I don't have scars, don't need them. I know where my skin divots, where it burns from the cuts started because I couldn't go on living knowing that I didn't save them.

Save him.

The dark is a comfort, the cold a blanket that soothes rather than threatens. My hands still shake, and with every tremor I can feel my nerves go numb from the pain. I don't like the numbness – the not feeling. I haven't felt anything for so long, and this is all I have. He...he took it away. My feelings. My thoughts. I have few left to fill the silence than I now float in, and though it's making me drift closer to the reaper in the corner, it's also relieving me of the thing they want. That's why he screams, why he whispers. He wants what I now cannot remember.

The little things.

The voices. I can't hear them anymore. No more than a faraway whisper being carried and drained in the wind. I was taught to outlive this, to survive and fight with every fiber of life left within me, but I can't. Not against him. Against the thing that rots his soul and drains life from my body - that has my cheeks hollowing just as much as my mind.

He came, he left. I screamed, and cried, and laughed, all to be taken when those red eyes turned pitiless. Then the other felt my skin, the place where those two scars once were.

One of them was his. The one he marked me with to claim his property – his kill. I thought it was the most beautiful thing when my blood oozed from the tip of his dagger, the same dagger I used to mark him myself. It was our blood, bonding and weaving so that we'd always have a piece of the other's love within ourselves. It was beautiful, until it wasn't. Until his blood flowed in another's, and I saw nothing but the same red that the other's eyes hold.

He was there, and then he wasn't. Taken by a thing he didn't choose.

He made new scars, deeper than that of my skin, of my muscles and bone. Scars that still mar my skin, though it's pristine in appearance. The skin of my soul is shattered like that of a mirror, and every finger I run over it comes back cut from the edges. They've broken me. Crumbled me into a million pieces and now search for which piece will reveal what they already know. They want what they know, and yet they still are unaware of it.

Perhaps that's why I'm here. To mock them.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm being tossed from one God's hand to another. Sometimes it feels like falling, others like flying. Still, my body is limp and beaten, and I can do nothing but scream and cry and lay here on my side. It's hard to stay here, to still cling to life when death feels more welcoming with every passing minute. But there's a reason why I'm here, why my hands shake and my body twitches at the shocks that prick me like thorns.

I still can barely understand what the voices are saying, but he always says the same thing.

"You cannot withstand the storm I am going to impart on you."

Most times I almost believe him. The pain, the loss, the falling, and the fading reminders, it seems so tempting to let him win. To wave a white flag and stop fighting. Sometimes I don't remember why I'm fighting, and forgetting is getting easier and easier with every silent break in between the screams. It'd be so easy to give in, but I always find myself saying the same thing over again, whether it be in my head or out loud in a worn voice.

"I am the storm."