood. His absence is no more comforting then his presence, as he walks back towards his hanging victim. Facing the girl, he grazes the flat side of the knife against her face. She leans into the blade, as if it's a caressing hand. I'm frozen, whether in terror or compulsion, as his trails the blade in a familiar path down her body. With his free hand, he lifts the hem of her skirt. With the hand gripped around my blade, he draws the knife point up her now exposed thigh. He looks to me, his face melding into the one I've expected all along.
"She has to have ALL of your scars, monster."
He begins cutting and I begin shrieking and

I wake up in the bathtub, scream still ripping from my throat. I toss my clean, but nonetheless unwelcome knife across the room, where it clatters onto the porcelain. Pulling my notebook and iPod to my chest, I clench my eyes shut against anything that may want to creep from them, and for the third time this week, await the sound of Tybalt's concerned entrance.

Poison to everything I touch. The things I've done, so ruinous.

It's raining again, or maybe it never stopped. Either way, I pull my hood over my hair and stomp away from Tybalt's mansion. I feel weak. Used up. Lets not pretend that I don't know why. I fade from view as I make my way towards the more populated part of the city. Not bothering to look up from my feet, I follow my nose, and the smell of fresh, rich, flowing blood. A shudder goes down my spine, as the scent grows stronger. I hear them. Cars full of tired Kine coming home from their night shift jobs. Wayward teenagers, prowling the streets like they own the night. I chew at my lip, near famished, creating a bloodless wound in the soft flesh. Even hidden from their sight, the humans seem to unconsciously shrink away from something monstrous that stalks among them. At that, I'm torn between glee and sorrow.

I turn my head towards an ambrosial smell, my mouth practically watering. A couple is exiting some high end restaurant, and for a moment I'm perplexed by my ravenousness. Then I see it. Nestled, sleeping in daddy's arms. All cherubic curls, tiny sneakers, and Osh Kosh B'fucking Gosh. The purest, sweetest manifestation of innocence. Every bit of what am I focuses on the child, every voice is silenced, every bit of misery is culled. I see the couple approach their car with my coveted treasure. What to do. What to do. I have to be careful, any sloppiness will certainly come back to plague me. I tear my attention from the child, focusing on each adult in turn. With little effort, I prod and tweak around in their minds, dulling their emotions into a colorless glob of nothing. The woman opens the car door and plops into the seat, not bothering to close it behind her. The man opens the back door to place the child in a car seat, and I approach. He glances up at me, stepping an inch back and knocking into the side of the car. His expression can only be described as a calm terror. I stifle a snicker and speak directly into his thoughts. "Give me that." I point a gloved hand to the still sleeping child. He falters slightly, and my lip lifts into a hungry snarl. With a shaking grasp, he hands the child to me, almost appearing relieved once it passes from his possession, to my own. I take a few steps back, clutching the sleeping parcel, and fading from his sight. I only watch a moment, as he shrugs slightly and leans against the car door.

The smell of sweet blood overpowers my thoughts, and I have to take off running at an impossible speed, just to keep from tearing my meal...and the masquerade... to shreds. I cut through a neighborhood, following my senses to an empty, abandoned house. Several thick boards block the back entrance. I pull them off, one handed, jostling the child enough so that it starts to stir. Small sounds of fear and disgruntlement begin to come from the warm mass in my arms, and my mouth drops open in hunger. So young. So innocent. Memories of the young children my maker brought me to feed on flash through my head. For once, they do nothing to dissuade me. If anything the visions entice me further. I wrap my hands around the warm bundle, holding it to my chest. It's tiny features are ambiguous to me. The child is almost unnoticeable as a living being. It's nourishment. A vessel of pure, untainted sustenance. I bring the bundle to my face, inhaling the fresh aroma of it's flesh. The sweet nectar issuing unrestrained through tiny veins. My lips meet the smooth, unflawed texture of it's skin, and my teeth are in the small throat before my fangs even fully elongate. The saccharine liquid flows unbridled into my mouth and down my gullet. The small body empties within minutes but the time trips longer through the throes of my ecstasy.  When the veins finally run dry I toss the drained corpse into onto the dirty carpet. Not a drop wasted. 

