Synopsis: What if inanimate objects had a voice? What if they thought and felt things just as we do? A one shot collection recording the deaths of the main Until Dawn characters from the perspectives of their beloved possessions.

Genre: Angst, Horror

Ending: No one survives

Rating: T

A/N: Emily was a tricky one to choose for. Her item wasn't the most obvious and took me a while to figure out. And I know Em isn't the most loveable of characters. But I hope at least some of you agree that she didn't deserve to die.

I'm extremely talented in harbouring secrets. Just stash them between my pages and their crisp, freshness will be preserved. Not that I'm trying to brag.

I kept his secrets for a long time. He trusted them to me, taping them to my pages, scribbling them down with pen. They were tattoos on my skin, forever etched with ink. Mine to keep.

Then. All of a sudden, like a gust of wind; he entrusted me to her.

I didn't know her for very long. In fact, the only sight I ever caught of her was from the dampness of a satchel, snatching glimpses of her between cracks in the bag's opening. It was uncomfortable. The leather wasn't entirely pleasant. The clamminess clung to my spine, to my cover, to my edges. Like condensation. And being trapped in between rigid, faceless flares isn't the most enjoyable of positions. It makes the spine stiff, you know. And the brain bored.

And I can't exactly vouch for the chicness of the bag either. It wasn't entirely fashionable. Not with the dirt smears across its leather and damp, musty smell. Not something that I would ever be seen dead with.

Which was, I suppose, the point. Not being dead.

I had felt the rough way she handled the bag, me rattling inside it as we ran. I could almost feel her adrenaline and panic through the satchel's material, like perspiration. Palpable. Like salt and sweat.

Her breaths were ragged but her movements jerked with purpose. With determination. I felt myself willing her to survive. Clinging onto the secrets between my pages like I clung onto her life. Like she clung onto me.

The creature. The wendigo. It bit her. I know, I heard her scream. It vibrated through me. The sound of squelching blood, the ripping of flesh, of teeth against muscle and bone.

I wanted to assure her. I wanted to show her it would be okay. I knew. He'd stored that secret in me. "The bite is harmless" his fingers had scrawled, inking my skin. Each flick of the pen's nib was engrained into me. A memory. A secret.

It's going to be okay.

I kept telling myself that. Kept telling her that.

But - maybe it's not.

She's pleading for her life. I'm out in the open now, exposed. The bitter air biting at me. Corroding me. I can see her; the blood pooling at her shoulder, the courage moulding her lips, horrors still clinging to the ends of her hair like dried blood. The fear shaking in her eyes. Rattling. Piercing; like bullets.

She's facing one. The mouth of one; an ugly, black gun. Shivering, shaking, at the end of a man just as fearful as her.

Someone who can match her ferocity. Someone she used to relate to.

It's cold. The fear of death. It makes me shiver. Crinkle.

No! This isn't the end. She doesn't have to die.

I'm desperate. Pushing myself, gritting myself, to fly open my cover, flutter open my pages. But nothing. I have no strength. I have nothing. I'm useless.

Open me! I'm willing someone, anyone. Find the secrets. Let them out.

Save her!

She curls up. Ready for the shot. Facing away.

Look at me! Find me!

He gave me to her to do this, to save her. This can't be the end.

It can't-

Bang! The gunshot vibrates through me; I've been shot too. Pain. Tight, desperate pain. Like I've been pierced right through my heart, right through my spine. Blood trickles down from her eye – like a tear. An empty eye socket. Void. Hollow. She can't look at me anymore. She can't find me anymore.

I'm lost. Worthless. Useless.

Hands fumble for me, in between mingled breaths and gasps and sobs. They cling to my cover; sticky and salty and vile.

Fingers pry me open. It's too late. There's nothing of me left; no energy, no strength.

The breath of the air flicks through my pages. Revealing the dead, wilting secrets. Dry petals. Dead scents.

They spill out. I have no strength left to keep them. It's like they're futile. As common as air.

I'm hollow. Just a spine, just covers, just pages. Empty.

The secrets, they aren't apart of me anymore.

They could have saved her. They could have been worth everything.

Now they're worthless.

So am I.