Warning: Intense Feels Ahead!

Sweet sin, guys, I'm so sorry for the delay! I just moved into my apartment, and it took some time to readjust to things, and then I started up Camp NaNoWriMo and… yeah. But I finally finished this today, my darling friend edited it, and so you can all just go enjoy it. Enough from me!

Thank you, creeklings!

Chapter Four: Good-bye

Losing someone is a separation often greeted with resistance. It's understanding that everything that remains will simply be memory and the future is now blurred, rejecting former expectations and distilling the familiar. The negative connotations attached to that person leisurely slip away from concern, a morphed being replaced in its stead. Perfections sprout along these damaged memories, instigating a worse pain as we attempt to move on.

So foolish; how difficult it is to abandon the past and venture forth.

Meg had no words available for Barsad, though she indeed felt grateful for his kindness. They'd waited outside the building for only five minutes before she suggested he call the cab company. Having had the number memorized, it wasn't any trouble for him to do so, though he'd walked off a few steps—making sure to have her in his sights—to do so. When he returned only a moment later, a frown had formed on her face again.

"Why did you walk off?"

"We don't want you to know any of the addresses. It's not our goal to have you escape."

She shook her head. "I… I couldn't. I promised you—I know it's d-difficult for you to believe, but I won't escape. Not… not if it means… harming Paxton."

Barsad paid little interest to her words and focused on the streets, analysing the few people who walked it. She herself was wondering how he expected her not to figure out where they were when she could easily make track of it in the taxi. But by the time it had indeed arrived, Meg had received the rules of their public integration. Barsad opened the door for her, and despite the friendly smile from the driver, she turned her head away.

"Take us to Hardy Street, on 22nd Avenue," her companion requested. Before the driver had even pressed down on the gas pedal, Barsad suddenly hovered over her.

"I'm not stupid." A solemn look evolved along his lips and he reached forward to stroke a few escaped strands of hair. "This is going to be a fast cab ride."

She frowned and twisted her head towards the seat, though his hand merely followed. "I'm not sure… I kn-know what you mean," she murmured.

There was no verbal response; rather, Barsad took the initiative to trap her lips against his. The crushing weight of his body sealed her against the seat, and she couldn't twist her head away from his grip. She felt trapped, terrified as she did her best to struggle; he may not have been Bane, but his strength still surpassed hers. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but not a sound was made.

Meanwhile, the cabbie ignored them and continued driving.

Meg wanted to cry out for his attention. More than anything she wanted to scream and try to alert the ignorant driver about her assault, but the thought of what Bane would do to her—what Barsad could do to her—kept her silent. The nausea had returned in such a violent way, she almost felt too sick to vomit.

Barsad's free hand found itself along her thigh, and try as she might to fold her legs, his fingers crept along her flesh in an enticement to open them. No, this couldn't have been real, she thought. Why was this—of all things, this—happening?

"Here ya go," the cabbie announced some time later. Barsad pulled himself away from her with such calm ease and retrieved a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his pocket. "I don't want the change," he murmured before ushering her out. She couldn't see around her—the dizziness enveloping her current state of mind made it difficult as she tried to clamber out of the vehicle. Even when Barsad's arm hooked around her waist and hoisted her out, the ability to stand properly proved difficult.

"Sorry about that," he muttered as the taxi disappeared from view. "I couldn't really put a bag over your head."

Perhaps he'd meant it to be funny, but the comment only caused her tears to burst from the pressured vault she fought so hard to hold them in. "Maybe this is so f-funny to you, but I have t-tried my best to make it c-clear to you that I have no intention of running away!"

Her eyes spotted her apartment, just a mere twenty feet down the street. "I have s-someone I love v-very much at risk; don't you understand? I will n-not jeopardize his life for m-my own! I love him! I'm n-not scared t-to die for him. P-Please, s-stop trying to… to… to t-test me! I can't take this!"

And finally, she pulled up her hands to cover her mouth as she succumbed to the sobs quaking within her body. The tragic and unexpected death of her parents had left her in a similar manner of pain, but she realized that this was surely the worst. Never mind the terror Bane instigated her mind with, but the threat of Paxton, Barsad's "casual" assault… she would have welcomed him to kill her, just to make it stop.

"Please," she pleaded a moment later. "P-Please."

The soft approach of his footprints caused her to pull away her hands and move them in front of her, almost pleadingly as they rested in defence. But Barsad simply grazed the side of her shoulder with his hand and gave her a gentle shove in her home's direction.

"I don't think you will escape," he whispered. "The day we trust you will come—so long as you work hard on your behalf. We can't waste any more time; let's go."

