Hey, everyone! A HUUUGE thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited/followed this story, it means THE WORLD to me! I love writing this and it's been such a joy to get such an enthusiastic response from you all! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and once again, I apologize for being late to upload again but of course I've been terribly busy. Enjoy Chapter 16! P.s. There will be another chapter or two after this one to wrap things up. :)

Wind whipped through my hair, throwing strands across my face as I sprinted down the street. My combat boots slapped the wet pavement (that's weird, I don't remember it raining while I was sitting there. Must have slept through it) and threw up splashes of water from puddles underfoot. The sidewalk was dead and deserted, leaving me ample room to propel myself towards my apartment. My heart hammered inside my chest anxiously, and as I saw the black iron gate guarding my apartment building appear in my vision, a heavy weight seemed to dangle with anticipation in my throat. It was strong enough to make me come to a skidding stop in front of the gate, breathing heavily.

Knock it off Gwen, I chastised myself. You just fell asleep on the bench and had a wild dream about a labyrinth and a Goblin King... my brain trailed off at that and gave a woeful tug at my heartstrings. Ignoring the weirdly nostalgic feeling, I gathered a deep breath and unlocked and pushed through the gate. Locking it behind me, I went up the concrete steps, passed the tulips weeping with dew lining the walkway, and stuck the house key into the keyhole and opened the door. I threw my body weight into the stubborn door, finally budging it and causing myself to trip on my own feet. I stumbled, regained my balance, and then began to ascend the flight of old, rickety steps up to my and Mark's apartment.

With each step my anxiety grew, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and sending my heart away on a crazed jungle rhythm.

There's nothing wrong, I reassured myself, to no avail. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. What if the place was robbed while I was gone? Or worse - what if Mark was there when the robber came in and he got hurt? Oh my God... what if he's dead?!

By then I was sprinting up the staircase, my heart ready to explode out of my chest and take everything with it. I came to the top of the stairs and ran like a madwoman to Apartment 237. Jamming my key inside, dropping the key not once but twice and cussing the whole time, I managed to wrench open the door and I threw myself inside.

"Mark!" I called frantically. I flipped on the lights in the kitchen. "Mark, where are you?"

I heard fumbling down the hallway, and then Mark's voice called out, "Hold on, babe, I'll be right out!"

My heart slowed considerably and I let out a breath of sweet relief. Mark was okay and I'd overreacted... thank God. His tone fit me kind of funny, though; he sounded a little agitated and hurried. Shrugging off the notion, I took a seat at the kitchen island and grabbed a peach from the fruit bowl. Before taking a bite, I felt compelled to gaze at its fuzzy texture and... I saw a bar in the back of my mind. A glass of vodka, and a man with wild hair.

"Damn, that was one vivid dream," I murmured aloud, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was trying to convince myself more than anything.

A sound like shattering porcelain came from down the hallway. I jumped up, immediately thinking of the robber, and ran down the narrow hallway. I came to Mark's room, and placed a hand on the doorknob. I hesitated, and decided to call out his name, just in case.

"Hold on, Gwen!" he half-shouted, half-ordered. Then I heard another voice inside, a frantic voice. A female voice.

I felt myself kick open the door with a strength I didn't know I had, and the scene sprawled out before me was something that would be burned into my vision for a long time. The first thing I saw were the pieces of shattered porcelain glass on the floor and the dented lampshade. There was Mark, standing in the middle of the room in his white underwear and nothing else, his toned muscles speckled with beads of sweat, his spiky hair disheveled. He was grasping the shoulder of a young woman, around my age but at least three inches taller, who was naked except for a frilly bra and underwear that stood out on her dark skin. Her head turned to face me, her curly mane of hair whipping about her face. Her dark brown eyes widened in shock and she stood there, mouth agape, some of her color draining out of her face.

The world shifted into a blur and sounds came at me at a sluggish pace. I saw Mark's mouth move as he gazed at me in horror, and then the young woman wrenched his shoulder out of his grasp in slow-motion.

"Gwen," Mark's voice wafted into my ears. "You're home early."

"You have a girlfriend!" the young woman's voice accused, crisp and clear with a gorgeous British accent, which struck me for a moment because I had been expecting an Indian accent considering her skin tone and facial features.

"Fiancee," I heard myself say somewhat emotionlessly, "and I'm late, Mark. It's midnight."

In slow-motion he looked at the clock on the bedside table and then back at me. He spoke with such slight motion that I would never have been able to read his lips.

"You're right."

Then I was walking down the hallway, either too quickly or too slowly, it was hard to tell. The walls were tilting from left to right and I felt the hard plaster beneath my fingertips each time they tipped. I found myself in the kitchen, and the kitchen island dove up to meet me as my body slammed against it.

