Gloria sat on a park bench. It was late in the day and the clouds floated lazily by her in the sky with the sun poking it’s head out from behind them every so often. Children played near by. Their laughter mocking her as her life laid decimated like a battle field after the fighting was over. Dead bodies lying everywhere, cold and lifeless.

Gloria had just been given the speech. You know what I mean, the speech where you are told that you don’t meet all the requirements to continue being pursued as a person who should be desired. Where the person you have invested all your hope in informs you that they have reached that tipping point where your presence is no longer an asset but a liability. Where all the time you invested that you can never get back seems like a puff of smoke and smells just as bad.

Gloria had invested 3 years of her life into the now just defunct relationship. She had thought everything was progression smoothly and in fact she was hoping that this rendezvous at the park would result in a more permanent arrangement between her and the object of her affection but the object of her affection was not interested in making their relationship more permanent. In fact he was interested in the exact opposite which was to dissolve it as if it never existed in the first place.

Whenever an emotion bond is broken there is pain and Gloria was feeling this pain very deeply. The future she imagined was her’s was in fact not her’s at all. The person she thought she knew she really didn’t know as well as she should have. They say love is blind and it is true that love puts up with a lot but Gloria didn’t see the signs that her relationship was dying. She didn’t notice that her lover was drifting away from her but she knew it now. It was all to painful now.

Gloria just sat on the park bench and cried. She didn’t know what else to do. She had to take the time to process what had just happened to her. To mourn the relationship that had been murdered before her eyes. A man selling balloons passed by her and noticeing her distress gave her a baloon as a gift. Several children, sensing that she was sad, tried to coax her into playing with them and even the birds sensed something and tried to cheer her up with their beautiful songs but Gloria felt worthless right now. In time she would regain her confidence. It would take a lot of healing and help from those who cared about her but she would recover and move on with her life.

The heat scorched her skin like a thousand needles, baking her skin, making it bubble, boil, blacken. Rachel screamed through gritted teeth. Her stomach throbbed as John Catsor leaned over her with pinched eyebrows and staring eyes, pressing a heated metal rod against her deep wound. Thick, smokey, putrid, charred steak, burning rubber tires, stale bread, and copper pennies wafted through the air; it was by far the worst smell that John had ever encountered, but he held back the vomit that was sneaking up his throat to concentrate on the task before him, healing the shaking girl below him—he wouldn’t let another person die. 

Rachel gripped the blood-stained sheets below her and arched her back with constrained waves of pain, her mind blurring, her heart soaring, her vision disappearing into white flashes, she could feel heat consuming her body, compressing her lungs, eating at her skin. She tried to fight off her body’s responses—unconsciousness was clawing at the edge of her brain—she had to be strong, she had to stay living, she had to be awake to survive. Anyone, anyone could kill her, anyone could stab her in the back: even allies.

Faith listened to the older girl’s suppressed screams in the adjacent room, staring at the torn wallpaper once vibrant with bees patterned in sporadic beauty. She tried to think of the bees. She tried to think of a time when she saw the striped jacket of a bee dipping into sunflowers or verbena. She tried to think about a time before the pain, a time of peace. But the older girl’s screams cut through those thoughts, only reminding her of their screams: her mothers, her fathers, her older sisters. Tears slowly fell from Faith’s crystal eyes. She would not sob, she would not cry out in pain, she wouldn’t scream, she wouldn’t speak, she would never let anyone hear her in pain, she wouldn’t let anyone go through what she went through—especially not Felix. 

Rachel couldn’t contain her pain, no matter how hard she clenched her teeth or gripped the sheets. She felt nothing but pain. She was trusted by Bryan, but she went and failed at that, she wasn’t strong, no matter how hard she tried. 

Eventually, the physical pain subsided, but the emotional pain was still lingering, hovering like the heat that beated against her outside and insides. “Rest up.” She heard John Castor whisper with his soft, soft voice, before she let her body relax, melting into the soft, soft mattress of the bed below her. 

Rachel drifted off as Faith collected her tears and stood, ready to face anything that came her way.

*****

Bryan returned defeated, slouched and slow, dying on the inside like the sun. Felix stood at the edge of town, by the forming wall, gazing upon his admired Sargent with pity. Bryan looked—hopeless. Like a mighty ship without the sea. 

The Sargent looked up when he trudged closer to Felix, “No luck,” he sighed and stared into the setting sun, “go get yourself some rest, I’ll cover guard duty.”

Bryan continued to gaze at the sun while Felix gazed at him. In this moment, it was like the time that they had sat on the wall, Bryan looked tired, worn out by memories, wrinkled by grief, and yet he was still pretty young.

Felix had lost the majority of his family when the town was struck by a nasty fire tornado and he had never cried more in his life than on that day. The scorching hot pain. The brightness. The force. Him clutching, grasping, clenching at anything that wasn’t on fire. Faith no where to be seen. His mother lit like a wick of a candle. His home, destroyed. His life, never the same. He became the oldest in his family, carrying the weight of responsibility to protect his younger sister. 

But Bryan, looked as though he had gone through that kind of loss ten fold. 

