I know that you've been damaged, your soul has suffered such abuse. But I am not your savior.

I keep up the facade. Even as I watch the people I love settle into what is little more than a death pact. I keep up the facade as I lay Tommy in our bed. His pained and tired expression terrifies me more than the raw, charred flesh across his chest. I kiss him and comfort him and apologize to him. I keep up the facade as he sleeps, taking only the slightest relief at the temporary peace that stays across his features. My eyes remain open, despite the sun that rises on the other side of windowless walls. I know the horrors of the night will only be repeated tenfold in my nightmares. When I slide off the bed, I hear a small yawn and the quiet thump of a wagging tail. Gadzooks stretches on the bed, preparing to follow me. "No, stay. Stay with Tommy." Her head cocks to the side, but she sits back down, heeding my command. "Good girl."

I cross the bedroom, my bare feet making no noise on the scant carpeting. Even in the dark, I find the door with ease, opening it and shuddering at the feel of cold tile. My hand feels along the wall until I find a light switch. The bathroom floods with light, and the first thing I see is my own corrupt, gaping reflection. A sickened moan escapes from my lips as I clutch at the edge of the sink, unable or unwilling to take my eyes off of the mirror. I pry a hand from the porcelain, pressing my palm against the silvered face of glass. It doesn't change. I move my hand to my face, feeling my features, feeling the furrowed brow and curve of a frown.

That's how they all see you. The beast matches you perfectly.

Dropping to the floor, I'm spared myself of my own monstrous reflection. My claws extend, tearing at the flesh of my chest. I need to pain to distract me. To divert my attention from my failures. Tommy in pain. In agony, as the strangers faces look on. A familiar expression from an unfamiliar face. Sailix's pain and struggle. I make sure the link between our minds is closed tight, knowing the Assamite is likely as sleepless as I am. He mourns his children, anguishes over their fate.

And you willingly offered yours up as a sacrifice. As an experiment.

I yearn for consolation from Pyotr or MacAllister. I could never deserve such caring father figures, but they bring me solace, regardless. I want my dad.

You are no ones daughter. Dead twice over, no one will claim you as kin.

My claws scrabble against bone, and I force my bloody hand into my lap. More blood wells from my clenched fist as I fight the urge to dig deeper, but I refuse to disturb Alex. All that I have left of him. A soft keening echoes against the tile. I want him. I want his arms around me. I want his warmth and his assurance that I am worth something.

Alex would be ashamed of you. Disgusted, even.

I'm ashamed of me. Because I know. Because I will lead all of my friends into a war. Into death. Because my choice is everyone, or Tommy. And I can't save everyone. I won't. Tommy chooses him over me, and I choose Tommy over everyone.

You will fail. Tommy will die in your arms and you won't even have time to mourn before the rest of them die, too.

"No."

I can't even cry anymore. There's not enough energy left in me. I'm so tired. So tired. I can't. I should be dead. I should be bones in a coffin. I should be ash in the dirt. I should be at peace. I should be so many things, but instead I am this monster. This monster that fights for what she loves. This monster that fights what she should be. What she is.

I force myself to my feet, dripping blood over the clean tile. I leave a red stain as I spin the knob of the door. Another as I switch the light off. I hear Gadzook's soft snore, and the continued silence from Tommy's undisturbed sleep. I climb back into the bed, laying stiff and disquieted. I want to curl against Tommy, but I'm afraid of disturbing him. I want to keep my distance, but I'm afraid of leaving him without my protection. The wound on my chest gapes open, but the resulting pain is unsatisfying. I'm so tired, but there is no graceful drift to slumber. The morning forces itself further, as a unrelenting, inescapable hand that pushes me under the ocean of nightmares that awaits.

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