It hadn't been easy, living. It hadn't been easy to sleep, or walk, or fight. Everything was a constant reminder of her. Teresa, Teresa.
I miss that faint smile you smiled only for me.
When Clare slept, she dreamed of her. Memories replayed over and over and over and over. When she walked, sometimes she would close her eyes and pretend that the slight clanking her steel boots made were made by someone else, walking beside her. And that she was twelve again, and her hair was long again, and Teresa was by her side, again. And when she fought, she felt more disgusted with herself than any other time, because even with Teresa inside of her, even with the painful caustic memory burned into her, she could not rival what Teresa had done, she could not be more than number fourty-seven, dead last.
More, more power.
Her life was a gift she didn't deserve. Teresa had given her a reason to live, a voice to speak, and, later, when Teresa's head was cradled to her chest and wet with her tears, Teresa gave Clare a reason not to die. And what had she given Teresa? The guilt of it, the pain of it, the memory and the dreamless sleep of when she was human-not-human remain with her, shadowing her clanking steps.