“Sir, uh—” Bryan didn’t look away from the blaring sun making Felix hesitate to ask him about his past once more, “I just was wondering what you would like me to do with these maps.” He held them limply in his hand, offering them to Bryan like a cat with a mouse. 

The Sargent lethargically turned and held open his hand, “I can take them from here.” 

Gently, they fell in his hands, but still Felix hesitated, “Sargent—I mean Bryan,” Bryan looked at him to continue, “why was that book so important? We have the maps, isn’t that enough?”

With a great sigh, Bryan sat down on the wall with the papers in his lap, naturally Felix did the same. “The maps, they are clues, guidance to help us travel to places that we may need for refuge, more weapon supply, safety, hospitals, food and water. But, those clues aren’t the answer.” Felix stared clueless at the man. “Inside the book are codes, codes left by people that I knew. Most of the codes are in morse, others are hidden or in riddles. These codes will tell us where those people, and people that can help us like doctors and scientists, are possibly taking refuge in. They are our mission, they are how we can win this war. But I didn’t have time to take a good look at it though before it was fucking taken.”

Felix gawked at him with awe. This book had more weight than he realized, and now it is gone. 

*****

Felix was still pondering about everything that had just occurred when he entered his broken down home to find John Castor sitting with his head bowed beside Rachel wrapped in bloody bed sheets, passed out. “What the hell is going on here?!” Felix jumped back to the entrance way of the bedroom, crouched and ready to run. 

Rachel, missing Rachel, was lying in the tattered burnt bed that Felix slept on—with blood. His thoughts raced, Why was there blood? What was John doing here? How did he know this place existed? It was hidden at the very edge of the village in the forest by a clearing. Where is Faith? Did they do something with her? Dammit.

John’s head bolted up, surprise ringing through him, he hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. “Felix,” so many emotions laced his voice: fear, concern, relief, shock, hurt, “it’s Rachel, she—” he tried to find the right words, “she—she was stabbed, by Monique and Jacob—they, they are working for Banks, th-they killed Veronica, and Liela or, at least someone impersonating her—I helped—oh god. I killed them. This is all my fault. I can’t believe that all this killing, all this pain. All of those people I have hurt! And for what? Survival? Aren’t I more than that? Isn’t there more to a human life than living like an animal and dying? God, what have I done?!” Felix blinked dumbfounded as John stumbled and screamed and sobbed on his words, ranting like a nut-job. 

“Wait, what?”

John continued sobbing looking disgusting with his filthy skin and snotty nose, “I helped Rachel here because she was bleeding to death, she was dying because of me.” 

He sobbed while Felix took in this information. What did he just hear? Monique and Jacob AND JOHN, were working for Banks?! They killed an imposter? They killed Veronica...they stabbed Rachel. 

Felix looked for any kind of weapon he could use against this murderer blubbering in front of him, but there was nothing. He stepped further back, but just to make sure he wasn’t crazy, he asked the crying John a question. “You have killed people for Banks?” his voice was solid as he asked the question, not showing any emotion other than coldness and a bit of shock. 

John quieted down a bit, sobering up to reality, “I helped kill people in Bryan Kirklands group, for Banks. But I am through with that. I am tired of this. There has to be a solution. One that doesn’t have any sides. I don’t expect you to understand, nor trust me; and I definitely don’t expect you to forgive me. But please. Please just let me help Rachel. Let me do some good.” He turned his back to me to gaze down at the wounded Rachel through teary eyes. 

Felix relaxed a bit, realizing that he was leaving himself wide open and his words seemed to carry truth. John reminded Felix of himself, hurt and hopeful. “Let me see her and her wound. I am not a doctor but maybe I could help. My sister likes to garden, so she has been planting anything she can get her hands on, anything that will grow. Maybe she has some sort of plant that could help?”

Felix stepped cautiously closer, but John didn’t move. He kept his eyes fixed and his body still, he wasn’t looking for any more fights. Felix gently pulled back the tangled moist sheets to reveal a large burn on the girl’s stomach. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. It looked terrible. “I cleaned the wound with some water, the little girl who led us here gave it to us. But it wouldn’t stop bleeding. It was so deep. She was going to die so I had to do something; I closed the wound by cauterizing it.” He looks at her with pain in his eyes, cracking his knuckles, regretting. Regretting so much. 

Suddenly, Faith is at Felix’s side, tugging at his arm. “Faith!” 

She signs to him with relaxed fingers, “I saw something.”

“Yes, I see what has happened. Are you okay? “Are you okay?” He says it out loud while gesturing his hands. How did all of this happen?” Felix signs imperfectly, frantic to get his message out. If only Faith wasn’t mute, then he wouldn’t have to sign everything to her so that she didn’t feel alone.

Faith shakes her head, annoyed with her overbearing idiotic brother. “I saw a girl take a book—” she paused her hands momentarily considering what she had seen “she looked like she was stealing it. She was sneaky.” 

Felix didn’t sign. 

The book. Faith had seen who had taken it. She could help find the book, it could be found, the book could tell us everything, it would put all our plans in motion. 

“Faith, you give me so much faith!” Felix’s little sister grinned at his terrible humour. 

“Why do you say that? Who was she?”

“I don’t know who she is! But I am hoping that you can give details that we can make out who it is, if we know them.” Felix was too excited to sign getting John’s attention. 

