Author's Note: I hope you didn't understand all the languages I spoke yesterday! Yes, I already know that I misspelt a lot of things, but my American keyboard is derpy, so we don't have all the symbols from all of those languages: shoot me.

I'm sorry that this one-shot couldn't be happier, but shuffle on my iPod had it out for me.

Day Seven: I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables

"Can you tell me exactly what you saw?"

How she hated that question. It was all she was ever asked anymore. On top of that, it made her relive the chill-inducing night, the bane of her existence, over and over again, until it consumed her nightmares.

She crossed her arms stubbornly.

"Can I talk to her, alone?"

After some shuffling, she heard the door close, so that there were only two people left in the room.

"Spencer, what happened that night?"

Before long, a silent tear betrayed her stoic expression.

"It is okay to cry about it. You experienced a lot."

She felt her lip begin to quiver before she broke down into mangled sobs. "I just…I saw him…I…I…"

She felt a hand on her back, soothing her. This feeling was so odd. She was never comforted like this as a child. You'd think that someone who was depraved of something so simple as human touch would be an analytical mind, not thinking twice about the nature of love.

But she did. She dreamed about it. She didn't know what it was, so she saw it as a challenge yet to be discovered. All she knew was that it was the best emotion ever and that it was everlasting.

But that was quite some time ago. It was before she had lived in fear and loathing. It was when she was immune to the hatred and harshness of the world. Her mind roamed free, enabling her to make dreams freely. They were there when she needed them, banished the second she tired of them.

God, she missed those times so much. She craved for yesterday, when things were much better. Before Alison was killed. Before A was anything more than a mere letter. Before this hell all began.

A tear slid down her face as she wondered whether that was what she really wanted. Yes, it would make her life so much easier. But would that be worth never getting to experience true love?

She asked herself every second since it happened—would she ever take it all back?

She had felt herself falling so fast and so hard for him over the summer. For once, they were free to be a couple. For a few months, she hadn't felt the need to look over her shoulder all the time, wondering what some anonymous figure would take from her next. It was easily the best summer of her life.

Come September, however, the illusion was shattered and the bane of her existence was back.

And they took one of the most important things from her.

"Where do I begin?" she asked wearily.

She cried as she remembered in bloody detail.

"I just followed her into the woods and I…he was just lying there, dead," she croaked.

She sobbed against her therapist's shoulder, trying to keep herself from deteriorating completely, but found it nearly impossible.

She relived the moment in perfect clarity: in the background, there was a deceptively sweet sound of a whistled song, coming from the girl who led her to the body, while at her feet was the bloody mess. She was there again, in the woods that night.

The trees twisted and created a narrow, winding path until she had finally reached a small clearing. She found the body the girl was showing her.

"He's dead," the girl said finally before abandoning her and leaving her on her own.

Suddenly, she felt small, cold, alone, and ashamed. All of the ecstasy and happiness she had felt…it felt as though it had all been turned to shame. It turned to shambles and pain and heartbreak.

She just sat near him and cried for a while, sometimes looking up into the very dark night. She wondered what would happen if she was just left there for dead.

She realized, with some kind of dread, that she wouldn't miss life too much. It had dealt her a shoddy hand of cards. She figured that at this point, whatever number of chips she put down was all a bluff. She was letting fate do the rest of the work. Should fate let her fade into the night, she wouldn't be too sad about it.

"Sometimes, I still go to sleep, thinking that maybe when I wake up, he'll be back. I go to bed hoping that it was just a bad nightmare, thinking that one morning, I'll just wake up and he'll be there beside me. But now I'm beginning to realize that he never will be and…I just feel like I'm dying, very slowly."

She looked at her, very concerned. "Spencer, don't you think that's a little—"

"No. I feel as though I've been dying. I have some kind of terminal illness. Dr. Sullivan," she said, "the whole situation with A? It's still going on. That's who killed him. They're the reason he's dead!"

"What you're saying—"

"I'm saying that I don't care about any of this anymore! I'm through with thinking and talking about A. There's nothing left of me for them to take! It's like they're searching to steal something from me that doesn't exist. What do I have to do to prove to them that I'm done? I don't care what they take next because all the things that matter…are gone. They've taken my friends, my boyfriend…my sanity, my trust. There's nothing left to take!" she yelled.

The therapist nodded. "Spencer…what I think you should do is write about this all. Maybe if you write down how you feel, it'll help you feel better. It may help you deal with the truth."

She sniffled. "I don't know what's real and what's fake anymore. I thought…I thought he was betraying me, and maybe he was dead to me already, but…now there's no hope. This wasn't how things were supposed to end, Dr. Sullivan!" shouted the girl, now looking at her therapist. "Things were supposed to work themselves out. I was going to go to UPenn or Columbia or some other Ivy League and he would follow me. We'd work things out because we loved each other. He was such a big part of my dream and now…life killed my dream. I don't know how to go on anymore," she cried.

Now, Dr. Sullivan, who Spencer had come to see as more than just her therapist, tried her best to console Spencer.

Spencer just hoped that maybe, when she finally got to sleep, she would dream and he'd be there.

Don't be terribly mad at me! The next one is a bit better. And Hanna is in it :)

eveningshades1107: I think I got your gist, anyway. And I understand. I'm Mexican. No hablo ingles. Well, their daughter wasn't exactly an orphan. I mean, I guess she was, but she was already grown up, so it isn't as bad compared to if she was still like nine or ten years old. I was kind of trying to get at that in the story, but I guess that was a bit unclear.

Spobyforever259: Don't read too much into it. I don't bother with some people because they're basically unteachable. I just roll my eyes and weep for humanity. But I think more highly of you :) And I can't believe I have the power to make people cry! Like...this is weird. I don't know. Maybe it's just foreign because I can never cry when reading something. Seriously, my reading book this summer was "The Last Song" and the other girls in my group were talking about how much they were crying, even the teacher advising the group, who claimed that he can't produce tears, and I'm just like, "Um...I'm heartless."

AL3110: I bode you a begrudging "I accept your apology." And I know! I already explained this!

Okay, so tomorrow will probably be my last one-shot for about a week because, as most of you guys know, I am going on a class trip to London and I will NOT be taking my laptop out of fear of losing it in a foreign country. I could just abandon any hope of getting it back, so no thank you...I'll just leave it here, in America, under a blanket, so it can be nice and warm.

Tomorrow's one-shot (which I'm kind of excited about, since you know how much I adore her): Homewrecker by Marina and the Diamonds. Weird song? I put a twist on it. -Kayson