Oh, god, how she wanted to slip to her knees and simply cry. That was it? Yes, it hadn't even been 24 hours, but under the circumstances, she simply couldn't subject time to its normal intervals. Ever since she'd met Bane, she'd felt so emotionally exhausted, as if it had been draining her for years. The clear nature of what was at stake didn't miss her—she knew she couldn't make a single mistake in their presence, or everything—and Paxton truly was everything to her at this point—would be lost.

"I will prove it to you," she whispered, taking a step forward. "But you're a monster."

"Yeah. I am," Barsad agreed. Had it not been for her current loathing of the man, she would have given him the slightest of sympathy, for his eyes seemed burdened with misery as they shared a short look with her before venturing back to the direction of her apartment.

What Meg needed to accept, and it was hard to think in such a cynical way, but these men lacked empathy for others, and she couldn't afford to waste any more of her emotion on them—she had such little available at the moment.

The street blurred around her as she stepped in front of Barsad to finally lead him the way. It didn't matter to her that he was already aware of her address, because this was her home—this was her journey, her mission, and she was going to take charge of the small opportunity she had. But with each step, the sound of her heels clipping was absorbed from her consciousness; the soft breeze of the wind was lost on her—she could hardly see, barely breathe, as she thought of what she was about to do.

There was no turning back. Bane had sealed her fate, and she had acquiesced to his terms.

So why did she foolishly try to think of some means to escape? To slip through Barsad's fingers, find her brother, and flee to Germany where they would be safe? Why was it that the temptation was almost stronger than her rationality?

"Oh," she whispered aimlessly as her hand grazed the knob of her door. It didn't take any conscious effort to find her way back home, but even that thought—to consider this place as her home—made the nausea bubble stronger.

She didn't have her key, so she bent over and retrieved a spare from the potted plant resting on the front step. Opening the lock gave her no difficulty, and as she stepped into the furnished foyer, she came to terms that this would be the last time she'd be there.

The room was lit from the morning glow; the red painted walls greeted her warmly as she walked on the hardwood floors. She knew Barsad's men had been there the previous night, but there were no scuttle marks on her flooring—well, she could appreciate that at the least. Her eyes flickered to the shoe rack by the door, and her stomach knotted when she noticed that Paxton's shoes were still there. He always took his Nike's to school—it had been a different pair last year, but he didn't shift through brands.

He was home—her brother was in that condo.

"I'm going to go upstairs," she murmured. She didn't often remove her own shoes, but there was no point in carrying the heels any longer—from now on, she required sneakers as well. Her feet tip-toed up the steps, hoping that she could sneak into Paxton's room before he caught her and raised Barsad's attention. There was no point in attempting to escape with him, but she had the opportunity to give him a final goodbye.

The second landing was just as illuminated as the downstairs. She loved the morning, when the glow was merely inviting rather than hot. The beige walls were decorated by old oak furniture she'd brought home from Germany after her grandmother's passing; it was something she was surely going to miss.

Paxton's room was just off to the left of the bathroom. Her feet clenched against the floor as she made her way towards it, trying to think of the words she didn't want to say. Paxton's door was ajar, and she could see him putting on a shirt as she made her way towards him. He was running late, but for once, she didn't see the need to scold him.

"Hey," she whispered once she reached his frame. Paxton whirled around. She could see his mouth open, preparing to shout his surprise, but her finger was already pressed to her lips, and she indicated with her index finger the downstairs. "I have a guest."

"What the hell, Meg? Where the hell have you been?"

"I'm sorry," she said, and stepped forward to hold him tightly in her arms. "So much… so much has happened. I just… I needed to see you before I left."

"Left? No, Meg, what are you talking about?"

He pulled away from her embrace, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. She wanted that—she loved how angry he looked. It would make everything easier if she did that. Suddenly, she didn't care if Barsad came up—in fact, that would make it better.

"I can't do this anymore." Her voice was emptied of the typical softness she spoke with. Oh, yes, she wanted to cry, but for this moment, it was imperative that she lose all feeling, all love, and all remorse for what she needed to do. "It was too much of a hassle for me to give up my life for you."

The apology, the explanation her brother had expected was lost; he stared at his sister, his eyes now widened. "W-What?"

"I've met someone," she said. "A while ago. I didn't think we'd get this far, but yesterday, after school, he surprised me with an engagement ring. I don't want this life, Paxton. I don't want to take care of you. Hell, I could hardly handle my first day of school."

"Wait, what? It was only one day… you can't just give it up! And what guy? Since when do you date anyone?"

"You don't know me as well as you think," she interrupted. She wondered if Barsad was listening—she hoped if he was, he'd at least go along with what she had to say. "You're a hassle, Paxton. Mom and dad sent you off to summer boot camp how many times? I have an opportunity to make my own life—without anyone's influence but my own. Why would I let it go by for the sake of you?"