He recognized Faith and nodded at her, then directed his attention to Felix. “What happened? Who is this person? Why are we trying to figure out who she is?”

“The history book that Bryan found was stolen. It contains morse codes of important information. Information that could help people. Information that could unify us all, and stop this war. My sister, Faith, saw someone with it.” Felix explained enthusiastically, passionate about what the future had in store. 

Faith signed.

“Faith says that the girl was old, had grey curly hair filled with ashes, had lots of wrinkles, was dirty, and had a missing front tooth, and looked like you.” Felix laughs as Faith frantically signs. “Okay, okay. My sister didn’t mean anything by it, she is apologizing repetitively and swearing at me.” 

John tilts his head to the side oblivious to the fact that Faith had just implied that John was an old dirt bag. “It has to be Monique.”

“That was fast! Let’s go find her. You said she is workin’ for Banks, right? So maybe she has gone to his base.” Felix is already walking out the door hauling his sister, ready to save the world.

“Wait.” John whisper-yells, gazing off as if remembering something, “you said that this book contains morse code?” 

Felix stopped in his tracks and gave John his full attention, “Yeah?”

“Everyone at Banks’ compound are dumb killers, or narcasistic pricks, or slaves. The only person Monique knows and trusts, the only person who can read morse code—” he locks eyes with Felix, “is me. I know where she is going.”

The sunlight filtered through the lace curtains in Artemis’s bedroom, blinding her as she rolled over, pulling the sheets with her. She slowly opened her eyes to see Seneca lying next to her, still sleeping. He was curled up on top of the blankets, her hand clasped in his. Careful not to wake him, she pried his fingers from around her wrist and slipped out of his hold and out of the sheets.

Just as her feet touched the cold wood floor, her phone started ringing and she started digging through the sheets desperately to find it before it woke Seneca up.

She found it and swiped the green phone button, answering it. “MJ, what’s wrong?”

“We have Maddox,” he said. “We’re waiting for you in the Condemning Chamber.”

She was quiet for a moment as she looked over at Seneca who was beginning to wake up. “I’m on my way.”

Ending the call, she grabbed a change of clothes off the back of her chair and headed for the bathroom. When she was done changing, she headed back to her room and found Seneca awake.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. His hair was still messy and although he ran his hands through it in an attempt to fix it, it only made it worse.

“MJ has Maddox in the Condemning Chamber,” she explained, tucking her phone in her back pocket. “I’m heading to the Great Library and if you want to come you can. I think you should.”

“Okay.” He climbed off the bed. “Let’s go.”

She stopped him by grabbing his wrist. “Whatever happens, don’t stop me, Seneca.”

He frowned, worry lines appearing on his forehead.

“Please.”

****

Artemis had only been to the Condemning Chamber once and that was when she and Seneca had first been captured by the Great Library. The thing about the Chamber is that it had only two uses—giving sentences and giving out punishments. When someone was forced out of the Library, they would go to that room and be punished.

As the elevator shot up, Artemis could hear her heartbeat pounding in her head. She took a deep breath and looked over at Seneca who gave her a small smile.

“Should I do this?” she questioned. “Will doing this make me worse than him?”

He shrugged slightly. “I really can’t tell you whether you should do this or not, Artemis. This is something you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

Before she could say anything, the doors slid open revealing the all-too-familiar glass room. Stepping out was like taking a leap of faith. It was impossible to tell whether you were going to fall into the clouds below or walk on the air.

MJ stood with his arms folded over his chest, eyes glued on Maddox who sat cross-legged on the floor several feet away. There was a chain around his ankle that kept him from attempting to run. Although it was invisible, there was a barrier between the two and both knew it.

Serendipity walked over to Artemis and Seneca and smiled at them. “You’re just in time. MJ was getting impatient.”

“What’s going to happen?” Artemis questioned as she stood next to MJ.

“The Library has a policy for punishments,” he started. “Especially for the ones that have overstepped their boundary which Maddox has done more than once.”

Seneca stepped up next to Artemis. “And what is it?”

“The person that they hurt the most gets to punish them.” His dark eyes reminded her of the sky yesterday as it tried to restrain the storm that brewed just out of reach. “People like this aren’t allowed to leave the Great Library alive, not that he would live for long, but it’s just protocol.”

They were quiet, each knowing what that meant.

“Artemis, whenever you’re ready.” MJ nodded towards Maddox. “You can do whatever you want to him.”

She took a step towards the divider but was stopped when Seneca stepped in front of her.

“I know I said I wouldn’t stop you but when it comes to the point where you’re beating a dead horse, someone is going to intervene,” he lowered his voice. “So know when to stop.”

She nodded and he stepped around her, giving her hand a small squeeze before going back to his spot next to MJ.

The glass door handle was startling cold compared to her sweaty palms and as she stepped through the doorway, she found out why. The other part of the Chamber was at least twenty degrees colder than the side the others stood on.

“I should have known you’d be the one to enter,” he said, standing. The chain slid along the ground, making her skin crawl. “At first I thought maybe it would be Seneca but then I realized he’s too forgiving.”

“You underestimate him.” She stepped a foot away. “He is capable of destroying you if he wanted to.”

