Hey, everyone. I know it hasn't been that long since "A Tiny Piece of the World" finished, but if I don't have far too much time and caffeine on my hands then I don't know who does.

This is a little ficlet I wrote up in an attempt to practice the "imply, don't say" approach that I find so desirable in writing. Not sure if it succeeds, but oh well. Here we go:

It was never my fault. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

I say it to myself every day when I wake up, and every night as I slip back into blessed unconsciousness. I tell it to anyone who'll listen, over and over again, so that maybe one day I'll believe it.

It was never my fault.

I remember the day it started, five years ago, when we screamed at each other across a buckling rooftop for nearly an hour. The neighbors grumbled and yelled, but we didn't listen. We never listened.

I remember every detail of it: flashes of skin and cloth, metal and eyes, bits of words and thoughts together like patchwork, like a quilt of enemies with stitches of memories. The sun sparked off of silvery claws, slithered over leather, lit up faces and turned the roof to gold.

I remember how close we got to the edge, all bravado and no action, silently daring each other to push each other off as we circled. We did this often, you know, this was our game. Nothing ever came of it, in the end. Then I remember how my foot slipped on a loose tile, and how my arm slammed into his chest.

One second, can you imagine? One second. That's all it took. One tiny second, a single moment in the tapestry of time, that's all it takes to end a life. You don't know what a surprise that comes as. Why don't you understand? One second! One measly second and everything is gone! Everything! You will never know…you will never know what a second can do…

I remember flying to the edge to watch him plunging seven stories down, an image frozen still. Watching me. You didn't, he was thinking. This isn't how this works. We saw the blankness on each other's faces. This wasn't how the game went. This was not supposed to happen.

I remember the flashpoint eternity of his fall, so fast and so long, like a one-shot heartbeat. Ten seconds, maybe, an infinity of questions.

I remember his mouth, opening, pleading, saying something.

I remember his eyes, wide and desperate, and scared.

And I remember the sign that ripped through his chest like a javelin, impaling him like a dove on an arrow. I remember the blood, the screaming, the witnesses paling and backing away. I remember the ambulance that came to take him to the hospital, needlessly. No one survives with their heart ripped in two by a signpost.

Then, there's a blur, of faces turned up, of questions and answers and questions again, of suspicions and doubts and testimonies. An endless line of faces, people, places, lies. Can you imagine the questions they had? Where were you, they said. What were you doing, Why? How did it happen? Like I knew. Like they thought I had planned it.

But in the end, they took it as an accident. I was free and he was dead.

I remember the funeral, cold and short. I said some things that weren't true, about memories and time and the pointlessness of it all. Other people came, cried, spoke a bit and left. You were there, weren't you? You remember. You were wearing you hair tied back in a black headband. You looked bored, but I saw you staring at the coffin.

You left though, you and the rest. I stayed alone, past the service, past the burial, past the quaint afterparty where you all ate some potato salad and said sad little things about life. I stayed by the grave, and on its side I carved a note in little tiny letters. You know what it said, what it still says. I've watched you read it.

In little tiny spikes, it says: It was never my fault.

Because it wasn't, you know. Why do they all think it was? How can they not see the signs? Why would I have dragged him up to a rooftop to push him and then waited around for questions? I knew a hundred better ways to kill him. He knew the same about me.

It was never my fault, because that wasn't how the game went. You watched us, you know; it was about the fighting, not the winning. No one ever really won. We played the game because we needed to, because no one else could understand. My brains against his, his technology against mine, it was always even. Neither of us made any attempt to level the playing field, because that would ruin the game.

The rules to our game, I think, were simple. We never spoke them, we didn't need to, they were there from the start. The first was like this: Nothing is safe. That was easy. We could have no bases, no home-free zones, no off-limit areas. Nothing was safe, nothing was sacred. Everything was fair game.

Everything except you. Did you know that? You were the only thing we agreed on; you were the one dead zone. Neither of us could use you in the game, at any time, for any reason. I see you smiling, yes, it's not like we could have anyway. But that was the exception to the first rule.

The second was kind of similar to your exception: No one else may play the game. No one. Granted, we could use pawns and messengers and the like, but they could never be players. They could not win, they could not adjust the rules, they could not replace either of us. If they were disqualified, no matter; there were more where they came from, and it was no big loss. We were the only things that mattered in the game; us and the rules. That was it.

