The world stopped spinning.

            I swear it did.

            My stuttering mind registered him in fractured levels. He was bigger, harder; gruffer. The stubble on his face potentially relayed to me the length of his imprisonment in this place, which angered me.

            And he was bleeding. Everywhere. Bruised and bleeding.

            And I saw red.

            The shock on his face was undefinable. An endless vortex of emotions sucking him dry, leaving nothing but numb rationality that he couldn’t justify. Because I was supposed to be dead. I had a grave and everything. I’d been away for six months.

            I was supposed to be dead.

            “Ellie?” he whispered, or maybe tried to, because his mouth formed the words but no sound escaped. And, God, all I wanted to do was bury my nose in the safety and familiarity of him. To submerge in his warmth until the horror of the last six months crumbled away.

            Judging by the look on his face, I wasn’t sure how he would welcome me, and to be honest with myself, did I deserve his forgiveness?

            Probably not.

            But like the selfish jerk I was, I hoped for it. That wasn’t unusual, though. Every night I hoped for a thousand things that would never come true. Another funny characteristic of being human; the infinite capacity to hope and dream and believe even when all the odds were stacked against you.

            Amazing, really.

            “Holy shit!”

            The booming curse broke me from my reverie, drawing my attention down the corridor from which I came. The man standing with the gun in his hand looked like he’d seen a ghost. I supposed he had.

            “I thought she was dead!” he spoke again, this time to a woman that skidded to a stop beside him, an equally dumbstruck expression lining her face.

            And that was how I crashed my way back into the world.

            Awkward, clumsy, and stupid.

            Sounded just about right, too.

            A nice crowd of Prophets had gathered in the hall, all gawping at me with varying degrees of disbelief. They stood there with their guns and their knives and their tattoos, armed to the teeth in more ways than one, driven speechless by my simple appearance.

            “Hiya,” I greeted, sparing a tiny wave, not exactly sure what I was supposed to do. Looking at August sure as hell wasn’t an option; not with the deadened look in his eyes. My stomach wasn’t up for that.

            So, murderous Prophets it was.

            And, boy, when they all charged me, it was like some sort of divine purpose ignited their hearts. I’d never seen people run so fast.

            “Go,” I said to August. “I can handle this.”

            He nodded, still numb, and hobbled off. I didn’t see his car anywhere near the headquarters so I wasn’t sure where he parked it, but that was an issue for another time. Right now, the Prophets.

            And they looked pissed.

            Still considerably weak from my mother’s heinous “training” sessions, I knew I would have to deal with this as quickly as possible or risk being left depleted of strength and energy. While Lucille had worked me enough that my body accustomed itself to expending large amounts of my ability, it still didn’t favor the unnatural talent, and once in a while I found myself coughing up a little blood. But nothing life-threatening. Not anymore, at least.

            A headache throbbed behind my eyes as I caused the entire front row of charging Prophets to freeze in their tracks, causing the rest of them to stumble into their backs and fall all over themselves. That was the best escape I could think of, and so darted after Augie to try and catch up, holding on to the freeze of the Prophets for as long as I could. The moment I hit the ground, though, I lost it, and I felt the slip of control, but saw headlights blaring up ahead. Seeing August’s corvette nearly reduced me to tears, I’d missed it so much. Never thought I would miss a car, either, but there you go.

            The sounds of the Prophets clambered behind me, so I dove into the passenger seat and August high-tailed it away from the headquarters. My heart pounded, beating a heavy rhythm against my ribs that resonated through my skull. August said nothing, probably preoccupied with staying conscious through his blood loss, and so I gazed quietly out the window. What was I supposed to say, anyway? “Hey, August, sorry for pretending to be dead, but it was best for everybody that way!”

            How could I say that when it wasn’t even true?

            I’d fallen for my mother’s game, and she didn’t even love me. Maybe once upon a time she’d felt some measure of affection, but however little, it was long ago extinguished. Life beat her down and reality drained her heart. She was a tyrannical robot, now.

            And I was a fool not to see it sooner.

            “Do you want me to drive?” I asked, remembering Lucille’s mandatory lessons.

            “So, what, you can drive now?” he snapped, voice dripping with acid. The sound hurt my heart so severely the breath whooshed out of my lungs, and I had to dip my head to regain control. If August noticed he didn’t say so, continuing to drive with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around his torso to stem some blood flow. His jaw was tight, eyes hard, and everything about him warned me to keep my mouth shut.

            Not the reunion I had in mind. Of course, I hadn’t exactly planned it out, and before a couple days ago I didn’t think we would ever meet again.   

            Basically, I’d messed up. Even after six months I still overestimated my capability for human understanding.  I should have known better. Something inside me was damaged long ago, irreparably, and nothing would fix it. I would always be lagging just a little bit behind everybody else.

            “Are we going back to see Jessica and Blake?” I asked after a generous amount of time.

            “No,” he said.

