Disclaimer: I don't own Devil May Cry. Can't sue me!

Summary: Follow-up of sorts to "Abandoned." Takes place before and after Heather returns to her home, and Dante and Vergil. Her thoughts, basically, concerning what she has done to support her children.

To the People Who Hated "My Angel" and Are Currently Reading This: Thanks for giving me the inspiration to write this. This one's dedicated to you!

The Abyss

He's dead.

What have I done?

I'm kneeling beside his bed, staring at my hands. They are covered with cuts and blood, mine and his. Just like my arms. He's lying on the mattress, his own knife buried in his neck. His face reflects shock and pain, the all-consuming terror of death.

As mine would, had he succeeded and I failed.

This man was one of my clients, a man who hired me for a round of meaningless, no-strings-attached sex. But he paid me extra to enact a fantasy of his, and while I was not told the specifics of this fantasy, he paid me so much more than my usual fee for this fantasy that I did not question it. The total sum of this job could pay for enough food to last a week, and new winter clothes for the twins as well.

But the fantasy…

He raped me, and then he tried to kill me.

He slashed at me with a switchblade, cutting open my arms in a swathe of crisscrossing crimson tears. I think he wanted to slice the bones apart, and get at my face, my neck, my heart. I tried to defend myself, but years on the streets do take their toll; I lacked the strength to get him off me, to flee. And where would I have run anyway? I am a street whore, and that means that I am anybody's meat. No one would have aided me, for fear of drawing attention to themselves.

The look on his face while he sliced apart my flesh…

I've never been so scared in my life.

I have to hide the body, somehow. If he were to be found, it would mean death for my children. There is not a jury in the world that would believe that I acted not only in defense of myself, but also in defense of my children. When he attacked me, when I saw the look on his face, I knew that he would not stop. If I died, Michael and Aeva would die. They are only three years old. They cannot survive without me, despite the strength of their demon blood.

And if I was to survive, if they were to survive, then this man had to die.

I do not remember…exactly what happened. But whatever it is that I did, it ended with his windpipe impaled upon his own switchblade.

My children shall live for another day.

That is all that truly matters.

But if that were true…

Then why are tears streaming down my face, mingling in the blood drying on my arms?

I never thought I would have to sink to this level, to kill in order to survive. But it was so much easier that I would have believed. All thought fled, all sense of humanity seemed to dissipate, and I was left with the instinct to kill. I struck without thinking, that much I recall. I became…

An animal…

To steal a life away, as he would have stolen mine, and my childrens'…

God, what has happened to me?

I am unclean, my hands are stained with blood. It is not innocent blood, but blood nonetheless. I can't…

I can't go home…

I had thought to return to my ancestral home, the house I shared with Dante and Vergil, with Zak, Reece, and Kellian. To introduce them to their offspring, the four children in two bodies they sired upon me. I had hoped to start over with a clean slate, to put the pain of my departure behind us and try to begin anew.

But that is impossible now.

I have taken a life.

I am unclean, an abomination.

I am unfit to be Dante's 'babe', or Vergil's 'angel'.

How can I go home now?

The tears are running faster now, and sobs are choking me, bubbling up from the depths of my chest in an unstoppable river of pain and despair. I fall back on my ass, and draw my knees up against my chest, burying my face against their bony solace. So much easier to accomplish now, when malnutrition has stripped me of most of my weight. My hair, slick with grease and splattered blood, falls to shroud the room from view, a dark curtain to hide my shame. It is getting late; my children need me. They know to hide in the old, dilapidated building we currently call home without a sound, but their patience can only last so long. I have to return to them, and pretend that nothing has happened.

But something has happened. I've taken a man's life, and lost what innocence I had left after three years of prostitution.

In one instant, I've relinquished whatever claim I had to the hearts of Dante and Vergil. How could they love one such as I, after what I have done? This was not a demon; this was a human being! In Dante's eyes, at least, that makes me a monster.

And for Vergil…

Oh God…

He would have abandoned me long before now, if he knew what I have been doing to support my children, his daughter and his brother's son, and the twins they absorbed in the confines of my womb.

The sun has set now. I must act now, or never move at all.

I gather up my clothing with trembling hands, wash the blood from my limbs in the tiny bathroom. The hot water stings the cuts, but that agony is nothing compared to the mental anguish I suffer. Once dressed, I ponder exactly what to do with this man, this evidence of my shame. I cannot carry him away, as I once could. Poor nutrition has robbed me of my former strength. My eyes go to the window.

Perhaps…?

No, he is too heavy.

In the end, I leave him where he lies, positioned to make it seem as if he died at his own hand. I even wrote a suicide note, mimicking his handwriting from a scattering of notes and checks that I discovered around the room. Although it was difficult, nay, heart-wrenching, I left behind some money in his wallet so it would look as if nothing was disturbed. The money he paid me for my services, and a little extra, was all that I took from him. It was a simple matter to leave unnoticed.

No one notices anything that doesn't pertain to them on the streets.

My children are exactly where I left them, thank God. Their eyes display profound relief at my return, and their thin arms encircle my neck with strength abnormal for three-year-olds. Half-devils they are, but they are still children. They were afraid, as always, that I would not come back.

If I can help it, they will never, ever know how close that fear came to reality this night.

Once they have eaten the meager dinner of roadside hotdogs I purchased, they snuggle up to me in the depths of the enormous wooden crate we have dubbed our bedroom. This is a position very familiar to us; for the entirety of their lives, we have slept like this. Curled tight against my body, my arms encircling them as a reassurance of my presence, a cloak of safety. They are still innocent enough to believe that I, their mother, will keep them safe from anything that threatens them. Soon enough, their breathing deepens and slows, and they find their sleep with little trouble.

But Morpheus eludes me this night. My mind swirls with memories of the men I love, and the horror I committed this night.

This is the only safety Michael and Aeva shall ever know.

We can never go home.