The third rule was the most sacred one. This was the one we always skirted around, hemming and hawing and pretending it didn't exist. But it had to, don't you see, it was the most important part of the game. It was the game.

The final rule was: No one gets hurt.

Do you see now why it was so important…you don't, do you. You are raising your eyebrow because you think I am insane. You think I am making this up. Why can you not see it? This was the rule; the other two were paled beside this one.

…I see your confusion now. You are remembering the broken bones, the bruises, the laser wounds, yes. But you see, those are not what the rule was about. That sort of thing was inevitable; we both knew it. How could they not be? The game was an endless fight, after all. Fights by their very nature cause wounds, do they not?

No, I am talking about serious injury. Debilitating harm. Things that would leave you unable to play. Broken spines, ruptured skulls, melted Paks; anything that would lead to a lengthy or permanent end to the game was forbidden. Thus, no organs were removed, no government files were delivered, and above all: No one got killed.

….

Don't look at me like that. I don't need your pity. Didn't I already tell it wasn't my fault? Didn't I? Didn't I say that I watched him fall? I saw what he was thinking, he knew it was an accident! It was never my fault, don't you see? It was a mistake! Mistakes are not part of the game! I slipped! One second, that's all it took to end the game, one single moment! Aagh, you will never understand what that moment did! Never! You will never understand! It was never my fault! You will never understand!

You will never understand…

Never…

…

The young woman walked out of the now-silent room, gingerly closing the door behind her. She glanced back at it once as she moved to walk away, frowning and pushing a strand of violet hair behind her triple-pierced ear.

"So how was he today?"

She turned her head to see the young doctor walking towards her, his curly blond hair bouncing in time with his step and his long white lab coat floating behind him. Silently she handed him the clipboard and the pen she'd used and gave him a nervous smile.

He skimmed over her notes and then smiled back, displaying those beautiful teeth she'd always admired. "I know it's a lot of stress on you, but you're still the only one he'll talk to. None of our other people can even get a word out of him." He looked past her at the heavy door, his eyes glazing over in thought.

"It's cool," she said, even though it wasn't. "I'd just like to see him back to where he used to be." That part, at least, was true.

The doctor grinned again and ran a hand backward through his golden curls. "You're a doll, Gaz. I don't know where we'd be without you." He coughed and looked down suddenly, as if embarrassed.

"Thanks," she said, wondering where this might be headed and hoping he wasn't going to ask for money. All she had in her wallet was a couple of quarters and a crumpled fiver.

But he surprised her, taking a pair of tickets out of his pocket and flaunting them awkwardly. "Um, I got these tickets from a friend of mine. For the new play down at the old theater, at six tonight. Said he was busy, or something…" He paused, waiting to see her response.

She smiled at him, feeling a faint swirl of happiness. "I'm game," she said, thinking that it had taken him long enough to ask.

Encouraged, the doctor continued, "So, uh, where can I pick you up?" He bit his tongue nervously, hoping she wouldn't claim to have a date already or something. That would be just his luck, after buying the tickets and reserving seats and washing his car and-

"My house is fine. Come a little early, all right? Five-ish?" She said, thinking about how bad traffic might be that night, especially in that part of town. "Just in case."

He blushed and grinned, and mumbled a farewell. She watched him stride down the hall, shaking his head and grinning at his luck. She almost laughed when he turned the corner and said to an unknown co-worker, "Guess what?"

She turned to head towards the stairwell, smiling a little bit herself. For the first time in days, she felt a tiny flower of happiness growing inside her. It was nice, she thought, to know that someone cared, that someone understood.

You will never understand…

She stopped short on the stairs, her hand over her pounding heart. It was a memory, it had to be. He was all the way back upstairs, behind a triple-locked door and several restraints. There was no way she could be hearing him, no way at all…

But hear him she did.

You will never understand the rules of our game, Gaz.

You will never understand that it was not my fault.

It was NEVER my fault…

You will never understand…

Well, Gaz gets badly OOC towards the end, but I'm moderately okay with this one. Betcha didn't notice that I never mentioned whether it was Zim or Dib speaking, did you? Huh? Huh?

Yeah, all right, you probably did. But I hope you like it anyways.

Be a love and review for me, won't you? Constructive criticism is always welcome. So are compliments. I like both, really.