            “Oh.” I scratched at the fabric of my jeans stretched over my knee, fraying, smeared with blood and dirt. Lovely. “Then where—”

            “You’ll see when we get there, I guess,” he snipped, effectively silencing me. I snapped my lips shut and bowed my head in compliance. So much for being happy to see each other.

            Six months have passed, Ellie. He’s probably still in shock. Not to mention you should be dead right now. Of course he’s pissed. Wouldn’t you be? If the person you love doesn’t contact you, doesn’t tell you that, hey, they’re alive, doesn’t that warrant some anger?

            It did. It totally did, and he was completely entitled, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

            August drove into a copse of trees, cutting the engine and stuffing the keys in his pockets. Wincing, he shoved open the door and tumbled out. “Come on,” he grumbled. I followed, obediently scrambling off the seat and dogging him into the dark woods. I nearly asked where we were until we passed the rock. And then I knew.

            Passed the rock. That’s when you’ll know.

            Six months ago, standing by his car, saying our goodbyes.

            This is the place you were supposed to be.

            Holding onto him, praying to anybody who would listen that I wouldn’t lose him; that I wouldn’t have to let him go.

            And then you had to go and pretend to die.

            I stumbled over an evasive root, envious of August’s effortless meandering through the underbrush even as heavily wounded as he was. No words were exchanged. There was only the sound of the rustling leaves and our feet dragging through the dirt, and unseen animals skittering across branches. The entire way I tried to think of better ways I could have re-introduced myself into his life, and figured I was doomed to fail whatever I attempted. That was just the way things went.

            The house peeked above the trees, nothing big or outstanding like the safe houses had been, but modest and homey-looking. Like a family should live within its boundaries.

            August limped up the steps and shouldered through the door, not even needing a key. Inside the house was cold and dark and musty. Thick layers of dust probably covered every furniture surface. He searched for a light, cursing softly to himself when nothing flicked on.

            The door shut behind us, leaving us alone, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

            “August,” I tried, desperate just to get him to look at me.

            But he didn’t.

            And he didn’t say anything, either.

            Just grabbed the railing with white knuckles and began heaving himself up the stairs. I stood in my baffled state for a few beats, long enough for him to reach the top level, until I bounded after him.

            “August.”

            He threw open a door with superfluous force, banging against the wall so hard I flinched. It was a bedroom he entered, simple, with a bed and a dresser and a lonely chair set off to the side. Like the rest of the house, this room was without light.

            I sighed, stomach churning in discomfort. “August, please.”

            August whirled on me, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed and furious. I braced myself for his hostile reaction, but it never came. Instead he teetered on his feet, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. His knees buckled, and then he passed out.

            For a moment I just stared at him. After gathering my wits about me, I quickly moved to his side and hauled him into the bed, nearly dropping him again. Once situated, I perched on the edge of the mattress and looked down at him.

            Definitely out-cold, probably from blood loss. He would need some stitches, and I would have to evaluate his injuries as fast as possible to avoid an unwanted trip to the hospital.

            Time to play nurse again.

            Switching on the water in the kitchen proved a harrowing task. There was no telling how long it had been since this place was used. After a while of the pipes spluttering and shaking, water finally spit through the spout. I waited for it to warm, and then found a bowl in the cabinets and filled it up. I grabbed a cloth from a drawer beneath the sink and located meager first-aid supplies, and returned to August. He lay on the bed, still out-cold, breathing evenly. Thank goodness. I was in no mood to try my hand at CPR.

            His injuries called to my attention, but for a minute, I just wanted to look at him. At his handsome face, now rugged with the thick stubble over his chin and cheeks. There wasn’t any light to catch the golden flecks in his auburn hair, but I knew them. Could imagine how they looked, highlighting his astounding blue eyes, framing his face like a halo.

            I knew it. I knew all of him, to the deepest corner of my soul.

            Or, at least, I thought I did. Six months was a lot of time to change; a lot of time to die a little or live a little or decide to never be the same again. Maybe the part of us changed was too dark to discover. Too dark to need.

            Too dark to love.

            I kissed his cheek, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to him, only allowing myself a couple more seconds before regaining control and going about patching him up.

            Steeling myself was a process all too familiar. Lucille required it, for most things. Especially my training. “You can’t be thinking when you’re killing people,” she said once. “Turn off your damned head and go.”

            So I did. I did for six months. And for six months, I was her little soldier.

            Not anymore.

            Not anymore.

            If there was one thing I learned, it was that I was done being manipulated. Done trusting. Done with all of that.

            Tia and her traitorous soul rest in peace, she was the one that taught me such in the first place.

            Trust nobody but yourself, and yourself is all you need.

            I cut away August’s shirt, casting away the tattered remnants, throat tightening at his bruised ribs. How could that be, though? Thinking back all those months, with August and Jessica and Blake and Ryan, how could I never need anybody?

            We were people. People were meant to need people.

            But you’re not human. Not really.

            “Stop,” I chastised myself. “Stop it.”

