I have an issue with this. I'm starting to feel like no one AT ALL is reading this story, the story that I think is one of the best I've ever written. I take the time to sit down and write this - these chapters have 2,000+ words in them - and yet no can seem to make the time to comment. Is it really so hard to say something like "I like this" or "Good job"?
From chapters VII to XI, I have received NO reviews. Zero, zip, nada. I don't know what is it with you people and M rated stories. They can't be that bad, they're just words..
Every time I finish and submit a chapter, my hopeful brain tells me, "THIS will be the time someone reviews, THIS will be the time someone likes your story and tells you about it". But it never is. People just can't seem to find the motivation to write a comment.
Speaking of motivation... I'm really losing my desire to write this. I used to love it; I'd do it every day and get so excited about it. But now I'm starting to ask myself what the point is to submitting a story nobody reads.
Please, just comment, tell me how you like my story and what you think of it.
Give me a reason to stay
Because I don't want to live in fear
I can fight the rain, but I can't fight the tears
Oh, I can fight the fire, but I can't fight the fear
-Three Days Grace's No More
"What?" Lucy shrieked. "What do you mean, no?"
Desmond took a deep breath, tears stinging the back of his eyes. "It's the lights. This is the same thing that happened to Shaun; there's nothing we can do. I... I'm sorry."
"No!" Lucy yelled, her voice laced with sorrow. She turned back to Rebecca and desperately tried to wake her again. "Wake up, Becca, wake up!" the blonde sobbed, nudging her dying friend.
Rebecca's eyes focused and her thrashing slowed. "Lucy..?" she breathed.
Lucy nodded, forcing a smile through her tears. "It's me, Becca, I'm here." She grasped the brunette's hand. "How do you feel?"
"It's kind of.. strange." Rebecca turned her face to the ceiling. "I feel like my head is floating away from my body."
Desmond sat down on his cot and put his head in his hands. He knew that feeling—the feeling of weightlessness and the strange floating sensation that came from losing too much blood. He had been saved; the lights never intended for him to die. But Rebecca wasn't getting out of this alive. She would never see the sky again, or feel the sun on her face, the wind on her skin.
"Don't worry, everything'll be fine," Lucy was saying—an empty promise with no meaning behind the words.
Rebecca hmmed, sounding content. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
Lucy nodded, her tears running freely now. "You'll never hurt again," she whispered as Rebecca's eyes closed. The last breath of air escape her, and she was still.
Lucy sobbed quietly, still clutching her friend's hand, and bowed her head.
"Requiescat in pace," Desmond breathed, then was aware of a voice in his head.
"It was your fault, you know. You were keeping watch, and you stood by and did nothing." The same light from before - he knew - was speaking softly into his ear. "She's dead Desmond, and it's your fault. Two people would still be alive if you weren't so stubborn."
"And one wouldn't," Desmond hissed back at it, whipping his head around.
"You value her life over two other innocents?" The light sounded surprised—mock surprise. It was trying to wind him up, make him feel guiltier than he already was.
"No," Desmond growled. "But I wasn't the one that killed those two innocents. It's not on my conscience."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," the light murmured, sounding almost... sad. Then it was gone, vanishing into thin air.
Desmond stood slowly. He limped over to where Lucy was kneeling, and crouched down next to her, careful not to jar his wound. Gently, he gripped her hand and unclenched it from Rebecca's still warm ones. He stood up Lucy, grasping one of her shoulders, then wrapped his left arm around her. She was still crying, her body shaking with sobs, and pushed herself closer to his warmth and comfort.
"We have to go," he whispered.
Lucy looked up at him, confused. "...Go?"
"Yes." Desmond looked toward the entrance. "We need to get out of here before something even worse happens."
Suddenly, Lucy pushed him away, and Desmond staggered backwards, shocked. "Something worse?" she shouted, fire in her eyes. "The only friend I've known since becoming an Assassin is dead, and you think something worse will happen? Like what?" she screamed.
Desmond didn't know how to respond. He kept silent, a shocked expression on his face and eyes wide.
"Like what?" Lucy repeated, even louder and with more venom. When Desmond didn't answer, she closed the few steps between them and slapped him, hard, then yanked her hand back, instantly regretting what she'd done.
