Asha!

"Yes, Author-san?"

You have to give them the warning!

"Why?"

Psh! I'll just do it myself then! Alright, readers...There will be blood. And because of useless Asha here, this fic will be a pseudo-crossover. It will have elements of other anime/manga, especially one by the name of D—MMHRMN!

"Alright. That's enough Author-san. They'll see soon enough anyway. So be quiet and stay in the back room. I'll take you for a walk later. Moving on."

Mmnfa!

"Please deal with that, tech team. Maybe you should gas her, knock her out. Just do it quickly."

Mmmhrmph! Mmmm—!

"…Good, it's quiet now. Hello out there, dear readers. I break the fourth wall frequently; actually, I'll just go right ahead and get rid of it. Hey, while you're at that, tech team, get rid of these quotations. Quotations are for pitiful characters speaking in stories.

That's better.

I know you're out there, readers, just thought you should know that I know.

Anyway, this is me, Asha Walker, the Magician, illusionist extraordinaire, at no one's service but my own. Currently 22-years-old. But let's focus on my 12-year-old self, alright? Red-eyed devil spawn, orange-haired, scrawny and bratty pretty much sums it up.

Since Author-san is currently out of commission, I shall take the liberty and initiative of giving the disclaimer.

Ahem.

Author-san, AKA Prince SuperSharky (obviously) does not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn. That belongs to the exalted Akira Amano. Author-san does not own anything at all. This is my life. I own it—therefore, I own the plot. And as for me? I own me. Alright?

Good~

Let's start.

Question: Who would willingly hand themselves over to the Estraneo Famiglia for experimental purposes?

I mean, I'm pretty sure that all of you out there have heard of a certain Pineapple Head, and of his experiences with said Famiglia. Stupid Nappo-kohai; he didn't get out of there when I told him to.

Ahem.

So, who's insane enough to just…hand themselves over?

Well, you see...the thing is... I belong to a Famiglia made up entirely of illusionists. The successor, the boss, is the Famiglia's strongest, most powerful illusionist. And usually to determine the strongest, we duke it out.

We are known as the Animus Famiglia.

Animus…The soul; that which animates, gives life.

I was eleven when Old Man Animus renounced his title, basically allowing us to initiate the Battle Royale of mind-screw. Anyway, that's also when the family began to split into two branches—the Oscura Famiglia and the Noah Famiglia. The Oscura rallied around a foreigner by the name of Torikabuto, while the Noah supported an Earl by the name of Adam.

A preteen brat was I; so I could do nothing but watch as my Famiglia tore itself apart. There were no casualties. But that depends on your definition of 'casualty'. No one physically died, per se. But many were turned into vegetables for life—their minds broken, driven insane by the images played out in their heads.

At the time, I was nowhere as strong as either of the two main contenders (or any of their subordinates for that matter), nor did I wish for either of them to inherit the Famiglia that was so important to me. So, I willingly gave myself over to the Estraneo, on the grounds that they would be able to make me stronger. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain from their experimentations.

That's because I am not afraid of death. Death is my friend. Death has always been my friend. With each life that I've lived, and each death that I've experienced, I've grown stronger. And that power lay dormant until I chose to awaken it.

The entire year that I was at the Estraneo compound, it was torture. Or rather...practice. The horrors that mankind could commit, I saw it all—saw it all.

As they strapped me to the machine, the fear I felt was bad enough, but to hear the screams of the people—children—around me, that was even worse.

However, the absolute worst part of it all was the machine. That's when I saw the true cruelty of humans.

The contraption wrapped itself around my head, blocking off my sight; the darkness crawled in, taking over. As it crept in, it explored every nook and cranny of my head, and erased my mind of any thoughts. Then the blankness began filling in with memories—memories that weren't mine, but were so familiar.

In that year of my life that was taken from me by the Estraneo, I lived through eight lifetimes of pain. It was like a never-ending movie in surround sound, 3-D, 4-D, whatever. It was painful, and it never ended.

First reel.

Cauldrons of putrid potions and exotic fumes that curl up in exquisite wisps of smoke surround me. It's dark, and the only light in the dank room is from ancient incense and stubby stumps of long-burnt-out candles. Whispered words in languages that haven't been spoken aloud in millennia, the runes and letters weave themselves into a curse so potent, so self-righteous that the moon dares not shine on this night. Shadows dance on the walls, and I laugh at the sight. A black cat slinks around my feet, and I reach down to stroke it.