            So I expunged those thoughts from my head and wet the ragged cloth, wiping away the blood and grime with careful strokes. The necklace I bestowed to him twisted around his neck, lying limp against the pillow, and for a few beats I just stared at it. A plethora of things flashed through my head. Mostly just a bunch of what ifs.

            What if he stayed?

            What if Ryan never died?

            What if you were normal?

            What ifs were poison. Addictive poison, because they always crept up on you and settled in your bloodstream and infested your brain.

            August’s body was in horrible condition. Judging by the bruising over his chest, he probably had a couple broken ribs. His wrists were bleeding from a prolonged time of being tied up. One of his hands had a hole clean through it.

            And then there was his leg.

            How he walked even three feet, I would never know. Gathering a needle and thread, I poured anti-septic over the wound, thankful for his unconscious state. This would have hurt like the dickens.

            The gash stretched from the middle of the side of his calf, all the way up to his thigh. It would heal, but there would be a nasty scary, and he would have to stay off of it for a few days. Judging by his current state, I would say the amount of sleep he needed to catch up on would take care of that. August was born to be a soldier, though. I couldn’t forget that. His whole life was training to endure even the worst torture.

            The thought pulled a tear from my eye, dripping down my cheek, splattering against my blood-slicked hands.

            It took ten minutes to stitch his leg. By the end my usually steady hands trembled, and I was thankful to knot the final portion and tear it off with my teeth. The sheets would need to be changed, but that was another dilemma. I had to care for the rest of him, first.

            Some ice on his ribs and a couple more stitches to his side later, and I was downstairs ringing the bloody cloth out in the kitchen. Probably unsalvageable, but it seemed to be the only one, and I might need it again. Afterward, with nothing else to do, I meandered through the house, tidying up, sweeping, dusting. In the basement were a couple boxes of candles, so I grabbed them and placed them strategically through the house, mostly in the kitchen, and one on the table by August’s bed.

            Around dinnertime I tried waking August, but he didn’t even stir, so I found some canned soup stocked up in the cabinets and ate by myself at the meager kitchen table. August would probably need constant watch to be safe, so I blew out the candles on the main floor before travelling upstairs with pillows and an afghan from the couch in the living room in my hands. Changing the sheets around August wasn’t easy, but I more or less completed the job with some success. Before turning in, I did the necessary rounds, making sure everything with him was okay and stable before curling up on the floor next to the bed. From so low I could barely see him, but hearing his breathing was enough, and the pain that shot through me burned extra hot because of the truth that accompanied it.

            August and me could not pursue a relationship.

            If our friendship even survived, any further steps would be unattainable. Simply too much had occurred. Six months was half a year. Too many days to count without cringing. A long time to play dead.

            And I had done it to August. The one person I never wanted to hurt.

            Lucille taught me to be cold and rational. While I wasn’t the quickest person or the most sociable or the most relatable, I did possess empathy. Enough to guide me through situations I didn’t understand because of my stale environment as a child. Lucille, to a point, reversed most of that.

            Yes, there were a lot of things about people I still couldn’t comprehend, and a lot of references I didn’t understand, but I was getting better. Better, until Lucille wanted to make me a machine.

            A mindless killing machine.

            It wouldn’t seem like such monumental differences could take place during six months, but this was the situation that presented itself.

            Months ago, August shot down every defense inside of me, and I gave myself and him permission to go as far as we could, surpassing every boundary and barrier that threatened to stop us.

            We made love in the wake of our grief and fear; fear that everything was changing and we couldn’t do anything about it.

            And we were right. We were right.

            We said goodbye with the knowledge that fear was real; that fear was impermeable.

            We were to meet again with the hope that we were stronger than our fear.

            But we misunderstood the thing we were scared of.

            Not Angel. Not the Prophets. Not the end of the world.

            Our fear was change. It was brokenness and loss and the vacant hole in your heart that can’t be filled when someone you love dies. It was the insanity and chaos thrust inward when you knew you were the only one who could stop the inevitable crumbling of the world, and yet habitually caused that crumbling. It was the unknown. It was the future.

            It was evil.

            The inordinately irreparable wound that starts as a scratch and grows to swallow everything that you are. Fear was the thing you looked at every morning in the mirror.

            Because real fear wasn’t invested in external threats.

             Our fear then, I supposed, wasn’t even really fear.

            It was hate.

            Guilt.

            And the worst, indifference.

            How could I love August—or anybody, for that matter—when I myself was beyond rational affection? When I looked in the mirror and despised what I saw?

            The answer was simple, and it took nineteen years to realize it.

             Quite simply, I was meant to be alone. Isolated. Forgotten.

            And not just for six months.

            For forever.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two days later, in the middle of the night, August woke up screaming.

            The ear-piercing sound scared the living daylights out of me, and had I not been sleeping on the floor, I would have surely tumbled from a bed.

            Shoving the heels of my palms into my eyes, I forced awareness into my bleary brain. Taking care of August forced