“Then why isn’t he?” He sneered. “Is he scared?”

She clenched her jaw and started rolling her sleeves up. “No one’s scared of you, Maddox. You’re a weak human that is capable of dying and there is nothing you can do to save yourself.”

“What makes you think that?” He took a step backward and she smirked. “Do you think I can’t fight back?”

“I didn’t say that,” she pointed out. “I said you couldn’t save yourself. Even if I don’t kill you, you’ll die from infection and you’ll rot away, little by little as you take your last breath in the most painful way.”

“You’re all about that aren’t you?” This time he didn’t retreat. “Killing people as painfully as possible.”

“I am,” she admitted. “Because it gives the person the chance to think about everything they’ve ever done and realize just how unimportant and insignificant it was as they’re taking their last breath.”

“You’re a psychopath,” he snapped at her through clenched teeth, his back pressed against the far wall.

“Where do you think I got that from?” She grabbed him by his neck and yanked him away from the wall, the chain chasing after him. Letting go, he crawled across the floor as quickly as possible to get away from her as she followed after him. “I had a perfect example 905 years ago, Maddox.”

“I didn’t teach you this,” he growled at her, grasping the chain in his hand. “I didn’t kill a single person in that rebellion.”

“That’s right,” she leaned back on her heels. “You got everyone else to do it for you, convincing them that they were fighting for a good cause and that it would open the eyes of the entire kingdom. You promised freedom but look at us now. You lied.”

Anger rushed through her like the wind through the trees in the middle of a storm. She lunged forward, yanking the chain from his hand and wrapping it around his throat.

His fingers clawed at her hands, tearing at the skin and drawing blood but she bit her tongue to keep herself from registering the pain. The tighter she pulled, the more he stood up and it was a matter of seconds until she had him back on his feet. As his face swelled up and got red, she slowly let go.

“Just kill me already.” he dropped to his knees, bracing himself so he didn’t face-plant. He glared at her, his black eyes darker than a moonless night.

“That’s not as fun.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m waiting for you to fight back, to make things more interesting.”

He struggled to his feet and clenched his hands into fists by his side. “Would fighting back make this any quicker?”

“How badly do you want to live?” she questioned.

“I don’t.” His breathing was ragged and she could see the bruise already forming around his throat. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had damaged his vocal cords. “I never wanted to live. From the day I was born, I wanted to die and the longer I lived, the stronger that desire grew.”

“Then why haven’t you died yet?” she yelled, her voice echoing back to her in the empty chamber. “You’ve had multiple opportunities but you haven’t taken any of them.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” He took a shaky step forward. “Do you think you’re the only one that’s tried to kill themselves but was always stopped by the Guardians?”

Artemis’s gaze flickered back to MJ and Serendipity who stood, watching. They knew every time she had attempted to take her own life yet they had never said anything, never let on to the fact that they knew about the pain she hid from them.

“I tried so many times,” his breath reeked of blood and it made her stomach flip. “But I could never succeed so I decided to wait for someone else to do it for me.”

She stepped back, realizing what he was starting to explain.

“So I did things that would make you mad.” He smiled. “If there was one person from my past who wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, it would be you, Artemis. I knew from the very beginning just how bitter you were and I could use that to my advantage. When you stabbed me just before leaving with Seneca, I had hoped you would have come back and finished the job but you didn’t.”

“You’re the psycho,” she sneered, kneeing him in the gut. He stumbled back, grabbing at his abdomen.

“When my men rebelled against me, I prayed to God that they would kill me but instead they left me to rot,” he said. “And then the Library came for me. It was supposed to be a punishment but instead, it was a blessing. It gave me an opportunity to find you and anger you.”

“You manipulated me.”

He smirked. “What are you going to do about it? Are you going to kill me?”

“In the most painful way possible,” she answered. “So you realize just how desperately you want to live.”

“It’s not gonna happen, sweetheart.” His shoulders sagged as he dropped to the ground, leaning against the wall. “Either you kill me or I die—either way I win.”

“You’ll never win,” she crouched down next to him. “Dying isn’t winning, Maddox. It’s loosing.”

“Just get it over and done with.” He shut his eyes. “Please.”

She was quiet and when he didn’t get an answer, he looked at her. “Why are you hesitating?”

“Because I don’t want to give you what you want,” she answered. “It would be more of a punishment to make you live.”

Turning, she started to walk away from him, hoping she was making the right choice. As her footsteps sounded through the quiet chamber, she wrapped her hand around the glass doorknob and turned it.

“You’re a coward.” Maddox’s voice carried through the air, echoing back several times before dying out. “You’re a mistake that your father wanted to get rid of and you couldn’t do anything to stop him.”

She turned slowly, her hand still on the knob, not speaking. She knew what he was doing but as he droned on and on, an assortment of names and accusations coming from his mouth, she could barely keep her body from shaking with rage.

Her hands ached from how tight her grip was on the handle but she couldn’t make herself let go. If she did, she knew she would be across the room in no time and letting Maddox have it.

“Oh, and Seneca,” he started. “Is no better than you. He was the easiest to manipulate into doing what I wanted. He was like a dog, willing to do anything just to get a little bit of attention.”