The wooden door is knocked down with an echoing boom. The cat starts at this, and disappears into the night, its amber eyes glinting in the darkness. I continue to laugh as they bind me in chains and drag me away. For it is already too late, the spell is cast. The witch-hunt is at the peak of its bloodlust... But the Queen is already stone-dead.

The next day, strapped onto the top rung of a ladder, I'm tipped face-first into the bonfire, laughing, laughing, laughing all the way. I got my revenge. This life was Hell, and even the Devil I worshipped did not want me. Death is not the end for me. I win again, you fools.

Stop! No! I don't wanna'! I don't wanna' see any more! I cried when the pain finally faded. The machine ground to a halt, and the experimenters detached me from the machine. They grabbed onto me, threatening me with sedatives when I tried to make a run for it. So frightened was I of the memories that were, but weren't, mine.

"We had a deal, child. Now cooperate. You wanted to become stronger...did you not?"

Shaking, I complied, though I did not want to feel the pain of death nor feel the fear of death again. I was seeing the life and death of a completely alien being. Their elation and liberation filled me; however I was the one left feeling terrified as I fell towards the angry flames. She laughed as I screamed.

And yet, I went back to the machine willingly. I'll be prepared this time.

I'd be prepared for the pain that this second time would bring.

Second Reel.

They say that a cat has nine lives.

Only the first is mortal.

Floating above the ashes of my body burned at the stake, I search for a willing container. My faithful familiar returns to my side, taking a seat beside the charred remains, meowing.

I smile.

Thank you for returning to me...

I float down to the creature. Feeling our souls touch, I latch on.

Heh. Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?

The average lifespan of a feral cat is five years. Albeit so that this is my familiar, the same thing applies. The fact becomes evident to me, and after a while, I quickly disengage, in quest of a host with a longer lifespan. The creature with the longest lifespan on this planet is Homo sapiens.

And so, I take over the kingdom's beloved Crown Prince. Using his fighting prowess, I was able to kill off the rest of the royal lineage. The superstitious holy men catch on sooner than I gave them credit for, and in a battle of wits, they finally catch me, and their beloved Prince, and he is exorcised. I have failed to kill him, and so, the line continues.

The Prince was never the same again. Some say he went mad, and some say that the devil took his soul for himself. I had failed to kill him, but I left my mark—on him, as well as his successors. They would be plagued by the same bloodlust as I was, yet haunted by the image of their own bloody hands.

For centuries after this massacre, the citizens of the kingdom would pray that another tragedy like this, within the royal family, would never happen again.

Once more, the Devil did not want me, so my second 'life' as a Ghost, a spirit, a poltergeist, ended. And another began.

I was not prepared at all, even the second time. The screams lingered long after the people who the voices belonged to had died. And more screams, fresh screams from the test subjects around me continued to ring out in the darkness.

They told me that the visions would get longer, and that I'd need to mentally prepare myself.

I'd asked them how long I was out for.

They gave me a drink of water and said, "One week."

I nodded. One week of blood and pain. Blood on hands of a man possessed by a spirit that wasn't me...or was it? My head hurts.

They didn't care. They shoved a couple of pills into my hand, and forced me into a room with a bunch of other test subjects. The malnourished children gazed up fearfully at me, shrinking back when my gaze met theirs. Their deformities disgusted me, and I isolated myself in a corner, not wanting to come in contact with them. They, in turn, feared me, and didn't dare to approach me anyway.

Staring at the pills, I debated. Then I swallowed them. They wouldn't kill me this soon would they? I mean, they still need me, right?

The question was always: How much longer do they need me for? How much longer until I can finally leave? How much longer until I'm strong?

Third Reel.

The first days of my existence are filled with warmth and soothing noises. I don't know what's going on around me, but I feel others around me, and the faint aura of contentedness. So I assume that it's safe.

An unprecedented amount of time passes, and my eyes open. The first thing I see is darkness, then I push myself onto my hands and knees. I wobble slightly before falling over again.

Why?

I stare down at my paws that seem too big for me. Orange tabby fur covers my paws.

I see...

The dark warmth rumbles comfortingly, and a rough tongue runs over my head. I peer up, and come face to face with black fur and amber eyes.

Why, hello again... I purr back.

I earn another lick to the head, and I survey the area. There are four other kittens in my litter—one smoky grey, one raven-black, one brown tabby, and one a rusty-red shade. With the creativity that I am known for, I dub them Smoky, Raven, Tabby and Rusty.

At first, the paws take some getting used to. But the tail! Oh, the tail! I loved it.