"Oh God Desmond, I'm sorry.." she stammered out.
"Like you getting hurt," Desmond said softly. A guilty look crossed the blonde's face as his words sunk in.
"Oh, Desmond..." she whispered. "It was never about me. It's much more than that; you need to stay alive, you need to find us that Apple." Her voice grew firmer with every word.
"But how?" Desmond moaned, turning away and pacing a few steps. "Do you know how to work the Animus on someone with a broken hand?"
Lucy shook her head. "Do you pay attention at all? It was never your physical condition; you could be in a coma and still be able to control Ezio."
Desmond owed Lucy, and he knew it; he was in partial fault for two people's death—one of them her best friend. No matter how much he told himself that, he still didn't want to go into the Animus. He'd only been in the thing twice in the past week, where normally he would be in for a few hours a day.
"Fuck," he breathed, then louder: "Where's that memory I found? What's it of?"
"I don't know," Lucy said quietly - maybe she was quiet because of what had just happened, or because she didn't see the need to talk louder - turning back towards the Animus—and Rebecca's computer. The blonde took a sharp breath when she looked at it, but then strode towards the station. Without sitting down, she stroked a few keys and read the screen, while Desmond paced, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Insufficient data," Lucy whispered, then cursed. "I can't know what the memory is about until you actually get in this machine and access it."
"But what about...?" Desmond motioned to Rebecca solemnly.
Lucy sighed deeply. "I just.. don't know," she said softy, re-crossing the room to kneel next to her friend.
"We could... find another hay stack?" Desmond suggested gently.
"No." Lucy whipped her head round, looking angry, but then her expression softened and she turned her face back towards Rebecca. "She hates fire. Says it's too destructive."
Desmond didn't have the heart to tell her that she should talk in past tense. "We could bury her under the tree in the courtyard... but we haven't any shovels..." He looked around for anything useful.
"Actually..." Lucy raised her head. "I think some were bought in case of some kind of emergency." With that, she stood to go look.
Desmond sat down heavily on his cot, wondering but not asking what kind of emergency would require shovels of all things. Rebecca's open wounds, still bleeding, were making him unsettled, so he stood again and, picking her sheet up off the ground, laid it gently over her body, smoothing out the fabric with his left hand. He was starting to guess how Malik would feel with only one arm—Desmond would be bitter too if he had to live the rest of his life like this.
"Here it is," Lucy announced softly, appearing with a large shovel. It looked heavy.
"Oh, fuck this," Desmond growled, and unclipped his sling from around his shoulder, tossing the shirt on his bed.
"What are you doing?" Lucy was staring at him wide-eyed.
"You think I'm going to make you carry your friend all the way up those stairs while I follow like some useless idiot? Not a chance." Desmond didn't doubt that Lucy would be able to carry Rebecca, but he wasn't going to make her do that.
"No, I'll do it, you'll just mess up your fingers..."
"I'll just be carrying her with my arms." Sticking out his arms, Desmond demonstrated the baby-like hold. "See?" Then he bent down and lifted Rebecca, the sheet still obstructing her body. Though he jostled his hand a couple times and wanted to cry out, the Assassin held it back, not wanting to give Lucy any reason to doubt him.
The two travelled up the stairs in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. A mournful procession.
Desmond reached the top first, emerging into the moonlight. A few clouds scurried across the black sky, making little dark shadows across the stone. He breathed in the night air, feeling its chill in his lungs. It often got cold at night in Italy, even if it was hot during the day.
Without waiting, Desmond walked out into the Villa courtyard, realizing for the first time that he had never put his shoes back on; he was still wearing just socks.
"I'm digging," Lucy was saying as she appeared out of the darkness of the tunnel. "No arguments." Desmond wasn't about to argue; he doubted he could even hold a shovel, much less dig a six-foot deep hole.
He followed Lucy as she took the lead toward the courtyard. She chose the tree closest to them, and immediately began digging a hole in the grass. The rain from the weekend had softened the ground substantially; Desmond didn't feel too guilty about making Lucy do all the work.
Instead, he sat down under the tree where he could watch, Rebecca's body cradled in his lap. He really hoped any lights weren't going to decide to show up now—this was his private time, his time of mourning.