The small hold she’d had on her anger snapped and she let go of the door. Step after step brought her closer to him and pulled back, kicking him in the stomach. He slammed against the wall, his eyes rolling back in his head as a sickening smile appeared on his face.

She knew the pain was something he would relish and death was something he craved but she wouldn’t give it to him so easily. He would get pain until he couldn’t take anymore. Then, she would make him beg for life.

Grabbing him by the collar, she punched him in the face, letting go of him as she did so. He collapsed to the ground, blood flowing from his nose and onto the see-through floor below.

He laughed, the twisted sound reminding her of nails on a chalkboard. He rolled over on his stomach and sat up on his knees before taking an unstable step in an attempt to stand. His leg buckled beneath him and he fell back to his knees, head hanging.

Reaching out, she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back so his throat was exposed.

“MJ,” she said, looking past the barrier. “A knife, please.”

He snapped his fingers and she felt the chill of the blade slide through her grip and the firmness of the handle between her fingers.

Her eyes met Maddox’s as she held the knife to his throat.

“I was going to drag it out.” She crouched down so she was on the same level as him, speaking into his ear. “But you made me too mad and I’m sick and tired of letting you live.”

He couldn’t speak through the blood that was pooling in his mouth from his nose.

“But I want to have some fun with you.” She let go of him and moved so that she was in front of him. “So you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

As she plunged the sharpened blade into his gut, she felt the warm blood ooze over the blade, over her hands, and drip to the floor below. Stepping back, she wiped the knife off on her pants leg and tossed the knife to the side. The moment it hit the floor, it disappeared, leaving only a few drops of blood.

A whimper escaped his lips and a tear rolled down his face, quickly getting lost in the blood that also flowed. He pressed his hands against the wound, an instinctive action to slow the bleeding.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. “Do you still want to die?”

“Yes,” he managed through gritted teeth.

She didn’t speak but instead traced his chain back to where it attached to the wall. Looping her arms under his, she pulled him back so she had more chain to work with.

“What are you doing?”

She could barely understand what he was saying so she just ignored him as she wound the chain around the several hooks that were on the wall, making it shorter and shorter until she had just enough to do what she wanted.

Once again, she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, looping the chain around his neck twice and securing it to the hook. It fit perfectly on top of the previous bruise but this time, she wouldn’t let go of it and allow him to breathe.

Grasping for air, he grabbed at the chains and clawed at his neck. His eyes were wide as he struggled to breathe, his face reddening with each passing second.

“Do you still want to die?” She crouched down in front of him.

“Yes.” He barely whispered.

Reaching out, she dug her finger into the wound on his abdomen until he screamed.

“Do you still want to die?” she yelled at him. When he didn’t speak, she jabbed at the injury once more. “Answer me!”

He violently shook his head until she removed her finger and leaned back on her heels.

“Good.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Now I’m going to let you die.”

Standing up, she brushed her jeans off, smearing the blood that was on her hands and turned.

“I—hate—you.” It was barely a whisper but she could hear it.

She looked over her shoulder at him, face void of any emotion. “If you had left Seneca out, I would have let you die when you wanted to.”

Without another word, she turned and didn’t look back. With every step that took her farther and farther from him, his screams and inhumane sounds got louder and louder until she shut the glass door behind her, stopping the shiver-inducing screams from reaching her ears.

She had beaten him finally but she didn’t know if that made her better or worse than him.

My life may have been taken from me

My name just a shadow of another

But these hands can still hold a knife

And take a man’s life

I can crown myself

And become my own god

Of blood, of sacrifice, of vengeance

And if I fall

Let it be by my own hands

Let them slit my throat

Let no man even dare

To touch me

There is a gun pressed against the girl’s skull. She’s growing accustomed to the feeling. Metal bites into her scalp, impressing a perfect circle upon the soft skin. If she closes her eyes she can smell gunpowder and the musty tang of dried blood.

It’s too early for this shit.

“Third time this week. Well, at least you’re persistent,” she snarls, clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Not in fear, of course, but at the rage pulsing behind each eyelid, threatening to take over if she gives it control. “You know that doesn’t work, right? The whole shooty-shooty thing?” She grins, twisting and snatching the gun from the man’s still fingers in a fluid motion, stepping back to admire the pistol in her hands.

“Sorry, pretty girl. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man whispers, greasy red tongue flicking over yellowing teeth. He turns away with a cackle, bumping fists with the men gathered around the bar. She takes a rattling breath, wrinkling her nose at the smell of alcohol cloaking these men. They were supposed to be on patrol, not drinking themselves numb. She tightens her fists, letting her fingernails sink into her palms. Control. She must keep control.

“Where’s our beer, b***ch?” One of them jeers. The others join in, predatory eyes raking over her body. That’s it. She pivots, arms taught, and curls her fingers into a practiced fist. She freezes as a gentle finger brushes the inside of her elbow. Luca. Shame blossoms in her gut. She promised she would try harder yet here she is, about to throw fists with the people she is supposed to be leading. She looks up at him, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“The girl has a name, you know,” Luca murmurs, addressing the men at the bar.

