The days blur into an endless pattern of red, black, and tiredness. You trudge on, on towards an unknown something. Somehow, she and you have barely survived, day after day, fighting them off, nursing wounds with the meager ambrosia and nectar you collected.
Until one day, when everything collapses around you. She's hurt, bleeding on the jagged black rocks that jut outwards along the fiery river's banks. You're surrounded by them, desperately trying to defend yourself and her, but you know it's a lost cause. She's slowly slipping away—up, up, out of your grasp. They are still attacking mercilessly. You are torn, fighting an internal battle.
At last, battered and broken, you drive them away.
They are gone. But so is she.
You don't know what you did to deserve this. First comes the disbelief, crashing down upon you. She and you had come so far, done so much together. She could not simply be gone. She could not have left you, alone, in this cruel place. And yet she did.
You know she's gone, passed into the Underworld above. She would get into Elysium, you're sure, and live a wonderful afterlife. But that doesn't lessen your disbelief, your hollow void of grief and numbness, the constant ache of loneliness.
You stand there, rooted in place, staring forlornly at her fallen figure. Seconds, minutes, hours pass. You lose track of time. The only sound is the rushing of the fire river next to her, the glowing red waters illuminating her in an eerie glow.
They stay away. For that tiny thing, you are grateful. Day after day, they have attacked, without fail. But now, it's like something—someone whispered for them to turn away, for them to stay away. To avoid the crushed boy standing by the girl that had already passed.
The Fates were cruel. So very cruel. Forcing yourself to turn away from her—from her lifeless, glassy eyes staring into the gloomy darkness—you steel your nerves and trudge onwards. There is no reason for you to move on, to continue on this doomed journey. There is no reason for you to live. And yet you still carry on, plowing through the darkness that plagues your mind. For her. She would want me to move on, to complete this god-forsaken quest.
When at long last, you emerge from the Doors, shattered and marked beyond belief, you can barely look your friends in the eyes. They had trusted you. She had trusted you. And you had let them all down. They start a question—the one that you had spent the entire time in that miserable world dreading—but falter and trail off when you refuse to tell them the answer and they realize that she is not behind you. You shut yourself out, away from reality, away from your friends. You are silent the whole way, replaying the same thoughts over and over again, until they become no more than a string of gibberish, one after another. She is gone. You couldn't save her. It's your fault—all of it. You let her down.
When you finally reach the place you once called home, all you can think of is her. She is everywhere, in every tree, every place, every cabin. Each tiny little thing calls upon yet another memory of her laughing, talking, sparring...everything that you did with her crashes down upon you with full force, and you cannot bear to look. Campers start towards you, but stop when one of your friends gives them a glance, and exchange a few hushed words with them. You know what they are saying. She's gone. She passed in Tartarus. And you hate the looks, the glances of pity tossed your way. Because you didn't deserve to be pitied. No one truly understood this.
You lock yourself in your cabin, replaying that moment over and over again, when she fell. When you couldn't save her. When she left. You despise yourself. What kind of hero are you, who can't even save the one you cared about the most? And you feel yourself slowly losing grip on your mind. Darkness creeps in, snaking its way in with tiny tendrils, filling every small crevice and crack up, seeping into your thoughts. And you welcome it, let it invade your mind.
You see her again, but only in your dreams. You know when you wake up, with certainty, that she is gone. That what you saw was a wild fantasy, a lie fabricated from the wishful thinking in your mind. That it was all fake, that she isn't here anymore. That she will never wake up from her endless sleep.
There is always a cliff, one you see yourself approaching slowly. One that you are always on the verge of falling off of.
One that you want to jump from.
Because there, at the very bottom of that dark abyss, you can pretend without knowing. You can believe in, see illusions that you won't ever know is just another trick—just another fabrication you've been feeding yourself. You can tell yourself lies without knowing that it isn't true. You can see things that aren't really there, but are always present in your mind. You can see her there, without feeling the pain, stabbing over and over into your heart.
And so you let go.
Falling, falling towards the welcoming darkness. And this time, no one is here to hold you back.
You smile, despite the situation.
Falling, still.
Until you are gone, too. You no longer know, or care. You no longer are yourself. You no longer have the burden of those memories.
People might call you crazy, but isn't that what you are?
You are lost, gone into the never-ending darkness. You feel yourself laughing, crying, dancing, eating, through an impenetrable veil of mist. Everything—everyone around you are not there. You are not yourself anymore—you are only an echo of what you were before. And yet you don't care.
Because you could see her here.
And after everything, you lost yourself. Willingly gave up and let go, letting yourself spiral down, down, down into the unknown. Into the darkness that embraced you, swallowed you up, welcoming you with open arms.
But after all, isn't that what insanity is?
Inspired by TackAttack's writing style. It is amazing—absolutely wonderful. For all the stories out there in first or third person, I now feel that second person stories are above them all. Seriously. I was typing up a random idea that popped into my head the other day, and all of a sudden I look back and see that I was typing the whole thing in second person. An interesting and quirky way to write, but beautiful nonetheless.
Yes, I am still working on my Red Queen fanfic(and stopping in the middle of a chapter and wondering what I'm going to do next...but that's beside the point), but I should warn you if you are reading it that updates probably are going to be very irregular.
And finally, to conclude this awfully long "short author's note"(taken from Rules and Guidelines. And yes, I actually bother to read them) please review! Constructive criticism always welcome!