I lean back against the couch. The living room is dark. The kitchen is not. Light pours in from the kitchen, curling around the entryway. There's no door, I note. It would be weird if the kitchen had a door. There is a hole there as if there should be, though.

She's in the kitchen, washing dishes. I offered to wash them, but she insisted on doing it herself. "You'll aggravate your cuts," was her reasoning. "Just sit back and let me do it."

How did I get such a kind master?

... No. She doesn't like it when I call her that. She wants me to call her my 'friend.'

A friend.

What a funny thing to be.

"I had a dream last night," I blurt out.

"Oh?"

I pull my legs up to my chest. They don't look like my own. They don't feel like my own. I don't feel like my own.

"We had sex," I continue. In the other room, I hear dishes clatter as she chokes on her own spit. The water keeps running. "I didn't like it."

"Oh," is the response she settles on. "Um... Well, I'm... Sorry to hear that."

"It's okay."

When I dream, I only dream of her. Sometimes she berates me. She hurts me. She kicks me. Beats me. She tells me it's for being disobedient. For being worthless. Other times she praises me. She likes me. She holds me. She loves me. She says it's for being good. For being better than everyone else. I don't know which one I like more. I hope she doesn't make me choose. I don't want to choose. I want her to choose for me.

Last night, she didn't choose. I didn't choose, either. It happened. That was it. When I woke, I didn't feel good. I felt sad. I cried. I can't remember the last time I cried.

I didn't like it, either.

I don't like the idea of intimacy. Towards most people, yes, but most certainly towards her. There's a fuzzy memory stashed away in the confines of my mind of her lips, so very close to mine.

She kissed me. That much I know.

Why? Why did she? That part, I don't.

I could ask. I don't remember. She is kind. She explains the things I don't remember, like Cindy. Cindy used to babysit me when I was young, up until I was twelve. She could explain this. I could also wait. Some of my memories have been coming back, or, rather, I've just remembered them. They never went anywhere. I don't know how to describe it.

I want to know why. I also don't.

There's a deep-rooted repulsion that comes with it. With the dream. With her. I feel it when we talk. I feel it when we're close. I feel it when she holds me. I feel it when she looks at me.

It's not directed towards her. It's directed towards me. I waste so much of her time by just existing, and then I dream of her. Even in sleep, I waste her time.

Disgusting. Wasteful.

It felt real. It felt so real, and that's why I hate it. I hate myself for thinking of it, too.

A nightmare, I reason, it was a nightmare.

(I don't think I'm supposed to like nightmares, but white lies never hurt anyone.)

"Do you dream?" I ask. My voice sounds scratchy. Faint. It sounds like the recording of a recording, with pops from the speakers caught on the other device. Distant. Distorted. It doesn't sound like my own. I don't which voice is mine. I don't want a voice.

"Uh... Sometimes." Her voice is pretty. She's pretty. She sounds tired, though. Do I keep her up? She insists on caring for me. I don't know why she does if she's tired. Is this friendship? I don't like how the word feels when I think it. I never say it. If I tried saying it, I'd choke. It feels like bile in my throat, rising. Consuming. Burning. Sickening. I don't think I should have friends. I don't think I'm enough of a person for friends. She insists on calling me her friend, though. She's nice like that, I think. I don't deserve her, I know.

"Did you dream last night?"

"Uhh..." I assume she did. Maybe not. Do people dream every night? "Yeah. I remember pieces of it."

She goes on to explain what she remembers in detail - she got lost in MakoMart and ran into some celebrity when the apocalypse started.

"That sounds exciting," I say once she finishes. Her dreams are dreams. They're unrealistic. Fantastical. My dreams are like that too, in a way. Absolutely unrealistic. A crazed fantasy. "Were you scared?"

"I woke up a little scared, yeah." I can't picture her scared. She is a person, yes, but she is more than that. She is an angel, trapped in a prison of flesh and blood. "I mean, once I figured out it was a dream, I thought it was funny. You should have seen it..!"

I nod slightly against my knee. She can't see it. Good. I don't like being seen. By others. By her. By me. In the mirror, I stare at myself. From the other side, it stares back. I don't look like myself. I don't feel like myself. My body doesn't feel like mine. Then whose body would? Nothing comes to mind. If I could change my body to what I want, maybe I would be better. If I could fill my lungs with soil and let myself rot, maybe I would be happy. I don't know if I deserve it. I don't know if I deserve happiness.

She starts talking again. Her voice sounds fuzzy. Distant. Underwater. The world feels fuzzy. Dizzy. Underwater.

I close my eyes and slump further against my knees.

Dreams are something I don't deserve. I'd like to sleep a dreamless sleep.

Yes.

A break sounds nice.


She leaves eventually. She always does. I feel sad when she leaves. Each time, I know it's coming. It never makes it hurt any less.

I feel bad for feeling sad. I shouldn't feel sad. I'm being selfish. I shouldn't be selfish. Good servants, or- Good friends (the word feels like vomit on my tongue) shouldn't be selfish. I value my needs too much. I should value hers more. Friendship is about equality, so I've heard. I take too much. She gives too much. I should give more. I don't give more. I'm selfish. Too selfish.