I wander the empty house, my head almost buzzing with the silence and satisfaction. Every fear and delusion is a far whisper, barely even a tickle in my consciousness. Barely even a muted groan. I glance over the walls, reading graffiti-ed messages so fresh I can smell the flavor of the Kine that wrote them. I'm fine and full and happy until my green eyed gaze passes over the cracked, yet reflective surface of a darkened window.

And I see her. The ragged, unkempt clothing, hanging off a skeletal frame. Ribs laid open and bloodless from a gender-less chest. Matted clots of pink hair surround a dark gaping maw of nothingness where my face should be. There's a strangled howling of a sick animal nearby. The pained keening of a fox with it's paw in a trap. I want to turn to see what it is, but I'm stricken by the horrific reflection that stares me down without sight. "Who are you," I cry, but the mocking response from the window answers my question. That wailing again, answering another question as I fall to my knees. "Real, or not real? Real, or not real? Real, or not real?!" As I pray, I pull my K-bar from it's spot in my boot. I drag the blade against my cheek, my chin, my forehead. I want to fix what I saw. "Real, or not real?"

It hurts, I bleed, I plead.
"Mongrel. Tommy. Tybalt. Pyotr. Law. Dad. Master. Anyone."

"Help."

Fading, falling, lost in forever. Will I find a way to keep it together? Am I strong enough to last through the weather in the hurricane of my life?

In the lull at Elysium, unnoticed by the other Camarilla members, I Obfuscate and slip from the building. Despite the lack of devastating events, I need to get away. Reappearing a few blocks down, I climb into my unlocked, piece of shit Jetta. The old car still smells of mildew and shows signs of disuse. Starting the engine, the Genesis CD in the console starts playing and brings me a modicum of comfort. Pulling my notebook from the back of my skirt, I lean back in the seat and spread it open on my lap. My brow furrowed, I scrawl a few notes into it. My hand shakes slightly as I cross a few things out. I should be happy for a few spots of clarity, but no. I was really hoping some of this stuff wasn't real. Closing the notebook and turning up the radio, I pull from my spot and make my way home.

It's only after I reach the entrance to the winding road that leads to the house, that I remember Tybalt's offer. The woods loom ahead of me, and flashing back to the last time I rode up here after an Elysium, my hands begin shaking on the steering wheel. No. No, that didn't happen. If I did, I wouldn't be here, and I am. Knowing I should just turn around and head straight to Tybalt's manor, I press down on the gas and head up the road anyway. The windshield wipers squeak back and forth, barely clearing the rain from the glass. My eyes similarly tick back and forth, my senses alert to anyone or anything following me. I reach the paved driveway in front of the house and turn off the car. I'm alone out here, I know it. And yet. My hand freezes on the door handle. I can't bring myself to open it. My quiet whimper is heard over the tap of rain on the hood. What if? What if it's the same, all over again? I lift the handle, and halfheartedly push the door open. Nothing happens, so I step out. Holding the door open like a shield, I breathe in deeply. I smell nothing but the stink of my own fear. There's no one out here. Nothing attacks me.

With a strangled sob, I plop into the dirt next to the car. Leaning against the open door, I curl my knees to my chest and squeeze them. "Real, or not real? Real, or not real?" The words quickly become a mantra, as my clothes and hair steadily become more soaked by the rain. Part of me is tempted to call out to Tybalt's mind, but I keep my thoughts reigned in. He doesn't need this. 

I sit in the dirt I died on. The spot I was killed. Nothing happens. Did anything ever?

I reach behind me, into the car, and grab my notebook. Hunching over the pages to protect it from the rain, I write the nights activity, the people I met...anything I can before the lines of reality begin to blur.
Call me Al. Who?                                  Sabbat in the sewer.
             Sailix: Manservant. Assamite. Gay?                     Art: Toreador. Nice. Warm.
Cally: Nos. Prince(cess?)Nice.                Grendel: Nos. Really Nos. Likes rats. Nice.
                                Michael: Gangrel. Sheriff. Tybalt's friend. Impetuous. 
Got to keep my knife.              Scourge. Rictus, too.       Iskander: Assamite. Nosy. Primogen.
                                     Scum dude: Famous. Masquerade breachy? Gay?
Did that one guy hit on me?
I scrawl a sketch of a tire and try to ignore the shaking in my hand. The pencil snaps in my grasp, and I squeeze the splinters of wood into my flesh.

