"Ares!" Gregor cried. "No!" (Collins 333).
Gregor opened his eyes. He was lying on the kitchen floor in his house in Virginia, bathed in sweat. Yet, despite the cool liquid drenching his forehead and back, his cheeks were dry. He had not cried about Ares since he detached himself from his old life. He felt like it would be crying about himself, and he never cried about himself. Never. He could cry about other people, or animals, but to cry about himself would be like giving in. It would be worse than death; it would mean that his life was not worth living anymore.
It was for the best, decided Gregor, as he clasped the bottle between his hands. The Prophecy of Time had come true after all. Ironically, it needed a bit of time before it was totally fulfilled. He had been foolish last year, when he thought that snapping Sandwich's sword would kill the warrior inside him. A sword is only a tool that a killer uses, but a killer can't suppress his violent instincts by destroying his weapon. Throwing away a pen does not kill a writer's creativity, nor does burning a wooden bat kill the baseball player's talent. It all comes from the person's inner instincts.
Sandwich's sword. If only he could have it now. Of course, that was impossible. The tainted sword was now in two pieces, far below his feet, probably in the museum. He had sworn that he would never touch it again, yet he longed for it now, for his final act. He felt that it would give some sort of poetic justice to his death. The sword symbolized all the rats he had killed, just as rats had killed the humans. So, in the end, was he really any better than the rats?
Gregor fingered the bottle. It was the best substitute he could find. Although it was not quite as personal as driving Sandwich's sword through his stomach, it served the same irony. He ran his finger along the label. Rat poison. Although there was not an entrance to the Underland in Virginia, his mom had insisted on stockpiling it, especially during her brief period of depression after their grandmother died.
Grandma. Gregor smiled. He had been so concentrated on the people he would see from the Underland, Twitchtip, Cartesian, Thalia, Hamnet, even Solovet, and, of course, Ares, that he had forgotten about Grandma. Of course, he had once had another life on the surface of New York, and it was slowly coming back the longer he was away from the Underland. Grandma, who had never seen the Underland, though she had been one of the first to believe him. He wondered if Grandma knew all of his Underland friends who had passed away, not just from his mind, but also from the Earth. If not, he would introduce them. He was sure Grandma would like them. She always had an open mind, especially towards the end of her life, when she was slightly off. Although, the one Underlander who he missed most would not be in Heaven.
Gregor was never a romantic kind. The girls in his school, except for Angelina, were all so shallow, worrying about silly things and silly things. Of course, after he got involved in the Underland and the prophecies, he loathed whenever they complained about trivial things such as boys and parties. The girl he loved knew this feeling.
Although most Underlanders looked the same, pale skin, violet irises, Gregor still could picture Luxa's face. Unlike some other boys in school when they talk about their girlfriends, he did not, as he once heard a boy say, "melt into a puddle of love when he saw her face". Instead, he felt a sense of relief, knowing that someone else knew how he felt, even if she was miles below the ground. He longed to have her here now, just for a few minutes, to touch her, to talk to her, to feel her presence. He needed someone he could express his true feelings to, who wouldn't laugh or humor him. He needed Luxa.
It was for the best, thought Gregor again. His only regret was his parents and Lizzie. His dad might understand. He had been tortured in the Underland for years and was never the same afterwards. Of course, his dad had only bad memories of the Underland, although he claimed that there were still good people down there. Lizzie would understand; her only true friend was Ripred, and the two had formed an instant and tight bond. They were both outcasts in their own societies and knew how each other felt, just as Gregor and Luxa knew how each other felt.
Although is seemed cliché, (Gregor thought he had read it in a book), he had left a note. Gregor's mom was the only one who wouldn't understand. Still, she must have noticed his chronic depressions. Honestly, Gregor was doubtful that taking his own life would surprise anyone in his family. Except, perhaps, Boots. She had grown tremendously through her experiences in the Underland and was no stranger to death, but the concept of suicide was still foreign to her. How would she react when she found out that her brother had killed himself? Would anyone tell her? Gregor pictured a heart-breaking scene in which his sobbing mother explained that he had committed suicide while Lizzie and his father stood by. Gregor pushed it away. It was for the best, he reminded himself. He was not going to die. He had done that part the day when he killed the Bane and lost his other half. This was just a mere formality.
Gregor removed the top of the bottle. His hands were not shaking; another sign that he was already dead. He knew now that this was the right thing to do. He could no longer go on, pretending that he was alive. He was a mere zombie; going through his life with no feeling, just an empty shell. It was pointless, to keep going. It was simpler to make it all go away.
Ripred was wrong. Sandwich was right. Maybe he was making the last prophecy come true because he wanted to, but he had learned that it made no difference. He had laughed when Nerissa said that the prophecy was fulfilled when he snapped the sword, but he knew better know. The warrior was dead, and so was Gregor. Gregor was the warrior. He could not be anything else. A rager must be a fighter. He was not as strong as Ripred. He must fight, fight to satisfy his primitive instincts. But now was a time to stop fighting. Now was the time to put the warrior to rest at last.
The snowy white powder in the bottle looked innocent enough. It looked like the coat of fur on the Bane. Pure white, but deadly. Without hesitating, Gregor tipped the bottle back and let the poison drop into his throat. He didn't taste it. He hadn't tasted anything since he left the Underland for the last time. It was too much effort to taste.
As Gregor swallowed, he was dully aware of the pain. But for the first time since returning to the surface of the earth, he felt an odd feeling. Happiness. He smiled through the pain.
It's okay, Ares, thought Gregor. I'm coming for you.
But as the world began to slip away, there was no shining light. No Ares came to greet him. No Twitchtip. No Pandora. Just the blurry edges of the kitchen as Gregor sank down into a defeated position.
Then everything went black.