I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. My cuts have been healing, if only slightly. They hurt less. She changes my bandages for me. I don't know why. No. I do know why. She's too nice. Too giving. She must be like that towards everyone, if she's like that towards me. I should pay her back. How? How do I? She never tells me if she needs anything. When she's here, she only asks about me. Me and my problems. That's it. She brings me food and we talk. I can tell she doesn't like talking to me. She chooses her words too carefully. Her voice is soft, always soft. She doesn't touch me beyond changing my bandages. Is she scared of hurting me? Does she think I'm too fragile? I want to hurt. I want to ache. I want to bleed. I want her to hurt me. There I go again. Being selfish. Being greedy.

There's no way for me to pay her back in the end. No favour I do for her will be enough. The only way to truly pay her back is to leave her life forever.

I look away from the ceiling and over at the window.

(One well-timed jump is all it would take.)


She pulls her fingers out. Sticky strands of saliva connect them to my mouth, pooling on my bottom lip. It's tinted blue with a sickly sheen - my blood, I realize belatedly.

I lick my lips. They taste metallic, rough against my tongue. Still, I don't speak. I wait. I watch. My stomach hurts. The stitches have been pulled apart. I'm bleeding. I don't whine. I don't complain. Even as it spills down to the floor, I say nothing. My blood is warm against my skin. The rest of me is cold. Feverishly cold.

Her fingers trail down to the gash again. They trace the edge of it (it hurts, it hurts, I want more) before pushing in. It burns. It aches. Her nails scrape at my flesh. They feel like tiny knives. I love it. I hate that I love it.

How disgusting.

She pulls her fingers out. My breathing is ragged. Rapid. Fast.

When she looks down at me, there is nothing but disgust in her eyes.

"Gross," she mutters.

'Gross.' I agree. I'm disgusting. I'm trash. I'm worthless.

I open my mouth to apologize and


I open my eyes.

Dreaming.

I had another dream.

I sit up. The sheets ruffle around me. I'm not bleeding. The sheets are dry.

I pull my knees up to my chest.

Disgusting.

I'm disgusting.


She takes me to the Cuttlefish Cabin again. I still don't like the Cabin. I still think she doesn't either.

Callie and Marie are never there. They're always busy. I don't know why I have to come if they don't. Maybe it's something to do with getting out of the house. Maybe it's supposed to be good for I. It doesn't feel like it's good for me, but what do I know?

It's just me and her and it.

I am worse than people. Than everyone. I'm garbage, walking among them.

She is better than all. She is my angel. She is kind, giving. Loving.

It is worse than me. It is the trash of trash. It wastes oxygen by existing. It is something I should eliminate.

He asked me to eliminate it. He commanded me.

He is gone. He is dead. I don't serve him any longer.

But it is here. It is alive. It shouldn't be.

I don't hate it. Not exactly. But I recognize its status. Worthless. Puny. Miserable.

She hates it. I don't know why. She says it hurt me. That it's the reason I'm like this now. I don't know what she means by 'now.' I've always been like this, haven't I? When I asked, she grew mad. I don't ask her stupid questions anymore.

It doesn't talk to me when she's around. It knows she hates it. Good. It's self aware. When we're alone, though, we talk.

"Hi," it mumbles one day, shifting where it stands. "Um... You are Agent 3, right?"

I nod. Its accent is thick.

"Um... I'm Agent 8." I nod again. It's information I already know. Still, I am polite. So what if it's beneath me? So what if the world wouldn't miss it if I tore its entrails out and hung it by its neck? "But, um... If you want, you can call me Eight?"

It holds its hand out for a handshake. Gingerly, I take it. I shake it. Later on, I'll have to wash it. I can't live with touching trash beneath myself.

Silence settles over us. I can tell it's awkward for it. I don't care. I'm better than it. Finally, I'm better than something. I could kill it if I wanted. The world wouldn't care. She wouldn't care. She wants it dead, I know. To make her happy, to truly pay her back, I could kill it.

An extermination, I think.

"I am, um... Sorry," it apologizes. It drags its foot against the floor. It's nervous, to be in my presence. Yes. Good. The worthless should be. I would know. "For... For everything."

"It's okay," I reply. I don't know if it truly is okay. She will be the judge of that. As it stands, though, I have no qualms with it being here.

It blinks. Is it shocked? Stupid.

"She, um... Four-"

"I don't care," I interrupt. I don't care what it thinks. I don't care what it says. I don't care about it. "Stop talking."

It blushes. Its ink is purple.

Disgusting.

I hate purple.

"Sorry," it mumbles once more. It hesitates for a moment before turning to leave. I grab its wrist, hold it tight.

"Don't leave."

I don't know why I want it to stay. Maybe it's that fleeting feeling that I'm finally, finally better than something. Maybe it's because I don't want it to bother her anymore.

I don't know.

Regardless, it stays.

Good.

Obedience is such a wonderful trait.


"You were talking to Eight?" she asks. I nod. "How... Was it?"

"... Okay," is the reply I settle on. "She's not that bad."

"Really?" she breathes, a whisper beneath her breath. She shakes her head and smiles at me. "That's... That's good. It's good that you're making friends."

I have to try not to laugh.

'Friends.'

What a funny concept.