It’s not a bar, not really. Just a front, the crumbling facade of a gang that was once the most respected in Frey. They weren’t a gang then. Locals called them “The Gentlemen.” They were feared, but their dominance was rarely contested. It was convenient for the other gangs to step away from the messy business, back to their turf wars and big talk and let someone with more weapons handle the government Myriad had created.

It had worked. In a world where rebellion had been crushed, ground into dust by Myriad’s heel, the Gentlemen had made a pocket of Frey impenetrable. For three years they were immortal -unstoppable- all thanks to The Baron, a leader with more blood on his hands than skin. When he died they were reduced to this. A gang of nobodies led by a teenager with anger management issues.

Luca tenses beside the girl, glaring at the men around them.

“She has a name. You will use it.”

“Oh, that’s right, sweetie! I almost forgot. Aster- after the flower. Because that’s all you are, isn’t it? Some petals stuck together with daddy’s love? Careful, flower. You may not bleed, but one of these days somebody is going to find your weakness, and you will crumble. Crumble until there is nothing left- ashes to the wind- Just. Like. Your. Daddy.”

The bar goes silent.

The man’s friends look on in mute horror. It may be open season for insults on Aster, but nobody-NOBODY- insults The Baron. Resignedly, Luca releases her arm.

She swings. A snap echoes across the bar. It’s a nice hook, even for Aster’s standards, and blood gushes from the broken nose. He grunts, and steps back from the bar. Suddenly, his skin ripples, forearms growing as the muscle thickens. Soon the portly man looms a foot over Aster, seething as blood trickles down his chest. A Builder. With enough calories in their system they can build muscle at will. He grins, yellow teeth glinting in the dim lights, and tightens a rippling fist.

Aster laughs- a bitter, spiteful thing.

“Go on. Hit me.” She snarls. The man hesitates, eyes going wide when he realizes his mistake. He looks behind him, seeking affirmation from his cronies, but they are fascinated with the floor, refusing to make eye contact. He growls and his muscles return to their original size, blood pulsing out of his nose faster than before. He gently touches it with a filthy finger, flinching when it comes away covered in crimson.

“Oh, does that hurt?” Aster croons. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t bleed, remember? It would do you well to remember that.”

Turning away she stalks into the back room of the bar, doing her best to ignore the snickering that follows her. These days, it never seems to end. She walks confidently, looking in disgust at the blood covering her fist from the man’s nose. Above the bar there is a little room, scarcely more than a closet, with a bed reeking of mildew stuffed inside. Aster stalks to the bed, sitting with a resigned sigh as she picks her father’s pocket knife off of the nightstand, running the dull blade under her fingernails.

Luca sits beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. Aster hadn’t noticed him following her from the bar, and jumps suddenly at the contact.

“Out. Get out,” she growls, glaring at her friend.

“No. That doesn’t work with me, remember? The whole ‘angry girl’ thing,” Luca whispers, pulling her into a hug. It’s too much. A hiccup sounds from Aster’s throat, and suddenly she is sobbing in Luca’s arms, shaking, hoping he will be able to piece her back together after she falls apart. They sit in silence, Luca gently stroking her back.

“Damn Enthopath,” Aster whispers when the tears stop streaming down her face. Luca lets out a low laugh. She sighs. It isn’t fair that he can read her emotions, break through the walls she has so carefully built around herself.

“C’mon, Ace- lets get you cleaned up,” he whispers, coaxing her to the bathroom, wiping the blood off her trembling knuckles with a damp rag.

“Do you want to know the worst part?” Aster whispers. “I didn’t even know his name.”

“What?”

“The man I punched. I don’t even know his name. The Baron knew everyone who worked for him, and here I am, trying to take his place, with nothing. Not even a stupid name.”

“Y’know, some kids call their dad pops or daddy, not ‘The Baron’,” Luca chuckles.

“Yeah? Well some kids don’t have gangsters for parents. Some kids have parents who aren’t dead. Some kids aren’t trying to run a gang,” Aster snaps, pivoting towards him with tears brimming in her eyes. She looks towards the ceiling, blinking hard, cursing under her breath at her moment of weakness. Luca takes her shoulder, concern written across his face.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come off like that. I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now,” he mutters.

“It’s not you. It’s just… everything is falling apart, and I only have myself to blame.” Aster whispers. Luca is silent, biting his lower lip. She turns back towards him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s just… I came to tell you- Never mind. Now isn’t a good time,” Luca mutters, looking away.

“What is it? I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re keeping something from me.”

“It’s really not that important… I just…”

“Luca. Talk. Now.”

“Fallon is going to challenge you for the title tonight,” Luca says, stumbling over himself in an effort to get the words out.

Aster sits on the counter, numb. She isn’t surprised. Fallon had been moving against her since The Gentlemen began to fall apart. He was her father’s second in command, built like a tank with more bloodlust than could possibly be healthy. When The Baron passed his title onto his teenage daughter instead of a hardened warrior Fallon was furious. Honestly, it was a miracle it had taken this long for him to make a move. Six months. Had it really been that long since the murder?

Luca swipes at Aster’s knuckles with the rag, snapping her out of her thoughts. She flinches in pain as fresh blood wells up from the cuts in her knuckles.

