Impossible was not a word to them.
Not for the boy with sewn lips, but could speak a thousand words through one look.
Not for the girl who could hear no sound, but would tell you the truth about love and hope and life.
Not for the blinded girl who could defeat her opponents with her smell alone.
Impossible had no meaning.
Not for the boy who spent his days confined to a wheelchair before his legs were rebuilt.
Not for the girl who rose from the dead in an attempt to save the lives of her friends.
Not even for the girl who threw away her addiction, simply so she could play and survive.
Impossible was nothing.
For the girl who spent every day caring for the one she loved in the hopes he would become lucid.
For the boy who watched his love become a shell of her former self.
For the boy who built whole limbs and bodies for those he cared about and strived to help survive.
It was just a word.
A word enforced by a woman who felt no love.
A woman who saw no such thing as equality.
A woman who held the world in her filthy, blood-covered palm.
A woman who's life was nothing but hatred and corruption as she brought about a plague of death.
But that word made sense.
It made sense to the girl who lost her best friend and never spoke of her love.
It made sense to the boy who wanted to be a leader but was frowned upon by all.
It made sense to the girl who watched her friends all day in a game they could never, ever win.
And maybe that was how it was supposed to be.
Maybe it was all impossible.
They were meant to become the damned.
Maybe it was meant to be impossible.
To put an end to it once and for all.