Back then she would never have thought she would live so long, she mused while sifting through deteriorating memories. She turned her attention to the statues littered about the ruined streets; images of abject terror and agony painted onto the world. She no longer felt anything, for them or anything else.
When the end came she had given up her control, nothing precious left to protect from her raging emotions.
So she wept for her friends.
Raged at her father.
Despaired for herself.
Nearly went mad as the years ticked by, unending.
But somehow,
sometime,
she'd gone numb.
She wasn't sad, or angry or even lonely, though that was closest to it.
She simply was.
Stone eyes hidden behind a mask, a silent scream immortalized - how fitting it seemed now that she should be the only living thing left on the dead world when she had lived the least while it was still thriving. The remains of her friends left by her father to destroy her, ringing her in silent accusation. She looked on them dispassionately now, fleeting remembrances all that were left in the empty void.
Ah, what comfort eternity can bring.