If she could choose, she would rather die on the spot. If God would smite her where she stood, she could have died and spared the boy any further abuse. Instead, she listened as Barsad's steps creaked up the staircase, his boots clamping down softly on the hardwood floors.

She had to keep going—she had to break him.

"I'm going to pack my things, and then I'm going to leave. You can rot in foster services for all I care—but this is it."

For the first time in the last 24 hours, she didn't feel like crying. She didn't feel fear, nor did she experience any nausea. As she stood there, watching her brother's expression flicker through anger and anguish, she only had one, simple thought: when Bane eventually killed her, she deserved no mercy.

Paxton was having difficulty processing the words—she could tell, not just by his looks, but the way his fingers twisted and how he seemed to reach at her, trying to restore a sense of balance between them. But she had tipped the scales, shoved him to the floor and scattered any sense of normalcy away from him. She'd never behaved in such a way—and yet at the same time, it was so easy to fake it.

"Please," he breathed out, and a familiar sense of pain jabbed at her chest when she noticed the pain attached with his words. "I don't want… I don't want you to go."

No, no, no, he couldn't. He should have yelled at her, cried out that she was a bitch and stormed off; he should have left with the hope that she was merely just words and that when he returned after school, she'd be there, waiting with a huge apology and a large, steaming supper on the table. He wasn't supposed to beg—he wasn't supposed to cry.

Meg could have failed at that moment, had Barsad not joined them and placed his hand on her lower back. It startled her, but she managed to remain rooted to the floor; she was grateful for the opportunity to look away from the helpless eyes of her brother.

"Barsad, I'm taking care of it," she said pleasantly, as though she was merely picking up groceries from the store.

"I can tell," he responded just as lightly. The look they exchanged between them was one of understanding, and suddenly, despite his horrendous behaviour earlier, she was relieved to have him here.

"This is him? Meg, I've never even see him before! You can't just run away—"

She interrupted him. "I can do whatever I want," she reminded him coolly. "Now, if you have any hope for a future outside of prison, I suggest you get to school. Stay behind if you wish; I'll be gone within the hour."

With Barsad's gentle guidance, she turned away from him and walked down the hall. There was no dizziness to suspend her, and she made it into her room without any hesitance. Barsad watched from the hallway as she found a duffel bag from her closet and began packing appropriate items for her stay—no more skirts or heels, she realized. Instead, she piled in jeans, t-shirts, a few of her favourite blouses in case she was able to leave the sewers again. Afterwards, she ventured into the bathroom and collected some of her most essential hygiene products.

All the while Meg battled to resist the temptation of consider what she'd just done, the pain she'd just left him with. It would have been less selfish to have just disappeared completely, without as much as a trace of her whereabouts than to beat him down with the brunt of her words. Never in her life had she said something as venomous as that to even the likes of a bully—but there had been not an inkling of hesitation when it came to Paxton, whom she loved more than herself.

If Barsad or Bane couldn't see how serious she was at this point, then she could think of no other way to assert her servitude.

The packing didn't take an hour—it only took about ten minutes. Paxton had tried coming in to reason with her a second time, but she beckoned to Barsad, who stepped in and locked the door.

"Is it okay if I take a shower?" she sighed once they were alone. Barsad sent her a nod and she returned to her bathroom once again.

Stripping out of the clothes covered with grime, sweat and tears felt wonderful, and the hot water that cascaded down her skin once she pulled the knob was even better—but none of it could suppress the extent of what she'd just done, and it was in that enclosed piece of privacy that she slid to her knees and sobbed.

The table she'd sat at earlier that morning was covered with stacks of documents. From her brief examination, she spotted several different languages among them, especially the familiar German scripture. But the words were blurred as she tried to make sense of them, and she merely sat down at her seat as she waited for Barsad to check in with Bane.

She frowned as she tried to remember what happened, but nothing registered. Every time Paxton tried to surface, she buried him with whatever nonsense she could grasp first—song lyrics, favourite movie lines, old "almost" boyfriends that had treated her like dirt throughout college; anything to suppress him.

Sometimes, though, it's best to leave a bit of yourself behind when stepping into the mind, as when Bane placed his hand on her shoulder—his unexpected presence mixed with his surprising touch—prompted her to scream and fly off the chair in a hysterical stupor. Her body slammed into the concrete, and as she winced from the dull pain throbbing in her lower hip, she risked a glance at the great man. Bane, vestless in only his muscled, massive glory and cargo pants, watched her with a raised eyebrow and what she could only weakly describe as a bemused expression.

