Do you guys sleep? Cause I can't.

I am so fucking emotional, it's not even a joke.

I hiiiiiiiighly suggest playing Devil May Cry while reading this chapter. (It's the song up above.) When I first heard it I was like omg I have to, it's perfect.

Okay, so fair warning: this is the last chapter.

*start music now* (seriously, if you don't listen to it, you're missing the whole experience)

"Faces in the crowd,
Faces in the crowd will smile again
And the Devil may cry, the Devil may cry
at the end of the night."
~ Devil May Cry, The Weeknd

*****

I don't know how I ended up on the floor, but I did. Fire. I felt fire. Licking at my insides, and burning everything in the vicinity. It was hell. I was in literal, actual hell. I felt like I was being obliterated from the inside out. I heard screams and shouts and then a face came into view. His eyes were wide as he stared at me. I could only imagine what was running through his head. He dropped down onto the ground next to me and quickly pulled my jacket open, his hand pressed against my stomach. Pain shot through me and I screamed, the loud sound ripping from me before I could stop it. Stop.

"You were shot," Niccolò said, his breaths turning heavy. He glanced over his shoulder. "Get the bags in the fucking helicopter. And you—call for fucking help!"

I could hear movement in the snow. I could see the bag of money in my peripheral vision, and then I could see someone picking it up.

No.

"She was going to shoot you, Nic," someone mumbled. I turned my head, and my eyes locked on Marino. He looked between me and his friend, his face twisted in a grimace. "She pointed it at you, she was ready to kill you—you know I had to. This was the plan. Think about it! This is what needed to be done!"

I opened my mouth, but the only sound I could make was a weak gasp. I could taste the blood in my mouth. So metallic and thick.

Marino's eyes were on me now. "I'm so sorry, Neila."

"You had your orders. I said do not kill her," Nic spat, not turning around. His eyes scanned my face.

"Better her than you, Niccoló."

Niccolò wasted no time. His hand found the gun I'd dropped and he pointed it at Marino.

Bang!

He dropped. Quiet. Dead. My ears rung. I wanted to cry. Another choked gasp left me, and I felt my eyes water. He just...oh my God.

"Don't you die," Nic growled, turning back to me. The gun forgotten. The man he just killed – his most loyal friend – forgotten. He ripped off his jacket and used it to press harder against the wound in my abdomen. Sweat and blood ran down his face as he tried to control my bleeding. "You don't get to fucking die."

I stared up at him. He looked genuinely...scared. Or, at least, worried. I didn't think I'd ever see him worry about anything involving me. But here he was, right in front me, eyebrows pulled together, lip between his teeth, trying to slow the bleeding.

It took all my strength to raise my hand, but I did, and brushed the strands of hair from his eyes. He paused, his eyes meeting mine.

My hand fell limply to my side. I was too weak to move. Too weak to speak. I could feel my life leaving me, feel the energy drain from my body as I continued to bleed out. It didn't hurt anymore. I knew that was a bad sign. I'm already gone.

"No!" He snapped, somehow seeing my resolve slip. Somehow seeing the fight left in me shatter. I was disappearing. Fading away. I don't think there is a light at the end of this tunnel. Chris was right. I was in here forever. "Just hold on. You'll be fine."

It's what they tell you right before you die, so you think everything will be okay. You'll be fine...even though there's a bullet inside you and you're bleeding out, you'll be fine.

I didn't fear death. Fuck, maybe I welcomed it.

And even though I knew I was dying, that's not what I was thinking about.

I failed.

Tears stung the back of my eyes. I used him. I tried to leave. I tried to steal from him. I fucking lost. Just like he said I would.

I was a whore.
A nobody.
I played a game with no rules and no directions, and lost.
I was the girl who died trying to have it all.

The girl who wants the most leaves with nothing.

I'd aimed a gun at the only man who...who what? Cared? Did he fucking care, or was that made up too? My heart told me he did. Looking at him now, leaning over me, hands holding my wound, he looked like he cared.

Did it really matter anymore?

I pulled the trigger.

I could have killed him.

"Come on. You have to be fine." He turned around. "Did you fucking call them?!"

"Yeah, they—"

"Shut up." Niccolo took a deep breath and looked back down at me. "Okay, Neila. Just hold on a little longer. Don't close your eyes—"

He frustratingly swiped his face, my blood smearing across his forehead.

My eyes fluttered shut. A single tear fell from my eye and rolled down my cheek. I could hear the sirens in the background, but they were faint. Too far away. They won't make it in time.

"Nic!" Someone shouted over the loud whirring of the helicopter. "Nic, we can't be here when they get here! We have to go!"

"Neila, I'm sorry. I can't..." He took my hands and pressed them against his jacket. The leather felt cold. The snow beneath me felt cold. I just felt numb. "I can't be here. You're going to be okay. Help is coming. You hear that? They're coming. You're not going to die. Don't fucking die on me."

My eyes opened again. He stood up and stared down at me. In that moment, he looked perfect. Even though there was still blood coating his hands, my blood, even though blood splattered his face....the snow fell lightly on his head, sticking to his hair. The sun outlined his figure. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. He looked perfect. Like the sad villain in a movie.

My sad villain.

I could hear the crunch of the snow as he waked away, fading and fading.

And then nothing.

I couldn't hear anything anymore, except for my heart which seemed to beat faster and faster as the seconds passed.

It was right there. Right there at my fingertips.

I had it. Power was in my hands and between my legs. He was that power, and now I had nothing.

Again.

I turned my head, my eyes straining to see past the snow that now fell, blurring my eyesight. He was in the copter. His face—his eyes, filled with an emotion I don't even think he understood—in the window of the helicopter was the last thing I saw.

I should have expected this.

It rising from the ground, leaving me dying in the snow was the last thing I saw.

I could never win.

My chance to be someone else, something else,  dissipating was the last thing I saw before everything went white.

I'd never know peace.

I was gone.

*****

There's something beautiful about blood. Something beautiful about its deep red color, its thickness, its metallic scent. There's something beautiful about the way it contrasted with my skin. I liked watching it run along my wrist, down my arm. I liked watching it mix with water after I rinsed it off.

I remember exactly how it felt.

The cold sting of a blade digging into my skin, tearing my flesh as I dragged it along. The warm liquid trailing down my arm. My heart would beat rapidly, my thoughts a jumbled mess inside my head. There'd be nothing but the comfort that first cut brings.

The second cut doesn't feel the same. You're skin's already been stained. The momental bliss came and went. But you don't stop. You try again, because maybe the next cut will be better. Or the one after that...

I've read stories. Recounts. They did it to feel something, anything, some would say. Others would say it's about control.

They're liars.

My first cut didn't make me feel anymore in or out of control. I didn't feel numb or pain or relief.

It made me lost.

That's what we all crave, isn't it?

To be lost to the world, to ourselves? To disappear, even if only for a moment?

My blood flowed just as easily as my tears.

It's what made life so much easier. I didn't have to cry. I could just self destruct and cut.

It's what made dying so much easier.

I didn't have to cry.

I could just bleed.