What was he thinking...? Rebecca had been Lucy's best friend, and here Desmond had only known her for less than a month!
God of mine, am I lost in your eyes?
Desmond shook his head roughly to clear his thoughts. It didn't really matter. In front of him, Lucy diligently continued to dig. The scraping of the shovel annoyed him.
"Then make her be quiet. Silence her once and for all," a soft voice echoed inside his head. Desmond shook himself again, trying to stop the lights' influence on him.
"Think about it," the voice continued. "You wouldn't have to worry any more. You wouldn't have to lay awake at night, wondering when your next vision or nightmare will be. We will leave you alone."
The idea did seem like a tempting one. A full night's sleep, no more nightmares to keep him awake...
But then what would he wake up to? An empty stone room, his voice echoing off the bare walls when he tried to call out for someone, anyone, to ease his loneliness.
Go fuck yourself, he growled at the voice.
"You say that every time. But we can feel you warming up to our ideas, Desmond. We know you long for your sanity back. Take this for example." A bloody, deformed man appeared next to him. Desmond scrabbled back, horrified.
The man's body had been twisted around at the spine, leaving his legs and feet facing out backwards and his arms and face remaining forward. Unable to walk, he dragged himself along on the ground, moaning, blood rushing from his midsection.
"I can make him go away if you do what we ask," the light stated, and just like that, the man turned to ashes.
"Or I can make it even more terrifying if you continue to refuse us,"
The man was back, but he had tripled in size and now seemed to be in full control of his body. He towered over Desmond, his toes pointing the opposite direction, and reached down towards him, a menacing look on his twisted face. Desmond could see bone sticking out his side.
Desmond whimpered, terrified, but was unable to move—he was frozen in place, whether from fear or because of the lights, he didn't know.
"Remember this," the light went on. "You do what we ask, we leave you alone. But if not, we manipulate your mind and force you to go insane. You will end up killing yourself." There was no doubt in its voice.
"Live or die, make your choice," the light whispered menacingly, then the man turned to ash again and Desmond's head was silent.
He sat panting for a few moments, heart pounding in fear, and thinking about what the light had just said.
"There." Desmond was jolted back to reality as Lucy called out from the hole she had finished. A large pile of dirt lay next to it. "Desmond? Come here."
Desmond stood at the rim of the hole, Rebecca clutched close to his body.
"Pass her down." Lucy held out her arms. Gently, Desmond kneeled and lowered the body in his arms down to the blonde. His leg and hand were throbbing with pain, but he didn't care. He deserved it; he had actually considered harming Lucy.
Lucy climbed out of the hole. "This is the best I can do." She motioned downwards, where Rebecca lay at the bottom of her grave, the sheet draped over her.
"It's enough," Desmond muttered.
"Do... do you want to say something?" Lucy asked softly. Desmond shook his head. The guilt was still clawing at his heart, and he doubted he would be able to say anything before he either broke down or snapped. So Lucy spoke.
"I met Rebecca, I don't know, maybe ten years ago?" Lucy began, her voice already thick with emotion. "Seven of those years we spent apart." She looked as if she was fighting back tears. "She... she was one of the best friends I've ever had. I could tell her anything, even—" She stalled again, looking slightly confused, then shot a quick glance at Desmond and continued.
"We always had so much in common; I felt like... like she was my sister." Lucy stopped, holding back a sob. Then she bowed her head and solemnly began replacing the dirt on top of Rebecca. The soil hit the body at the bottom with loud thuds; Lucy cried the whole time.
Feeling useless again, Desmond unclicked his blade and scratched an inscription onto the tree over the grave.
Rebecca
1984-2012
Requiescat in pace
It wasn't the neatest, but Desmond hoped it would stay there for as long as it could.
"Her middle name is Eve," a soft voice whispered behind him. Desmond turned to see Lucy giving him a mournful look. Wiping tears away, she continued: "She always loved it."
Desmond nodded and added a few words to his inscription. It now read Rebecca Eve Crane.
Turning back, Desmond saw Lucy had finished with the shovel. The earth in front of the tree was churned up and dark, reminding the world of what lay under it.