It's funny, she thinks, well, no, funny isn't the right word. (Because it's not. Funny, that is)

The next thing she thinks is, I'm drunk. (Because she is)

She forgot her reason for drinking in the first place. Is it to forget or to remember? To purge her mind of all the battles she's been in, try to bury the memories of death and destruction (more disturbing than she could have ever possibly imagined), forget the screams of the tortured and the cries of the dying (and the silence of the dead)? Or is it to recall that which she has let slip her mind (her exhausted, frayed mind), the bright spots in the darkness, the laughter that never comes now or the smiles that are too much effort or the determination that she has not felt in so long? (oh, so long, it's been far too long)

Does she even have a reason anymore? (Does she need one?) Because between all the fighting and fear and tears and pain and agony and injustice and humiliation and disgust and everything else (oh God, everything else, there's so much, so much), she kind of died. Not in body, because damn it, Karrin Murphy does not do something stupid like die, not when she knows that there are people (not just people, oh no, but every manner of good things, all of their lives on her fragile shoulders and even more fragile mind) out there that need her help (her protection).

What was she thinking about—oh, that's right. A reason to drink. To forget or remember or both, because when it comes down to it, how different are they? But no, she doesn't think she needs a reason, because underneath and the swagger and brashness and big talk, Karrin is just a girl who is afraid of the dark.

But she is not weak. Never has been, never will be. It's something he admired about her.

Him. Dresden.

Harry.

She lets out a humorless laugh and feels the emotion clogging her throat as memories resurface (against her will, because thinking about him makes her heart feel like it can't beat and her throat like it's closing up). And as she reminisces, she gives another coughing laugh, because it's all just so unfair and so cruel of the world to give them their fates.

Him dead and her in his place.

Wasn't there supposed to be a happy ending? Doesn't the hero deserve peace and a chance to be with the one he loves? (because no matter how much she denied it, and denied it she did, she saw the passion and ferocity in his eyes when he defended her and the tenderness when she felt helpless and the raw fury when she was hurt and so many other emotions even before the soulgaze)

Shouldn't there have been some major bad guy that they could have beat in some epic battle of proportions that would leave them staggering away, injured but alive, all their friends waiting to welcome them home?

And shouldn't they (and here she blinks tears out of her eyes; emotion tends to resurface when she's drunk), shouldn't they be together? Isn't that only fair, that after everything they've been through (and they've been through everything) they get to come home and…and…(and cuddle with each other like some couple that met each other a year ago and wake up every day and feel their arms around each other and grow together, always bantering and arguing but seeing the love in each other?)

The universe must hate us is all she thinks as she feels the liquid fire trailing down her throat again, feeling the burn, needing the pain, needing to remember she's here and he's not and they can never follow each other and find each other. And that's the truth.

She sees all the couples walk by, acting like teenagers on their first date and she hates them (hates them because she envies what they have, a life of no fear and comfort and waking up with the one they love). For them, things might be okay. And they might not.

Because sometimes, things just don't work out.