Soon, my littermates and I grow from clumsy kits to inquisitive creatures. We prowl the alleyway that we were born in, scampering about under our mother's watchful eye. That is, until our mother is killed by a strange metal contraption that hurtles down the cobblestone roads. With a roar and a great collision, our source of food and protection is taken away violently by Fate. We were only a few months old.

The five of us resort to foraging and begging for scraps. Smoky is taken in by an elderly couple who took pity on him. We watch from the alleyway as he grows smaller and smaller in the distance.

Raven ingeniously found a way to tip over trash bins, and we gorge ourselves on the food that we could find. It's an acquired taste. We continue doing so, until one day, Tabby is killed by the guard dog, a vicious brute of an animal. The three of us run for our lives, out of the alley, away from the aggressor. We make our way back to the box where our pitiful lives had begun, cowering in fear, and unable to leave the safe-house for a few days.

The three of us teach ourselves how to hunt. We practise stalking prey, and play-fight, tumbling over and over in a mixture of soft mewls and batting of paws. But when we put those skills into practice, it does not go well.

Rusty is bitten by a snake and dies soon after.

Then it's only Raven and I.

We fare only a little better, the two of us, without being hindered by the rest of them. We share our spoils—field mice we chase down, skinny little jackrabbits that we ambush, and even small birds that we hunt on padded feet.

Back in the alley that is our home, Raven leaps at a butterfly that flutters down next to us. I tackle him down, and smack him on the nose. He hisses quietly, but gives in. I growl quietly at him, before turning and crouching down, tail waving. I stalk forward on silent paws, and pounce on the butterfly. Ripping off its wings, I yowl loudly in declaration. I am the winner.

I never see my littermate again; for the very next day, I'm caught by a pair of teenage boys, lured in by the promise of a meal.

Then comes the pain. The nail through my tail, leaving me hanging, dangling, swinging side to side from the tree. Then the hammer, crashing down on my frail bones, snapping them. A blade snaps out, glinting in the pale sunlight. I growl, swiping weakly at them, doing little to stop the blade as it comes down. I feel the blood flow, entrails seeping into my orange fur, dyeing it crimson.

The average lifespan of a feral cat is five years. I made it to two years.

My third life is by far, the shortest life that I've lived.

But then again, in cat years, that's fourteen years old. At fourteen years of age, bludgeoned and tortured to death for brutal amusement. Such is the benevolence of humanity. Beasts have more civility, more sympathy.

I cried out at the pain, struggling against the straps that bind me. Why was each death so painful?

There's so much pain, so much suffering.

There is no place that is safe.

Once again, they didn't care. They gave me another couple of tablets, telling me to eat them.

After each experience on the machine, I was given a brief reprieve—at most: 3 months, in which other tests were run on me, to keep my physical stamina up, and the least: a few minutes in which water and some form of gruel was forced into me.

It was a miserable existence. Yet, I pressed on. How many more would there be? I did not know.

But I endured it, the thought of glorifying my Famiglia always at the front of my mind.

Fourth Reel.

I enter the cockpit readily. I'm prepared for the air raid, for the next bombing of London.

In order to achieve the grandeur of the Führer's Third Reich, his faithful Nazis will follow.

A dashing young man was I, and eager for some adventure, I became a pilot—and a ferocious one at that. What else is there for me to do?

I enjoy every death I cause. Every plane I shoot down is another accomplishment, another experience under my belt. I relish in the attention and the pride that fills me at every enemy plane that spirals away, breaking a brief hole in the cloud-line. They always leave a perfect coil of smoke in their wake, and allow a glimpse at the ugly warzone below. People run, screaming for shelter, and I smile, releasing my package of explosives.

Then I bank quickly to avoid the onslaught of the British Spitfires. They fire at me, and I corkscrew, ending up behind them, and gladly return fire tenfold.

I love the exhilaration of having bested other more experienced pilots. I engaged many of them in an aerial dogfight, and won. I survived, because I was stronger, more agile, wilier; I was crueller than them, without a sense of honour to hold me back. I was a winner.

But as they pursue me through the greying clouds, I realize that this time, there's too many of them for me to fight off. There's too many of them for me to duck under their defences and retreat. Their forces are too heavily laid on me for me to even try to thin their ranks and force my way out. I'm out of gas, and all of my ammunition is already used up.

I feel the bullets cut through the metal of the plane I'm piloting, and carving their way through my flesh. The engine sputters, and then stutters to a stop. The metallic confines of the plane will be my coffin.

