Hello wonderful readers! It's been a long time, hasn't it? I've been so completely swamped with scholarship applications, I have had, literally, no time for leisure writing. Pity me dear readers, because for the past few months have been spent swimming through questions like, "Describe a school project that had an important impact on you and translate it to your prospective career and work ethic," or, "Take...'s poem and apply her argument to your expectations for your college experience." More horribly, they were all 500 words or less! All of you know I can't do anything decent for less than a thousand! Bah!

Well, I've gotten through the worst of it with as much grace as I could, and now I've finally got a reprieve to work on my "fun stuff." Hope you enjoy it and, as always, PLEASE REVIEW! n_n

(unrelated side note) - Also, I've entered some original work in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, as well as in the Patricia Cornwell Scholars Competition at Davidson College, so if you've enjoyed reading my writing here, please send some happy thoughts, prayers, or whatever you do, that way. I'd appreciate it :)

Chapter 11 – The Agony of the Aftermath

His palms were slick, with sweat, with blood? He could not tell the difference anymore. The metallic tang filled his nose, like salt and copper, like Shilo, bright and burning. The corridor glowed an eerie blue, on the edges a dull purple, as the shattered vials of zydrate mixed with her blood in the growing pool spanning the floor.

Graverobber was terrified, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life, as he raised his hands to his face. His eyes clenched shut unconsciously and he struggled to find the will to force them open. He did not want to see the evidence. He did not want to bear witness to his own betrayal. He did not want to be a monster.

Hazel irises appeared in a rush, a surge of emotions spurring their springs. Rough, callused hands dangled before his face, lined with the strain of the years on the street, and leathery with repeated use. Veins bulged from the pale skin, green in the dim morning light, and fingernails marred by the dirt of a thousand coffins clutched perilously to the long, boney prongs that were his digits. Not a spot marred their stark white surface, though they were, like the rest of his shuddering form, coated in sweat. There was no blood on his hands.

Nightmare, Graverobber thought, sitting up stiffly, not sure whether to be more disturbed or relieved.

It had been so realistic: the blood, the zydrate, Shilo…dead. But it wasn't real, only a dream.

Not like you don't know what caused it, he thought to himself, recalling the antics of the previous night. He'd been so happy to be a martyr for her, so happy to stay on the fence and sacrifice himself. But the effervescence that choice had caused lasted only as long as she was pressed against his skin; the choice itself was made in a moment of manic devotion, spurred by feelings that passed just as quickly as the words were spoken.

Should he be ashamed that he'd wanted to take it back? Or relieved that his sense of self preservation was not so distorted as his actions suggested? Or perhaps he should be proud that, in the end, he had been her hero, her escape route?

Mostly, he was just afraid, of himself, of her, of his actions. He wanted nothing more than to erase that night from both of their memories…No, that was a lie, he wanted so much more than that.

He wanted her to look at him the way she'd looked at him atop the fence every day for the rest of his life. He wanted her lips, hands, breath to belong to him the way they'd belonged to him the previous night. He wanted her laughter to be the last sound he heard before he died, her touch the last thing he felt. He wanted her to come with him to every gravesite, merely so he could feel her eyes consuming him in their attraction, their impression, as he worked. He wanted her to whisper his name before she fell asleep, and wake to her lips on his cheek. He wanted to confess to her every crime, all of the misguided notions and fearful emotions he'd held. He wanted all of the noble fantasies he had attempted to become for her to be true. Most importantly, he wanted to want to save her, without remorse, or guilt, or abuse. He wanted to be good enough for her.

But his dreams had only confirmed the truth. They called him a monster, an addict, showed him her death and made him suffer it. He'd unwisely let himself become attached and now he'd pay the price when she realized… When she saw that the man on the fence wasn't real, when she saw that the real Graverobber would have left her as she'd urged and saved himself, she would leave. Then he'd have to remember why he liked being alone, why love wasn't for him.