Dropping the shards of pencil in the mud, I force myself to my feet and slide into the driver's side once more. I almost expect to see my chainsaw sitting chummily close on the passenger seat, but no. I start the car, and without thinking too hard about it, head down the driveway. Tybalt will take care of me. He'll keep me safe. I hear an all too familiar chuckle and my foot reflexively hits the brake, the car skidding and mud splashing onto the side window. "No. No, no, no. Not you. Not real." I continue driving, only just managing to ignore the voice that hisses dissent in my thoughts, telling me that Tybalt will abandon me just like Mongrel, or worse, he'll end up delusional and dangerous like Tommy. When I finally pull in front of the sprawling manor, I only spend a minimal amount of time to plaster an attempt at a natural smile on my face, before joining my Lasombra friend in his home.

I hope someday you wake up from the terrible dream of watching one of your kindred fall. It takes a lot of dust and grind, to leave the world you love behind.

The rain is coming down hard enough to bend the leaves and branches. I sit on the porch steps, my feet hanging off just far enough to be spattered with drops. Inhaling through my nose, I smell nothing but wet soil, the woods are devoid of life. Well, except the life sitting here on these splintering wood stairs. Pulling my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I lay my head on my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.
I'm alive. Real, or not real?
Lifting my head slightly, I peer through the pink fringe of bangs at the white Jetta moldering in the driveway. The door still hangs open on rusty hinges.
I died there, didn't I? Did I? 
I remember stepping out of the car, oblivious to the danger until it was too late. Two, three, four Sabbat attacking me. I don't remember. I don't remember. I remember dirt and darkness. I remember the gray, lifeless landscape of the Shadowlands. That guy, the smart ass that told me where I was. I remember being in the dark. I remember burying myself.

I pull my feet up and out of the rain. According to my new buddy Alex, it's less than a week before the city's Elysium. Chewing my nails, I try to remember Alex's face. He was real, right? My brow creases with the attempt to discern the difference between delusion and reality. I stop chewing my nails when I notice the trickles of blood coming from the masticated flesh of my fingertips. There. I'm bleeding again. That's certainly real. I stare at the seeping red fluid. "But, Tommy said..." No. No. There's my mistake again. Tommy is just as fucking crazy as I am. I chew my lip. Isn't he?

Sighing, I wipe my bloody hand on my hoodie and pull a tattered notebook from under my seat on the steps. The paper is full of my own scrawled handwriting. I turn to a page with Tommy's name on it. The notes are as scattered at my thoughts.

Tommy will bring me back from the dead Not real.                    He cares. Real, or not real?
Killed Pyotr. Real.                                He ate Pyotr. Not real.
He wants to hurt me. Real, or not real?                      Made me hurt Mongrel. Real, or not real?
Crazy. Real.               The God thing. Not real.             Lover? Consensual, or not consensual.
The barbed wire. Not real.                      Stronger than Franco. Real, or not real.

I close the notebook, and my eyes, This was supposed to help, but it doesn't. I place my hand in my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the outdated iPod that I cling to like a godamned life preserver. What the fuck am I going to do in Baltimore. What the fuck CAN I do, except get myself killed. Actually killed. Staring out into the rain, I've no desire to move from this spot. The house at my back holds nothing for me, anymore. The few things that meant something have inexplicably disappeared, if they ever existed at all. My news clippings, my skates. The blank scraps of paper torn from a sketchbook that still hold that haunting cinnamon/clove smell. The sound of the rain doesn't quite mask the quietly pained whimper that escapes my lips. Resting my head on my knees once more, I link my hands together behind my neck and force my thoughts out until my senses tell me the sun will rise soon. Even though there's more than enough time to dawdle, I pick up my notebook and zip into the house in a blur of motion. None of the lights are on, but I know where I'm going. My footfalls echo in the mostly empty room, as I close the door behind me. Climbing into the cold, porcelain bathtub, I pull my hood over my head. Double and triple checking my pocket for the iPod, I pull my K-bar from my boot. Curling into a ball with my notebook under one arm, and my knife clenched in hand, I close my eyes and wait for the days sleep to pull me under.

https://youtu.be/CwJpa1J3nRs?list=PLK8WUhlDQgCYbLNLbABOu2gj7Aapy4O7y

Feeling freezes so I know it must be time to leave you, dear. Everything's warm when your heart grows cold.

