But thats okay. You find you're ready for it. You know right when its going to happen. You always know these things: you always know when somethings going to break you again. Take whats left of you and toss it around, and then some. You've become a toy, each jolt of agony, each little insult and hurtful remark building up to become something else. To change you. To twist you until you're a shadow of what you once were. But you're okay with that, it doesn't hurt anymore. It stopped hurting a long time ago: now it remains a fire in your heart. A burning rage, hatred, anger. You've never felt such emotions before. But the hate builds, and piles up, forming a dark cloud where the love and adoration and affections used to be. Consuming you. Taking over the life you used to remember living.
Before this. Before him. Before you felt love, and the urge to force the goddamn world to its knee's just to make the one you desired happy. Just to see him smile once. But that, as you knew, was another story in its own. And you didn't want to go there again, it only made you hate more, and long for revenge. Long to see the one who took it all away suffer. To make them all suffer... like an itch under your skin, something you can't reach, can't cure until you get what you want. And you had it, you had that secret you were ready to spill.
You wanted to tell everyone, to make them all see. To take that secret you've discovered and let it go, just to watch the one you hated burn. To watch them cry, beg, pull at your sleeve and whimper for you to never tell. But you will. Oh, you will. It'll do your darkened heart good to watch them wiggle like a worm on a hook. To take your place, to know what it feels like.
You find yourself surprised at the way your mind allows these things to happen. But guilt is no longer an option. You can't let the simple things stop you now, if they did, you'd never get to see them hurt like you wanted. It was about time you got what you wanted. You've hidden like a turtle in its shell for too long now, keeping your mouth shut, not speaking a word. Watching them laugh and judge and shake their heads. Allowing them to push you around... but you know those days are dust. Over with.
Nobody will ever know what you feel, and think. You hide it behind honey eyes and a fake smile. Its easy to think a mans sane when he's had years to learn how to swallow it down and live with himself. Sometimes you have to teach yourself how to do things right. You know this better than anyone: even if what you do is never right.
But you find you no longer care.
You hear a snap behind you, footsteps, simple and soft. They try to be quiet, but you can hear it all. You don't turn around, you keep your face straight, your brows tucked inwards ever so slightly. You swallow hard, but you can hear them get closer. You don't know what gender it is right now, and you have a feeling you will find out soon. You knew this would happen, you knew your victory would be short lived. It always was. You never-
"Hello, Hart."
You feel the pain. The agony rip through your upper back. You can feel your skin rip in two from the blade, and you don't cry out: falling to your knee's before you even had a chance to look behind you. The pain shoots through you once more when the blade comes back down, slicing open every inch of your back. Your eyes blur and your throat closes, cutting off any attempt to scream for help. But you don't want help.
"I'm sorry, Hart. But you know too much. I can't let that happen."
The voice is of one that is male, you know this much. Rolling over and struggling to make sense of who is standing before you... but the blade whips you across the face, cutting your cheek and eye, sending waves of toture up your spine. You grunt this time, grasping at your face and rolling back over, and then back again: twitching and bleeding and moaning for mercy. You no longer know where you're at, everything hurts. Everything is blurry. You can feel the warm blood tickle down your face and into your open mouth, tasting of metal. You feel a kick to your ribs, knocking the remaining sense out of you. Making you roll on your back to escape it, but the pavement against your fresh wounds stings worse than any boot. But you lie there, your world fuzzy around the edges, your heart pounding in your ears.
You can hear him laughing.
You must have passed out sometime after that, but you don't remember. All you feel is the blade swinging, cutting and slicing every bit of flesh its tip can find. The agony and pain shooting through you at an alarming rate, but you have little time to focus on that. It all happens so fast, too fast, you think. You can hear laughing, a deep voice tearing through the thick air. But you can't hear what is being said... and you don't care.
Its over. It was over before it ever began.
That last thing you felt was the blade cross your chest. Two simple swings, ripping through your button up, your flesh. You didn't have to look to know it left a scar you would carry until your body was dust.
A cross over the place your heart should have been. But it was gone, now. Your heart was taken from you years before. Your killer was only wasting his time.
You knew you should have been dead, and maybe you were: but you still saw him.
Curled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his own legs, his dark honey eyes looking straight at you... sunking in, circles under them. Black stringy hair hanging loose, fingers wrapped in bandages, soaked in blood. His clothes are loose as well, hanging off his thin body. He's only a child, eyes thick and clouded with worry, fear, trauma. He has drawings spread around him, doodles of things he rather not mention, wounded fingers twitching as if to hide them when needed. He's lost, and you know it. Because you've been there.
Nobody ever said you'd see yourself when you die.
"H-Hanna? help me... I- I d-don't know where I a-at. I'm l-lost. P-please. Hanna..."
You flince, moving close, to touch his pale face. To hold him close and end everything. To comfort him: protect him from the monsters you know are around the corner. But you con't move, you stay in one place, stuck. Watching. Watching him whimper and curl up tigther, his face tucked behind his knee's. Tears stream down his blood stained face.
Blood from his own fingers: from the wounds he created.
"They're w-watching. They know. I c-can't hide- please, h-h-help me-! I'm sorry. Hanna. I'm s-so sorry..."
His voice is soft, weak, broken and torn. Your voice.
You feel yourself move in, and you don't know how to stop it. Part of you doesn't want to see. Doesn't want to look at the face you erased from your memories so long ago... but its there, in front of you. The part of you that you have to face after so many years. And you feel your heart throb at the sight, your eyes water and burn with the tears you can't shed anymore. You're dead now. And this is only a memory.
And when you open your mouth to speak, to reassure, you find nothing comes out.
"Say s-s-something. Please. I'm s-scared, I w-want out. I wanna g-g-go home... I'm s-sorry, its my fault. Answer me, h-h-help me..."
He stutters and cries out weak protests, and before you know it you're looking him in the eye. Face locked with his. But you can't hold him, you can't take him in your arms and make it all go away like you know you should.
That part of you was dead and gone. And there was nothing you could do.
He stops whimpering, stops talking: looking at his tore up hands with wide eyes, shoving his face into his arms and sobbing. His shoulders shaking. His body trembling.
The shadows dance, the image is gone within moments. The darkness circles you, engulfing you like a blanket. You don't fight it, you close your eyes and feel the coldness wrap itself around you. The pain is gone, the shadows disappear, and the taste of blood leaves your lips. But the emptiness is too much.
You crack your eyes and see a paper crane. Dark red, like a blazing flame, hovering in front of you. You smile, soft and true, reaching out your fingertips to touch it. Hold it. But it hovers away, controlled by a breeze you couldn't feel.
But you follow it.
Away from the cold, the blackness, and the pain that you walked in for so long. The light is weak, and the dark is still so strong... but your eyes remain on that little paper crane that offers so much more than you could ever hope for.
Hanna...