There's an Indian woman in my fiance's bedroom. She has such a gorgeous British accent, took me by surprise but it's so lovely. I'd love to hear her talk more. Hopefully she won't mind.

I struggled against the countertop as my knees buckled and the world swung around in circles like a Merry-Go-Round.

There's a woman in my fiance's bedroom. We'll have to replace that porcelain lamp. Too bad, it was handed down in my family for a while. Mom will be sad to hear that it broke because...

The world swung back into balance and then wound up its fist and socked me in the stomach. I doubled over, losing the battle with the countertop and feeling the cold tile beneath my fingertips. My hair curtained my face and I heard sobbing coming from somewhere. I started to wonder who was crying when I felt the hot tears streaming down my face.

I heard footsteps thunder into the room, and then patter up to me.

"Miss? Miss? Oh, my God, miss!" the beautiful British voice beseeched.

I gazed up through disheveled strands of hair. The beautiful Indian face was gazing at me, tears streaking down the perfectly symmetrical face, making lines on her flawless skin.

"The lamp broke," I choked out hoarsely. "That was my mom's."

"I-I'm so sorry about the lamp - about everything," she said, her own perfect voice shattering into a far less beautiful sob. "I-I had no idea... Mark and I work together, and I... he never said... I didn't know... I'm so sorry..."

"The lamp broke," I murmured again, more as a whisper. "That was my mom's."

Such a shame. We'll have to get that fixed. Mom will want to know why. I'll have to tell her that it broke when I found another woman in Mark's bedroom. They were having sex. He was cheating on me. He was cheating on me. He was cheating on me, oh my God...

I broke down into helpless, uncontrolled sobs and buried my face in my hands. A horrendous black feeling took over me and dragged me beneath the surface, drowning me in its agony. I was choking, struggling for air, tears were streaking my lips and dripping down my shirt, my makeup must be running everywhere, I have to replace that lamp...

I felt soft arms wrap themselves around me and pull me into a cushioned surface. I felt a weight like the underside of someone's chin on top of my head and a soft voice cooing, "It's okay, it's okay, everything will be okay..."

I knew it was the Indian woman with the perfect skin and face. But, for just a moment, I let myself imagine it was Jareth, holding me tight and assuring me in his gorgeous British accent that it was okay, it was okay, everything will be okay. You'll sweep them off their feet like a grand Queen, and everything will be okay.

I let myself sink into the warm body and the waves of grief consume me. I had no more fight left in me.

"Get out," I heard the British voice snarl, corrupting the pristine nature of its tone. "Mark, you bastard, get the hell out of here."

"Just let me explain," I heard Mark begin in protest.

I was struck dumb by the lack of regret in his voice. His voice wasn't clogged with suppressed sobs, nor was it shaking under the great weight of the disorienting shame. Instead his tone was laced with a defensive frustration, something that sounded so unlike him. Or perhaps it was the most like him that I had ever had the misfortune to hear.

I lifted my head away from the Indian woman's embrace and let my gaze rest on Mark's. His posture was sure, imposing, and confident on the threshold between the kitchen and the hallway. The dagger pierced my heart deeper as I saw that he met my gaze for the slightest moment and showed me that he saw no wrong in his actions. He was not sorry at all.

"How could you?" was all I could ask. My voice was horrendously broken and hollow. "What have I done to deserve this... to make you think this was okay?"

"You seriously don't know?" He asked dubiously, still holding my gaze like a madman convinced he did not commit mass murder despite the overwhelming evidence.

I gawked at him. All I could do was fight for a few more minutes. Just to get the truth. Just a few more minutes of strength.

"Tell me, then."

He lets out a short laugh as if he were conversing with an idiot on the sidewalk about something as trivial as the weather.

"Obviously," he continues, "it's all your fault. You made me promise when we started dating that we'd wait until marriage to have sex. Well, we dated for three years and then got engaged last year so I thought maybe I'd finally get to do with you what every guy does with his woman, but no, you told me that engagement 'doesn't count,' or some shit. Well, y'know what, Gwen? I was sick of waiting. I have needs, too, alright? And on top of that, I've been supporting the two of us practically by myself for a full year! And how do you repay me? By arguing when I tell you to get a real freaking job!"

That was it. That was the final straw. I felt my body slump against the kitchen island and all strength left me. A numbness poured over me and all I could hear for a moment was the insane thumping of my heart. Somehow, deep down, some passion told me that what he had said was the worst evil. But it had already invaded my mind; I was already accusing myself. I was remembering all the times we had argued over financial issues and how I had stubbornly advocated my dreams and how any menial job I got stuck in would prevent me from achieving my goals.

Was this all my fault? Did I start this?