“Ace,” Luca whispers disapprovingly, glancing at the bathroom door to make sure it is locked. “You have to try harder than this. You know we’re screwed if someone sees you bleed. With all the fear you were giving off today when that man pulled the gun on you it’s a wonder someone hasn’t seen through your lies already.”

“What can I say? I’m a good actor,” Aster smiles, trying to sell the joke, but it falls flat. She was lucky none of the other men in the bar were Enthopaths or they would have seen right through her act. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re lucky it’s still winter. You can get away with wearing gloves to hide the cuts… but when summer comes you’ve gotta take more care, alright?” He lectures, wrapping her knuckles and helping her slide a glove onto each hand.

“I will… If I’m still alive after tonight,” Aster whispers.

“Don’t say that. You are going to be fine,” Luca growls, a bit too forcefully. He takes his hand away from the bandage, but not fast enough to keep Aster from feeling it tremble.

He tries to put on a brave face, but he is just as scared as she is. Aster finds it odd that someone in this world still cares if she makes it through the night. Luca is more of a father figure than The Baron ever was, despite only being a year older than her. They had grown up together, playing hopscotch around broken glass in the alleys, seeing if Luca could guess her emotions from opposite sides of the street when he turned 15 and gained his Instinct.

Everyone gained their Instinct after 15 when they were “snapped”. For the Instinct to take effect your adrenaline has to peak. The rich kids get it medically done, a shot of adrenaline to the wrist and they wake up the next morning with some incredible new ability. Nobody in Frey has that kind of money. Instead kids steal candy off the drugstore shelves and get their adrenaline high from running through the streets followed by the Enforcers. It doesn’t always work out. Stumble once and you won’t know your power before they cart you off to the Keep. That’s how Myriad gets his servants.

Aster grimances at the thought of his wretched name. A silver blade slashing through The Baron’s windpipe while she watched, helpless, flashes through her mind. Myriad murdered her father. He… She blinks the thought away.

Her father was by no means a good man. He was old fashioned, believed in snapping his children the ‘right’ way. Three years after the fact her back still throbs as she imagines that whip crashing down, always down, upon her back, until she couldn’t feel the pain any more. Her Instinct was supposed to be magnificent, the daughter of a god… but she was nothing. In a society where your Instinct is the only thing keeping you alive Aster was powerless. A defect in her father’s flawless plan.

The Baron started the rumor about her being incapable of bleeding, more for the sake of his own pride than his daughter’s protection. It wasn’t difficult to believe. He was bulletproof, after all. Feared my many, worshipped by still more… until Myriad found his weakness. Blades are not bullets. A single slit to the throat and the first uprising in Myriad’s 50 year reign was gone, bleeding out in the night without so much as a murmur of pain.

He never saw the assassin coming.

Aster thinks it’s odd how you can mourn someone in death you loathed in life, but life is funny like that.

A gentle knock sounds at the bathroom door.

“Are you guys in there?” A quiet voice asks. Luca’s eyes go wide, looking at the blood splattered across the sink basin, an open package of bandages on the counter.

Luca was the only person who knew Aster’s Instinct was a lie. As an Enthopath, he could see past the facade of confidence she tried to plaster around herself right to the consuming fear pounding in her ears each time a gun was pressed against her skull. One shot. That’s all it would take.

Aster presses a finger to her lips, easing off of the counter, and motions for Luca to take her place. She opens the door in a fluid motion, grinning at the mousey boy on the other side.

“Hey, Oscar! I totally forgot you were coming over this morning! This dumbass can be pretty distracting,” she rolls her eyes, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at Luca. Oscar takes in the blood on the counter and all but leaps into the room, fear in his eyes.

“Luca! Are you alright? Why didn’t you call me? You know my Instinct is Healing, right? I can help,” Oscar squeaks, running a panicked hand through his messy hair. “Where are you hurt?” Luca looks up, his face a mask of mute horror.

For someone so good at seeing through lies, he had never been particularly talented at telling them.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, Ozzie,” Aster chuckles. She wraps a bandage around Luca’s unharmed knuckles before Oscar can see them. “Some of The Gentlemen were giving me a hard time and Luca threw a punch. He’s barely hurt, but you should see the other guy! This blood is mostly his,” she chuckles, rolling her eyes. Luca nods, looking relieved.

“Yeah, sorry for the scare, Oz,” he laughs, tousling the smaller boy’s hair.

“Oh, don’t… don’t worry about it, I just… gotta, I just gotta- Nevermind,” Oscar stutters, awkwardly patting his hair back into place. Luca grins, watching him squirm.

“So, are ya jealous that I got one on one time with my girlfriend?” Luca jokes, making obnoxious kissing noises in Aster’s ear.

“Jerk,” Aster rolls her eyes, delivering a light punch to his gut.

“Ow! Jeez, Ace. I’m hurt, remember?” Luca whimpers, covering his bandaged knuckles protectively, giving Aster a knowing look. She rolls her eyes.

“Oh please. We all know Ace is my girlfriend,” Oscar grins, his previous awkwardness fading.

“You two are awful,” Aster whines, chuckling as she shoves Oscar away from her. This was the boys favorite running joke, and as stupid as it was, their antics always made her smile.