May of 1973.

"Madelyn, I love you."
The three words seem to echo around the room several times before settling into my psyche. When they do, I extract myself out of Law's embrace. "...what?!" I spit out, taking another step back.
"I said, I lo..."
Almost slipping into my defensive crouch, I hastily interrupt the Gangrel when he starts to speak again. "No, Law. I heard what you said, I just, what the fuck?!"
He laughs tentatively at my sputtered outburst, the laugh trailing off as he reads my expression. "This shouldn't come as a surprise darlin'. After all, why else would I put up with your, well..." A glance at the boarded up window. Broken just a night or two ago during one of my episodes. 
"Maybe I figured you were a masochist." He attempts to step closer to me, possibly to pull me back into his arms. "Or a moron." He only just manages to mask the hurt expression that wants to show when I retreat back, creating more distance between us. Those three words keep bouncing around my already frazzled skull, and I have to shake my head in a failed attempt to clear it. "Law, you must be out of your fucking mind."
His aura churns sickly as he replies, voice laced with bitterness. "That would make it easier, wouldn't it? Easier for you. Then you wouldn't have to come to terms with the fact that you're not really the monster that you claim to be."
I flinch a bit at his words. "This isn't a good decision for you."
He scoffs. "Decision? Darlin', love isn't a god damned decision. Even you should realize that, as skewed as your sense of reality is."
That twangs at a nerve. "Gee, thanks Law." I spit out, angrily.
He sighs, holding his hands out in supplication. "Mad, look, let's not start flinging insults at each other. I don't expect you to reciprocate. You know I'd never push you into anything." His eyes settle on mine. "It's just something I wanted to.." he gestures with a hand. "..articulate. Nothing has to change." 

I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to continue looking at Law. His sincerity seeps into my thoughts, triggering the gag reflex of my emotions. No way. My eyes snap open, and settle on the Gangrel. He perches on the side of worn couch, his expression concerned. "Y'alright, Mad?" 
I shake my head, pinching my lips shut against any words that could incriminate me. Taking a few jerky steps out of the room, I'm unsurprised to hear Law's footsteps following. Without turning around to acknowledge him, I lurch over to my boots laying by the door, and in one swift movement, step into them and zipper them up. It's then that he reaches out to grasp my shoulder. For the first time in many months, I flinch away from him. I don't see the wounded look on his face, just as he misses my own stricken expression. His hand pulls away. "You're not running off, are you?"
I turn to face him, attempting to keep my face placid. "I just need to...go for a little bit. Go for a walk or," I shrug, stiffly.
He still looks worried. "You know I didn't mean to.."
I cut him off with a wave of my hand, speaking more calmly than I feel. "I'll be back, Law." My eyes flick down, just for a moment, betraying the honesty I try to convey. I reach out, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "I'll be back." I hold his gaze this time, and he seems placated. Dropping his hand, I turn and fling myself out the door, into the dark and damp, wishing to get far from his benevolent gaze.

I'm almost proud of myself. I manage to make it several miles from the house, before collapsing on the moist dirt between a cluster of trees. What do I do, now? How could he spring something like this on me? How the fuck can he think he LOVES me? I know I should get up and keep walking. Keep walking until I'm out of his reach. Instead of rising, leaving and breaking my word, I pull my knees into my chest and bury my face against them. GET UP. "Noo.." I almost wish I'd slip into a episode. A tiny part of me wishes for my maker's hissing voice in my head. Anything, anything to point me in a sensible direction. I ignore the moisture in my eyes, on my cheeks, telling myself it's from the rain. There's no phantom words of wisdom, no threats of danger. I can't figure this out on my own. Please. I desperately glance around at the surrounding woods, as if some figure will step out and tell me how to live my unlife. I'm smart enough to not be disappointed when there's nothing and no one coming to my rescue. Maybe because I just ran from the one who's willing to rescue me. Scooting back in the mud, I lean against the tree behind me, my clothes and hair slowly getting soaked in the downpour. I stay there for hours, adjusting my position only to curl into ball in the dirt. It's only once the rain stops, that I mindlessly climb to my feet and trudge back to the house.