I had a sudden remembrance of the dream I had had after Jareth had reset my knee back in... whatever that had been. In the dream, Mark had been there. I remembered watching his white suit turn into black, and the wind had died out from the field I was in and the clouds had brought a darkness to the sky. Then Mark had stabbed me in the chest, just like he was now.

"You monster," the Indian woman snarled suddenly, sparking my attention back. I hadn't even noticed her get up and stand accusingly across from Mark. Mark's eyebrows shot up in surprise; he seemed shocked that someone else would have a differing opinion on this sensitive subject.

"Excuse me?"

"I thought you were a nice guy," she began, her perfect voice shaking with fury. "But now I see the real you. You're a bastard, Mark Jennings, and you'll rot in hell for this. I guarantee it."

Mark just smirked at her and replied, though not without contempt, "Oh, shut up, you whore."

"Don't call her that," I heard myself say, as if from a far distance away.

Mark's gaze flicked to me, his eyes widening.

"I'll call her what I want, Gwen. She's the the one who had wanted to have sex with-"

"I said," I growled tumultuously, suddenly fueled with the strength of a fiery, consuming rage. I had jumped to my feet and was glowering at him, standing protectively in front of the kind and caring woman who had been dragged into this mess. "Don't call her that. And in fact, why don't you get your lyin', stinking, filthy carcass out my door." I vehemently tore at the golden ring on my forefinger and threw it at him, successfully hitting him just below his left eye and making him cry out in pain. He held the spot and gasped at the touch. "And if I ever see you around here again, I will castrate you and hang your nuts above my fireplace. Get out of my sight, you coward."

The bewilderment and terror on his face spread a warm pleasure through me, and I felt myself slowly rise above the waves of grief; I could touch the surface of those black waters, just barely staying afloat.

"You can't just kick me out, this is practically my house since I pay for everyth-"

"She can do whatever she damn well pleases," the Indian woman cut in, stepping up beside me. "Now pack your shit and get the hell out, you spineless worm. And if I ever see you making your way down this street I will personally assist this beautiful woman here with ripping your balls off and finding a nice plaque for them over her fireplace."

One of the other vivid memories from that night would be the look of complete and utter bewilderment on Mark's face before he grumbled something about two freakin' sluts and shuffled down the hallway. I turned my gaze to the window outside and saw a white barn owl gazing in with human-like interest. Our gazes met and for a moment I saw the owl give me a look that seemed almost melancholy; in my traumatized state, tears would not have seemed out of the ordinary if they had begun to stream from the owl's big, brown eyes.

Then, the slam of Mark's bedroom door and another slam of a suitcase on a hardwood floor echoed throughout the apartment, and the owl ruffled its wings and took off into the dark of night.

By noon of the next day, Mark would have completely moved out. He spent the whole night packing, more in a rage and 'too angry to stay a minute longer' than in any type of guilt towards his actions. At first he made quite the racket throwing stuff into his suitcase and flinging hard objects across his room but after an hour the ruckus died down and he worked more efficiently.

During all that, the Indian woman introduced herself to me as Amita Singh. Over a cup of coffee and the din of Mark's packing, Amita attempted to divert my whirlwind of emotions by relaying her life story to me.

She was one of the head marketers at the company Mark worked at and had known Mark for several weeks now, but had heard of him since he (and I) had moved to London when he got relocated to help promote a new product from a major, near-monopoly company. She had lived in the United Kingdom her whole life but both of her parents were from India and she visited there for each Hindu holiday to reconnect with family since not all of them were up to date with technology that would otherwise help them communicate. Amita had graduated from Cambridge in business and marketing with summa cum laude honors and had been picked up by a huge marketing corporation right out of college and had successfully worked there ever since.

Amita delved more into detail but my mind began to wander into treacherous waters, tuning her out. Film clips of Mark's words kept playing themselves in my mind over and over again with surprising clarity; I even remembered how he stood there in a haggard T-shirt and shorts, his jaw set and determined. His words were burnt into my mind and they kept echoing and bouncing around in my head, taunting me. I felt like I was being haunted by him, especially since he was just down the hall, a demon in human form.

No, he's a person. A monstrous person, but still a person. A person who is dead to me, I thought with a burning contempt, feeling the rage flame up from my stomach and into my throat.

"Ms. Jackson?" Amita's perfect British voice interrupted my runaway, blazing-with-flames train of thought.

I looked up at her absentmindedly, and followed her gaze to my hand. It was clenched dangerously around my coffee mug; the mug was vibrating under my death grip and threatened to either topple or shatter.

"Sorry," I murmured in a flat, dead tone. "Just a little tense."

Amita sighed and stretched out a hand. I hesitated, gazing at the hand and the creases on her palm and fingers. For some reason, it made her seem more human to me; flawed somehow. A little pinch of hope found its way into my heart; I took her hand in mine. She squeezed my hand tight, and I squeezed back. Suddenly tears attacked me and I fought them back by scrunching up my face and taking deep breaths.