The Allies all the world over would cheer at my death, the death of a Luftwaffe pilot. I spiral down at an amazing speed towards my death, just as many others have died before me, just as many more will continue to die in this bloody, pointless war. The ground zooms up at me, and I smile wryly—I really have become a Demon.

I welcome Death with open arms.

Mercifully, I blacked out before my death. I struggled in my bonds once again, until someone came to untie me.

More tests. More pain.

More of the children's fearful faces. More of their crying, their whimpering, their screaming. I shudder at the memory. Did I cause them pain and anguish like this?

Their hollow gazes look almost accusing now. I turned away to face the wall, away from their sad eyes. I swallowed the pill and waited for my next experience with the machine.

What else is new?

Fifth Reel.

I am a promising young dancer, a ballerina. I loved to dance, it was my passion.

But my budding career is cut short at my discovery of Muscular Dystrophy. I could no longer dance. Instead, I'm to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. My speech slurred, and my family abandoned me, as did my many avid fans. Other than for tabloid writers sent to mock and ridicule me, I was wiped from the face of the Earth. I was forgotten.

It is truly a miserable existence.

But perhaps, it was all to atone for the sins of a previous life. I don't believe in reincarnation, though, maybe it stands that if I were to reap all of the pain that I'd sown...it would be enough to kill me. And yet, that still wasn't enough. So I lived on. It was a life filled with hatred; a hatred of all things pretty and beautiful—all things beautiful in motion, or still life. Because they could move, they could choose and decide when or where to move. I stay stationary while my heart dances and travels far away from my stone body as it degrades.

Weakness...trapped...unable to move—unable to even turn around or incline my head as I hear the subtle creak of the door. The feeling of dread, of knowing that something's wrong, of something's behind me, and no, I'm not making this up, something's there and it's not good, and I want to turn but I can't and it's not even like I'm frozen in fear it's like my body is dead and has been for the longest time, and I can't move because I'm practically paralyzed and oh God that I never believed in I just don't want to die I don't want to feel that pain again. Please no. Please, intuition, be wrong this time.

No such luck. And as my wheelchair is wrenched around, in that split-second, I have to wonder:

Was it planned? A hate crime? Intolerance? Or was it just plain cold-blooded, random murder?

The boy with the bleached-white hair smiles before swinging the crowbar down, smashing my jawbone. My head is wrenched to the side, and I spin out of my wheelchair, slamming into the wall. I feel my neck crack, but the pain from that is nowhere close to the pain in my face. But the blow wasn't enough to break my spine. It would've been better if it did, because the second boy pulls out a knife and stabs down on my leg. I cry out, but he just drags the blade through my flesh and lets the blood bubble forth from the gash. He pulls the knife out, then proceeds to hack away at my leg. Yes, it would've been merciful if my spine had been broken.

But I am helpless to do anything, confined in an unmoving statue of a body—all glass and nerve endings.

The white-haired boy laughs lightly and drops his crowbar in favour of something a little more...heavy-duty.

The device roars to life in his hands as him and his partner-in-crime back away, cackling madly.

Humans...disgusting.

I jolted up, away from the chainsaw, and cracked my head open against the inside of the machine.

I screamed, and screamed, and screamed, struggling against the bonds, smacking my head against the confines of the machine until someone came to let me out. And even then, I continued to scream. I screamed until my throat became raw and my voice became nothing more than a hoarse rasp. I didn't even know what I was screaming—were they words? Were they primal sounds of fear? The unintelligible cries were silenced by the heaviest of sedatives. And even then...my mind continued to cry like a twelve-year-old who'd just been hacked to pieces by a chainsaw.

Sleep brought nightmares. Sleep was synonymous with death. Though waking life was not much better.

I was pretty sure my eyes had become hollow in appearance—like the other experimental subjects. But only in appearance.

I was still holding on.

I will be stronger. Yes, I will.

But I fought against the drugs in a fitful rage, staying half-conscious.

I didn't want to stay awake, yet I didn't wish to sleep.

I don't want to die.

Nowhere is safe.

Sixth Reel.

There's nothing. There's black and there's white, and they're one and the same. Moving in place, they retrace their steps as they charge backwards in a tumble of grace.

This time...there's no pain. No pain, no sensation at all. Is this what Heaven is like?

There's nothing but multi-chromatic nothing. There are explosions of dark brightness in the dawn of night. They're not opposites, no. But how else do you describe something that you don't remember?