Tracking mud into the empty den, I pause only long enough to pull my boots off and toss them in the general direction of the front mat. I breathe in through my nose, and follow the familiar scent to Law's bedroom. A light can be seen in the hallway, and when I enter the room, he's sitting up in the bed, staring at me. He doesn't bother to hide the concern in his expression as I stand at the foot of the bed, my clothes dripping rhythmically onto the carpet. His golden eyes survey me, but he doesn't move from his spot on the bed.
"Mad? Darlin', are you alright?"
My eyes drop from his, and I stare at the ground. I raise my hands to the collar of my shirt, awkwardly opening the buttons without looking up. The wet fabric laying open over my bra, I slide the shirt down my arms and drop it onto the floor. Still refusing to look up, my hands start shaking as I untie the drawstring on my muddy skirt. In a blur of movement that I don't see, Law is in front of me, holding my hands still. "What are you doing?" I halfheartedly attempt to pull my hands from his. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring up at me until I meet his eyes. I chew my lip, and gently pull one of my hands free. Placing it on the back of his neck, I bring my face to his, my mouth to his, and kiss him with as much passion as I can fabricate. His accedes, and I use the distraction to shimmy my skirt down my hips to join my shirt. He pulls back and I see the hunger in his eyes, how he's holding back. "You don't have to do this, darlin'" I take both of his hands, drawing them around me in an embrace. Without thinking, I climb onto his lap. Now, there's a tremor in his hands as they press lightly into my hips. "I don't -have- to do anything. I want to." His lips part, as if to argue further, and I interrupt him with another kiss. He groans into my mouth and pulls me farther onto the bed, rolling me onto my back. Law claws at my remaining garments, and I'm saved the trouble of removing my own clothes and his. I physically respond the best I can, using his fire and passion to numb my mind into a fog as the night turns to teeth, tongue and hands.

~~~~

The room is quiet and dark. My clothes long since forgotten on the floor, I'm suddenly over aware of my nakedness. I pull the covers up to my shoulders and roll over to face the door. Law shifts slightly, his body close to mine, but not touching. Sunrise must be near, and I'm shamed to feel grateful that he'll be losing consciousness before me. I start to relax, mistaking his silence for sleep.
"I love you." His soft voice makes my body tense in a way that I pray he doesn't notice. I bury my face deep into the comforter. After a few minutes of silence, I speak one dreaded syllable, muffled by the blanket.
"Why?"
He doesn't respond right away, but draws closer. I can feel the breath from his words in my hair.
"Because I know who you are under the crazy. Beautiful, and fierce." 
I don't even realize that I'm shaking my head in dissent until I feel his hand stilling the movement. I squeeze my eyes shut. He doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm weak. A monster. "There's too much dark."
His voice drags a bit, as if he's fighting the oncoming torpor just to spew this fiction. "I want your dark. I know the light underneath it."
I pull the comforter from my face, repeating my words from earlier. "You're out of your fucking mind." I hate that beneath the bewilderment and denial, there's this spark of something in my chest that makes me desire something I probably can't feel. He chuckles a little from behind me.
"Maybe I am, darlin'. Doesn't change anything." He pulls the covers down slightly, his fingertips grazing the skin on my back and shoulders. When he speaks again, his voice lacks the humor it had just a moment ago, but is rife with gentleness. "You scars run deep. Even the ones I can't see." My brow furrows, and I find myself wanting to draw away from his touch. "I know I can't fix them, but I want to make them hurt...less. I want to try." A slight growl creeps into his tone. "If I didn't suspect that you already did it, I'd like to tear the person that did this to you into unrecognizable shreds." 
Despite the sensitive subject matter, his soft touch lulls me into a sense of security. Is he strong enough? I cut that thought off, refusing to entertain the notion that there could be a happy ending for me. His hand stills, coming to a stationary rest on my side. He's quiet, cold and finally asleep. Clenching the covers to my chest, I stare blankly into the dark room. Fighting the pull of sleep myself, I speak aloud to the silence. "I'll only hurt you. I can't not. There's nothing in me to love." I'm already making plans in my head, even as I drift into unconsciousness. "...sorry you're too stupid to realize that."

I wake up before full nightfall, taking advantage of his heavy slumber to gather my few belongings. My mind is unusually clear and quiet as I stealthily move about the house. Slipping into Obfuscate, I'm off of the property and out of Law's life before he even fully wakes for the night.