But if you hadn't stayed with her, she'd be dead, he argued with himself, trying to justify his actions. If you'd left like she'd asked, you would never have remembered the shovel.

Another side argued, But if it wasn't for the damn shovel, we'd both be dead! I said... I told her I'd die for her, and chance is the only reason I wasn't forced to fulfill that promise! How could…Why did…

This line of thinking entertained Graverobber for about an hour of self imposed suffering. He led himself through every possible scenario, mourned every ill spoken word, and relived again and again the painful walk home, when she was looking for the bright eyed man who'd rescued her and he was wishing that lie had never appeared.

Finally, hunger forced him from his pit of despair, and he reluctantly descended the stairs in search of food.

Shilo heard the heavy, slow footsteps, and could well enough guess their meaning from the couch where she lay curled, covering the blood stains she'd left there weeks before. It was difficult not to allow the significance of the ragged red marks to affect her thoughts, although she'd rather be swimming in regret there than in the scene of their first kiss and her childhood prison. She'd left enough fears and regrets in that tomb; this pain needed more air than the bug carcasses and dusty monitors of her bedroom could give.

But the spot she'd chosen was not so much better. She had a clear view of the fireplace, an eternal sign of her father's alternate life, and the aforementioned bloodstains to crowd her head. Not to mention the accessibility it left for his keen eyes to survey. Yet she did not relocate, if only for the strange desire to have herself caught in remorse, so that she would see him, so that he would speak to her.

Shilo didn't regret that she'd urged him to leave her, to save himself; that was the only thing she could imagine herself rightly doing. What she wished she could take back, was the complete and total surrender she'd fallen to when he chose to stay. It was one of those "forever moments" they love to capitalize on in cheesy romance movies, where the real world and the rest of their lives don't matter. The romanticism of the idea overthrows every logical, sensible urge, and they live "happily ever after" for the five seconds before the credits roll. And if Shilo and Graverobber had died on that fence top, that would have been the perfect way to end their story. They'd been happy, fulfilled, together; anyone would be pleased to have their saga end in such tragic bliss.

But instead of dying, testaments to their love, they'd survived. And now they had to face the aftermath of what they'd done in a reckless second. It was not an easy place for two people, so immature in their emotional attachments, to be.

So Shilo distressed, just as fervently as Graverobber, over her looks, her actions, her feelings, from that night. She'd been so careful for so long to keep a thin barrier between them, to keep him as close as she'd begun to need him to be, but far enough that if she lost him, she'd survive. Her relationship with her father was unhealthy, anyone could tell her that, and she wasn't going to let someone get that close again…at least, not intentionally.

Because, if she had to be honest with herself, it would be clear that the time for determining not to let him become closer had passed. It was too late to keep him at arms length, when he was already so ingrained into her heart, her being. She could deny and battle and regret it, but she'd already succumbed to those hazel eyes and melted against those dark, furious lips. She had let down every protection, brought him as close as she could in that moment, and most infuriatingly, she had no idea how to undo those changes. How could she put back up her walls, when all she could think about was being enveloped again by those strong, corded arms? How could she push him away, when her heart hammered an exhilarating staccato every time he walked into the room? She knew on a rational level that she did not need him the way every fiber of her body claimed, that she had survived before him, that she could survive after him, but love wasn't rational.

And, if she were honest with herself, which of course she wasn't, she could admit to it being love, and perhaps forgive herself for some of the emotion fuelled choices she'd made the past night. But Shilo was not in the habit of letting her heart rule her, not since the day she became a scared and angry fugitive, so she merely abused herself with the painful certainty she'd created. Now that she'd let him in, when he left her (like everyone did) she'd have to find a way to piece herself back together a second time. And she knew from experience just how painful and unbearable it would be.

So preemptive agony was the primary emotion on her bleak face when Graverobber passed her on his way to the kitchen, his footsteps and face revealing just how torn up he was, as well. And remorse and regret met in a hollow look between their two pairs of eyes, joining them once again in a strange communion of shared suffering.

Don't forget to review please!