"You scared me!" she gasped. She glanced down at herself and winced a second time as the stinging sensation in her leg heightened for a moment. "Aaaah, I didn't mean to do that…"

Once again her body dipped towards the floor as her hands reached for her injury, pressing down on it in a means to stop the flow of pain. It didn't work, but she felt soothed and started to gently massage her hands over it. She feared to make contact with Bane's eyes, not from her foolishness, but from the uncertainty, the impossible that possessed him and left her unable to predict anything from him. So when Bane reached down, grasping firmly yet not roughly on her upper arm and heaved her to her feet, she was confused as to how to respond.

"You are… the q-quietest man in the world," she blurted out.

His eyebrow remained arched. "And you're quite noisy for someone so meek."

Meg nodded in agreement—hell, she couldn't disagree with that, and leaned over to peek over his side, again noticing the documents. "I saw some German papers… d-do you want me to translate them?" she asked. It was best to leave the topic of her reaction in the midst; embarrassment aside, she needed to earn her rite of passage and prove that she wasn't going to flee from him.

Paxton was gone now—even if she managed to survive this, she could never find a way to explain what happened, nor could she ever reveal that those words—as cruel and malicious as they were—had derived from some kind of truth in her, and she couldn't—absolutely could not—interpret that ever.

"Yes," Bane answered her, pulling her out of her thoughts. This time, she wasn't nearly as startled, merely jumping slightly against his hand.

"Okay." He released her and she moved over to the chair, which she'd tipped over during her fall, and placed it back in its upright position before sitting on it. She waited a moment for Bane to hand out the documents, but when he still stood with his back facing her, she slowly reached forward and began thumbing through them, pushing them into piles in front of her.

"Barsad informs me that your brother was at your home when you went to collect your things. Did you say your goodbye?"

She paused before settling into a frown. Why was it relevant that Paxton was there? She hadn't made any sort of plans—Barsad was present or at least in ear-shot for most of her conversation.

Still, she wasn't going to ignore Bane, so she simply shrugged it off. "I did."

He didn't say anything in response, and once more she was overcome with paranoia. Reaching for the strands of hair that curtained her face, she tucked them behind her ear and courted another glance of him, to which he still hadn't moved. Frustrated with herself—and for him not saying anything—she turned her chair to face him.

"You've… lost someone, right? Unexpectedly, I imagine?"

Only the low breathing cackled from his mask answered her, but as he hadn't made any signal to stop her, she decided to continue. "That's what it was like," she murmured. "My, uh, parents—I told you about them. They died unexpectedly. And that's what I did for my brother. I killed myself for him. Because the pain is great and it's torturous, but at least I gave him understanding. I left him… with closure."

She sighed and played with the edge of a piece of paper, crinkling it with her thumb. It was odd how when he stood there, his scarred yet full skin facing her, that she read him like a blank confessional. A wall to leave her message on, and then walk away. "When you break someone like that, with your words and your abandonment, you give them the opportunity to hate you. To fill with guilt, anger and regret; but you also leave the proper means to move on. If I had just disappeared, he would never understand. He would never forget. Eventually… eventually, the feelings he has right now, they'll disappear."

She smiled and brought her knees up to her chest, tucking her feet in on the small surface of the chair. "Eventually, he'll move on. It'll take a long time, but there will come a day where I'll just be a nasty memory; and I'm okay with that! He can be happy with someone else."

"You think it's that simple? To erase yourself from someone's life with you?" Bane finally turned to face her, and she saw something in his eyes; their hooded nature was no longer aroused with amusement and control, but she sensed that unfathomable pain they both identified with.

"I think it's better than the alternative," she whispered.

Bane scoffed. "It's selfish."

"I didn't say it wasn't!" she countered. Her eyes narrowed as the feelings, the ones she'd meant to bury and never let surface seemed to flood her throat. "What else can I do? You forced me into this position!"

"Don't justify your actions—typical of your people, to make excuses for the pain they execute."

"And what about you?" she inquired. Her eyebrow rose as a challenge. "What's all of this for—murdering and thieving? What justification have you slabbed it with?"

Bane's one step forward sealed the space between them, and as he glared down at her, the sensible fear she'd lost for only a moment scoured her thoughts and she quickly bowed her head. So quickly her anger subsided, and she watched as her body succumbed to its trembles.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She wasn't sure if she meant it, but it was all she could think to say. Bane never struck her, despite how she wondered if he might; she just listened in silence as he vacated the room.

Loneliness: that was the worst accompaniment of the pain that came when you lost someone. As Meg sat at what she would later refer to as the Kitchen Desk, loneliness rested against her, an unwanted friend she couldn't push away.