I began noticing it after the sixth life/death/nothingness that I was shown. Upon the removal of the device, the previously dim room had gradually darkened to what it was—pure darkness. My eyes had lost their ability to adjust to the dark—Nyctalopia. No longer could I see without the aid of light.

I grit my teeth, and demanded a reason. I received nothing but a month of physical exercise, and found my muscles to be unable to support my weight properly. I determinedly threw myself into intense workouts under their eagle-like observations through one-way glass—white lab coats, glinting glasses and pens racing across crisp paper stacked on clipboards.

So I kept my mouth shut, and concentrated. I was to grow stronger. I was to grow stronger, and defeat both Torikabuto and Adam, then lead the Animus Famiglia into a glorifying existence, and allow our family to flourish.

To escape the horrors of the experimental subjects around me, I allowed myself to be strapped back in to the machine.

I welcomed the machine and the horrors that it brought.

Seventh Reel.

There is no such thing as magic...Right? Illusions are tricks of the mind, a simple misconception of your perception. Right?

That means that this must be some sort of alternate world, an alternate reality with different laws of physics, and people with powers so undeniably strong.

For this, this is magic.

They say that Rome is a holy city, same with Constantinople, Jerusalem, Bethlehem and Lhasa.

They were all holy cities.

That fact meant little to me, and even less to the Akuma that attacked them.

We are Exorcists of the Black Order; and wielding a sacred material called Innocence, we destroy abominations made of Dark Matter called Akuma. These Akuma are created by the Millennium Earl and his Noah Family, who believe they are a race of superhumans.

Akuma are created from the sorrow and despair of humans. When a person dies, the Earl appears before those who are in mourning, and promises them that he'll bring back their deceased loved one—they only need call out the name of the person. And if they do, the deceased is brought back—their soul is chained to a contraption made of Dark Matter. Then, the Earl instructs the soul to kill the person, and wear their skin.

These Akuma blend in with society, killing more people in order to grow stronger and evolve. And the more people that they kill, the more sorrow that they breed. We Exorcists are fighting a losing battle. A few years ago, I would've liked to say that we were fighting an uphill battle...but now...there is no more hope. Yet, we trudge on.

We, the Black Order, and the Vatican that it serves, stand no chance against them. We were fighting a losing battle to begin with.

I am in tune with my Innocence, with a fairly high Synchronization rate of 91%—I am strong. And yet, I was still powerless to save the lives of the people. I couldn't save them, couldn't defeat the Akuma, couldn't stop them from destroying the Innocence fragment, couldn't stop them from killing my fellow Exorcists.

I couldn't even raise my arms to defend myself as the Level 4 Akuma leapt down from the cathedral rooftop. How pathetic is that? An Exorcist who can't manage her duties, and is killed, not even in action, but by falling chunks of rock at that.

So I went from devil-worshipper to a servant of God. The Memory would stay with me through Death. But for me, there was only Oblivion, who raised her sweet arms to me when all else rejected me or was broken.

I waited for my liberation from the machine. But the experimenters never came.

But the darkness came. Yes, the darkness sank its fangs into me, pressing in, pulling me away from 'reality'. What's really real anymore? And I gave in and let it pull me under.

I guess I was wrong. This time, there is no reprieve.

Eighth Reel.

I am awake. I am awake.

I burst forth from the pool of water, gasping for air. Kicking my feet, I quickly pulled myself from the water. Surprised, I find myself in the body of a child. I shiver at the edge of the pool, naked and utterly alone in the dim lighting.

Dim lighting? I search for the light source. It's coming from all around me. I crawl over to the nearest one, and gasp, pulling back. The pool is glowing. And inside floats a child, barely submerged, incubated in the phosphorescent liquid. I peer in again, and recoil once I see the chest moving—it's breathing. It's alive.

The child has raven-blue hair that seems to billow around him in the water. It is a 'him'...isn't it? I can't tell, and I can't get a good look at his...ahem...'Parts' from this perspective.

I back up, and peer back into my pool. That means that I was just like them. What could this mean? Why are we all here?

I pace around, peering into more of the pools. They're all asleep, all hibernating, all dormant. It's as if they're all waiting for something...but what?

I stare at the brown-haired boy, wondering who he was. Why's he here, too?

But soon, I hear voices, and there are men dressed in black robes that lead me away.

Memories of my previous life flash before my eyes.

I remember. The Black Order. Akuma. Fighting. The Noah Family. War. Blood. Pain.

Innocence.

I reach for it, willing the connection—the Synchronization—to work.