That was better than wasting away, trying to hold a gang together when each action brought them further apart. It wouldn’t matter for much longer, though. Tonight, in one way or another, everything would change. Fallon would challenge her for the title, which would inevitably give him control of The Gentlemen when they crowned him Baron. It is nearly impossible to win a fight against a Smith.

With his instinct Fallon could control metal. One graze of her arm and everyone would know Aster could bleed. Even if she won the fight and kept the title nobody would follow her. The few Gentlemen who still followed Aster only did so because they thought she was immortal. They feared her Instinct, as fake as that instinct may be. Without fear, she had nothing.

“Earth to Ace,” Oscar falters, waving a timid hand in front of her face.

“Mmm? Oh. Sorry.”

“You have that look again.

“What look?”

“The one that seems like you have the world on your shoulders.”

“Oh. Sorry Oz,” Aster mumbles, wrapping her arms around herself. Luca rests a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Ace. I’ll be in the crowd tonight- near the front. If it gets too heated I’ll be there, ok?” He squeezes her shoulder, and checks his watch. “I’m running security detail on the north perimeter in twenty minutes, I have to get over there.”

“Wasn’t your security shift last hour?” Aster asks, concerned.

“Yeah, but people keep ditching their shifts. I figured those on duty could use some extra help. See ya!” Luca bounds out of the door, a dopey smile on his face. How could he afford to be so optimistic? The only life they had ever known was crumbling around them, and yet he seemed to think working harder would solve everything, as if this mess was somehow his fault. How could he still stand by her side knowing Aster was the only one to blame?

Oscar crosses to the window, watching as Luca bounds onto the street below, his ever-confident gait carrying him across the square. He turns once, gives a mocking salute towards the window, and is out of sight in the next moment.

Oscar’s eyes linger just a little too long on Luca’s retreating figure before he turns to help clean blood from the sink.

I was inches away from killing him my hand almost pulled the trigger, I would finally get revenge for all he put me through. All the years of tears, lies and all the abuse would finally be over. Yet tears stung my eyes looking at him through the glass I didn’t wanna say goodbye, yes revenge is sweet but this tasted to bitter to be true. After all the image I was looking at looked more like me then ever did you.

~ you were a part of me can’t leave behind

You tried

to kiss me

to touch me

to take advantage of me.

But I,

I stopped you

I made you wait

I made you fall in love

before the sex.

(Yes, this may seem twisted,

but isn’t all revenge?)

My revenge was rage filled passion.

It was the sweet (sweet) dessert that made your mouth water for more.

It was love mending the tears in my heart.

It was lifting you up from the ground and showing you how beautiful the sky is.

My revenge,

was teaching you

how to properly love a woman.

The reality of hurting someone with a soul dependent on creativity is somehow constantly pushed aside by the heartbreaker.

From friends to lovers to coworkers to family members.

Revenge has never been a part of my heart’s blueprint. That is, until recently.

Or at least, my acceptance of the fact that the people who destroy others without care deserve to hear that they’ve done it because

Maybe this makes me mean.

Maybe this makes me dishonorable.

Maybe this makes me weak.

Maybe this makes me disappointing.

But I just realized the life sentence that comes with holding back a talent that can help me live a life without pain: one too many took from my past.

I just realized my mortality.

I’m not looking for a legacy. I’m not looking to be a part of history books. I’m not looking to even inflict pain. I’m looking to live a life I love with people that love me back because

I’m not Mother Theresa.

I’m not Gandhi.

I’m not God.

I’m a writer.

And above all: I’m human.

The reality of hurting someone with a soul dependent on creativity never dies. Not even with the moving on. Not even with death.

Hurt an artist, painter, sculptor, writer: we will make art out of it.

And I hope it wakes you in the night. I hope it crawls up your spine at 1pm on a Tuesday when you think you’re having a good day. I hope it’s the first thing you think of when you read a quote about regret. I hope it’s a regular inconvenience. I hope it makes you consider showing up to a confessional.

Do know: you deserve to beg for forgiveness.

Never from the artist. Never from me. You’re so far past that. You deserve to beg for forgiveness from you.

“My revenge will be artistic”

and I’m so sorry you doubted

the way I could make you feel shame.

I pity the way you will live the rest of your life

regretting hurting someone that only ever

loved you.

“An eye for an eye makes the whole

world blind.”

but maybe you’ll see that

with elegant words—ones

that will

shake the evil in you—

I’ve given you a sight

you deserve to see

The sight of losing me.

Do know: I don’t wish to hurt you.

Maybe I will though.

Maybe you should hurt.

No, you definitely should.

And I never fucking should again.

(Since I know I’ll never treat a soul the way you treated me).

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

the above is sincerely dedicated to several people I loved wholeheartedly,

genuinely, begged for answers from. Ones I know are reading right now.

Arrogant to assume you even read this far down?

No, just finally aware of your envious arrogance to still want to know how the person you tried to

destroy is doing.

(Answer: I’m doing better than ever. It’s no coincidence you’re not here for that.)

Do know: I loved loving you but I don’t anymore.

The reality of hurting me should have never been pushed aside. But you thank yourself. And actually, I can thank you too.

““Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art.” Kurt Cobain

Breathe me in too deeply

Wash me away with the tide

Devour me completely

Whatever comes to mind