It's me again! I had this in my head for like a week now, but only just found time to start writing more regularly. Hopefully more updates will be up soon, so stay tuned!
White or blue? Kirsty leaned back and squinted. No dice - she still couldn't tell. The glare off her computer screen hovered as a light between the two colors, fuzzy and discomfiting on her tired vision. She blinked and shook her head, reaching for her coffee cup. It was weightless as she lifted it, and she set it back down with a sigh.
Her doctor had said no more than four a day. Maybe it counts as tomorrow? It was already 1 AM, and she was tempted; oh, was she tempted. It would make getting through this assignment easier. The word document stared at her, blank and impatient, save for the one sentence she had rewritten six times now.
Kirsty sighed and closed the document without saving. She would think better in the morning, she knew that. She needed to sleep. She desperately did not want to, but her heart jackhammering in her chest and her slowly losing the ability to read had done her in. The computer powered down with a hum and Kirsty pushed away from her chair. She stood, in the dark, alone.
It took ten seconds to finally start walking.
She passed Tiffany's room. How Tiffany slept so easy she couldn't understand. They had seen the same horrors together, Kirsty thought as she walked into the bathroom, they had confronted the same beast. Wasn't she haunted? Wasn't she scared?
Of course, Kirsty thought, running the sink as she brushed her teeth, Tiffany didn't lose everything. That wasn't entirely true - Channard had taken her mother, her autonomy, her freedom. His death had set her free from the proverbial rat cage; horrifying though the circumstances might have been, Tiffany had been saved. She had been set free from her demons, she had gotten a second chance. Kirsty had too.
But the cost? Her father, her innocence, her mental health? Her clean conscience? Four - no, five with her dad - five people had died because of that damned box, and because of her. She couldn't save him, she couldn't save them. If she could turn back time-
Kirsty spat. The mouthwash stung her gums and she knew it was too strong but she took it anyway, savoring the bite of cold mint in a way that seemed almost ironic. Her, enjoying a bit of something that was "too much?"
You should have gone with them.
Kirsty turned off the light and wandered into her room. Pajamas just meant a T-shirt and comfy pants, and she fell into bed with the weight of five people's lives on her shoulders. One hand reached for the bottle on her small table; the liquid medicine was so much worse than the pill, but it made her forget the dreams, if she had them. She gulped it and grimaced and set the bottle back down. She buried her face in the pillow, hugged it. She closed her eyes and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
You should have gone with them. She could see their faces behind her eyelids; moments before their last, staring at her in shock in confusion. She had given them their humanity and taken their world away; she pictured him, the leader, the moment he'd decided to fight. To die. For her. What a waste.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, not for the first time, and sobbed. The pillow grew warm and wet. She did not let go. She did not open her eyes. She was heavy, heavy and cold, and sinking into her mattress and the dark.
A weight settled at her knees, and a hand ran through her hair. Joey, she thought. The thought didn't register. Kirsty didn't stop crying.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, and the hand pushed against her cheek - cold, thumb leather-clad.
"You say that often." She opened her eyes. They were red and puffy and masked with tears, and she could barely see a shape in the dark. She blinked but couldn't focus; instead she closed her eyes again and leaned into the touch, swallowing a sob.
"You died," she whispered, "you all died. It's my fault." The hand pushed deeper, towards her scalp, curls falling back on her neck. She could hear the clanking of metal, and something brushed her leg. Chains?
"Perhaps," he said, "though it is rarely that simple." Kirsty sobbed again, muffling it with the pillow; she didn't want him to see her like this. What had he said it was?
"A waste of good suffering." It was too gentle, too near; she couldn't remember him correctly, couldn't even give him that. "Though this suffering has prolonged itself past any purpose. It happened, Kirsty; you cannot change it."
"I know." It was a whisper, breathless from crying, half-lost to the pillow. "I don't know what to do."
"Live." He pulled away from her hair. "We died so you may live, Kirsty. Do not waste that. Live, and wait." She didn't ask for what; she was too heavy, too tired even in her sleep. Instead she opened her eyes just for a moment and tried to look at him, and found two flecks of light that could have been in his eyes in the dark. Metal glinted around him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he stood. As he walked he grew darker, and as he leaned over his shadow threatened to swallow her whole.
"You are forgiven, Kirsty." His pins scraped her cheek, and she closed her eyes.
The alarm cut through the silence and Kirsty jolted. She blinked once, twice. She was lying in her bed, the first rays of the morning sun peeking through her curtains and warming her cheek. She sat up - she felt rested, but heavy - and looked around her room.
Had she forgotten something? She followed the walls, her eyes trying to pick out anything unusual, but nothing seemed amiss. Was something supposed to be?
Wait. That word sat in the back of her mind. Something had told her. Someone. Who? Wait.
Kirsty could hear Tiffany running the sink already - she was always the first one up. It was time to start the day - she had an assignment due in a week and hadn't gotten anything done last night. She stood from the bed and rubbed her cheek - why was it warm? - and made her way for the door. She didn't feel heavy now - in fact, she felt lighter than she had in months.
One round of the mattress slowly decompressed.