I am brought before a giant. The colossal woman towers over me. Her hair tumbles to the floor in the form of intricate tentacles that give off the glow of innocence.

I don't struggle as she picked me up with the glowing tendrils, for I could sense the gentleness in her touch, the calmness that emanated off of her like rolling fog. Or maybe I had already gone insane.

"Don't be afraid, child," she says.

"I'm not afraid of you," I answer.

I feel her tugging at the memory of my past life as an Exorcist. The images fly past my eyes.

Running across rooftops, dodging shots of dark matter. Then leaping, jumping higher, rearing back, and slashing forward with a glowing scythe.

The explosion of the Akuma brings the pleasurable feeling of victory.

I reach out to the Innocence fragment—my Innocence fragment. It pulsates.

"That's mine. That's my Butterfly Knife, isn't it?"

"Yes...It was..." the woman breathes.

"Hevlaska!" a voice calls.

The woman looks up. That must be her name.

"Test subject Zero—the first to awaken. You are the first of the Second Exorcist Project. Formerly Exorcist Ashton Walker. Innocence: Psyche Scythe, otherwise known as the Butterfly Knife. Synchro rate: 91%. Hevlaska, you may begin."

I don't understand. I don't know what's going on.

I stare up at the woman as she brings the Innocence fragment closer.

Then, it's like there's a spark. I can see it, and I reach out to it, but at the same time, it's like it's rejecting me.

Attracting and pulling, rejecting and pushing.

This body is unable to take the strain of forced Synchronization, and crumbles.

It's painful, but, it quickly regenerates.

It's almost shameful how they force a child to fight. Though, debatably, I am an adult in an eight-year-old's body.

Eventually, the damage becomes too much, and I can no longer regenerate.

Kanda Yuu would never learn of my existence. As long as the corrupt Order is concerned, there had only been one success in the Second Exorcist project.

If my Memory serves correctly...then I'm sure that I saw Hevlaska cry. I smiled though. It wasn't her fault. It was a quick Death this time around—I never knew what happened.

I opened my eyes, almost afraid to move.

What was that all about?

Innocence...Dark matter...Akuma...?

But one thing stood out to me—The Millennium Earl was Adam. And he led the Noah Family.

I fought against them. I am fighting against them.

What kinds of parallels are being drawn here?

(None that make any sense...)

I pondered this as the experimenters measure my height and weight and test my reflexes again. Needless to say, my reflexes were bad, and I'm malnourished and barely of a healthy weight. I pondered this as the experimenters shove me into the room again with some sludgy porridge which is supposed to be nutritious and jam-packed with nutrients and vitamins and all that jolly good stuff.

It tasted like sludge. Simply exquisite.

That must have been some alternate reality in which I was fighting them.

Yes...

But who's to say that the Estraneo weren't planting fake images and memories into my head?

Because they're too familiar, Asha...

Yes...that's right. They are my memories. But not mine. That is to say, that they were mine.

My head hurt.

On the ninth cycle, I'm surprised to see my own life flashing before my eyes—the memories of this lifetime condensed into a speed film.

Every laugh, every smile, every tumble from my bike. Every band-aid sealed with a kiss to make it better.

Every time I'd stolen a cookie off the tray, every time I was caught because I wasn't fast enough, every time I got my fingers burnt trying to run away. And every laugh and tear as I was caught and a kiss to make it better.

Every hairclip that fell down the drain. Every reprimand that I received. Every matching pair of hairclips that were bought to replace them and a laughing kiss to make it better.

Every test I failed and tried to hide, every time I tried to climb out of my window, trying to hide, every time I fell out of the tree. And every scolding that I received for that and a kiss to make it better.

Every time I was told no, and every time I went ahead and did it, every 'I told you so', every 'I told you not to'. And a consoling kiss to make it better.

I relived every moment that I could remember. Each memory of my twelve years of life was vivid, with high resolution, and was jam-packed into a brief two-week period.

Of course, that also included all eight other lifetimes. So, in total, eight and a half lifetimes of pain, forced into my head within one year.

(Though, if you want to be technical, then it was sixteen lives plus two of the same half-of-a-life's. However you want to add that...it still equals the same amount—pain.)

I'm lucky to have kept my sanity...somewhat intact.

Because that whole ordeal was worse than Chinese Water Torture.

There is no kiss to make it better this time.

There won't ever be another kiss to make it better—they made sure of that.

Oh yes, I can Dream—yes, that's the only thing I can do.