"Ms. Jackson, you can cry if you need to," Amita said in a soothing tone. "It's okay, honey. Just let it out."

I took a haggard breath and met her gaze again.

"No," I said breathlessly. "I'm done crying. I'm done crying over him."

Amita smiled at me, her beautiful brown eyes gazing at me with sympathy.

"You know, Ms. Jackson," she began, "you are very strong. In fact, you might be the strongest person I've ever met."

I felt something like a smile tug on the sides of my lips. I wiped my cheeks; they were damp from earlier.

"Thanks," I said. "I don't feel strong, though." I took a shaky sip of coffee and let the warm liquid soothe my nerves. A deep, almost physical pain was throbbing inside my chest, as Mark had actually stabbed me there. "I feel weak. I feel broken and used. I wish I couldn't feel any of this."

Amita was quiet for a little bit, gazing into her cup of coffee. Mark's ruckus had quieted down a while ago and silence filled the kitchen as Amita and I sat at the island table, holding coffee mugs in front of us. Black was painted against the windows from the pit of night; not a single star shown.

"That's okay," she said finally. I gazed at her; her attention was still on her coffee cup. She let out a sigh and closed her eyes. "If only I had known... I took it all for granted, and just assumed... you have every right to feel the way you do, Ms. Jackson."

"Gwen," I said, causing her to meet my eyes tentatively. "My name is Gwen. You can call me that, if you want. And the same to you, about what you said. You, especially, didn't know about any of this. You were dragged into this mess."

"We both were," Amita observed objectively, giving me a weak smile. "And it hurts. I know your pain - well, at least a little bit of it, to be truthful... Honey, if I'm not being helpful, feel free to ask me to leave. I would completely underst-"

"No," I blurted out. Normally such an awkward outburst would have made me flush bright red and then cover it up with a knee-slapper joke. "I need you right now. Please, stay."

She smiled at me, far more radiantly than ever, perhaps simply because she felt less out of place, less like a burden, and more of a help to someone who desperately needed it.

A thump and the rolling sound of wheels told us that Mark was ready to leave. His figure appeared in the kitchen, his brown spiky hair messed up and splayed across a sweaty forehead. He was clad in a black overcoat and denim jeans and nice black dress shoes, pulling a large black suitcase behind him. His face held a nasty snarl on it, which intensified as his gaze met mine. With some unknown strength I held his gaze, keeping my own empty; I would not get down on his level.

"Ah, good," Amita mused, purposely putting on a sickeningly sweet smile. "Prince Asshole is ready to go. Got all your shit together, chivalrous sir? Yes? Then, off with you."

For a quick moment, my brain diverted to her sudden sense of humor. It made me smile, which felt so foreign already, and I suddenly wished to hear more of her sarcasm, which was even sweeter in her intelligent and pristine accent.

Mark just turned his snarl on her and made his way to the door. He stood in the threshold between the apartment and the outside stairwell, and hesitated. Then, without looking back, he stepped out and slammed the door behind him.

Just like that, my three-year relationship plus one year engagement was over. Four years of dedication to one man, poof, like dust in the wind.

"I have to say," I began, still mildly surprised at the flatness of my voice as I spoke, "you have an impeccable sense of humor. I was quite impressed, Ms. Singh." I attempted to feign a British accent at the end, but I only managed to do a pretty crappy Australian one with my voice so shaky. I let out a weak laugh and sipped some coffee, feeling trauma's cold hands start to wring out my throat again.

"Why, gee, bless your little heart, Gwen!" Amita suddenly exclaimed in the worst Southern accent impression I had ever heard. I spat out my coffee and burst out laughing, bent over the table and crying for a completely different reason. The laughter brought me completely above the surface of the black waters and I felt something give inside me, a heavy weight being dropped and let go.

Everything is going to be okay. Like a grand queen, I am going to fight through this pain and give it all I have.

As my and Amita's laughter calmed down and we clinked our coffee mugs together in cheers to our strange, newfound friendship, I knew my oath to be true.

And, somehow, the pain made something else blindingly clear to me. Perhaps it was out of that night's nature of bringing truth to light out of the darkness, but I also knew with a strong conviction that the Labyrinth was real and someone down there loved me in a way that Mark never had. And maybe, one day, I would see the Goblin King again, but for the time being, I vowed to focus on my career and healing myself from the inside and growing closer with Amita Singh.

That night, I blew the dust off of my old NIV Bible and found a dog-eared page from God knows how long ago, and saw it was Ecclesiastes chapter 3. I read the first few verses and found a peace inside myself...

"There is a time for everything, a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing..."

"The show must go on," I murmured to myself before I fell into a deep sleep.