A/N: Same arm as El's in the above gif, only that's a left arm. Her's is her right arm.

Also, these two parts do not follow directly in line with each other. They're spaced out within the story but happen to be on hand write now because reasons

Elizabeth sat up abruptly in bed, the grainy sound of metal-on-metal still ringing in her ears. She'd had the same dream almost every single night since she escaped a year ago.

 It was always dark, in some sort of half-built underground corridor, half brick, half dirt. Cables and extension cords running across the floor and up the walls, some on the ceiling. Or the dream was in a mysterious room made the same way, the only furniture a rickety old bed and a chair, one wall missing, instead complete with rusty wrought iron bars. The air was cloudy, little particles of dirt and dust floating about, illuminated by the dim, makeshift lighting. 

 No matter what, it was always from another person's point of view. Elizabeth always saw herself as her reflection showed her, as if the events were happening on the other side of a mirror. She knew she was always a scrawny eighteen year old before Trevor found her, and after that she'd buffed out a little, grown more muscle and knowledge about fighting. But in the dark times Trev wasn't there and her only companions were scientists and rogue doctors and a mysterious man whose name was still currently unknown, Elizabeth had lost a severe amount of body weight, but no matter what she'd always kept up her training. With limited activity in her cell, she'd resort to push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups, etc. Anything to keep her mind off her hunger.  

 And that's how she saw herself in the dreams: scrawny, thin... with tangled hair hanging limply over her shoulders as the girl grasped desperately through the bars at something...

Someone, Elizabeth reminded herself, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, I'm viewing myself from a person's view... There's arms.

Of course there was. A couple nights ago, before today, she'd been propped in a tree in Central Park. She'd almost fallen out after being jerked awake from the delusional nightmare. Strange men, Trevor included, had strapped her tightly to a table again, the same grimy silver tabled they'd always tie her to. But only, in that memory, they didn't electrocute her like normal. A thin young blonde took a powered wood saw and began angrily slicing through her right shoulder, ignoring the screams and curses from the thrashing girl.

That, she reminded herself as she stood, I know for a fact was a memory and not just a hallucination like the others. Silently, like all her footsteps, she made her way around the spacious room to the bathroom, flicking on the light inside.

How did she know that it was real, not just another random thought? Another dream brought up from the horrid past? With a depressed sigh, Elizabeth stepped in front of the sink, looking from her thick, tangled bed-head on down, finally coming to rest on the reflection's right shoulder. Wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top and shorts to bed did not help in repressing the memories, for the choice of clothes showed all her scars, and most of all, her least favorite part of her body.

There was a scarred, angry pink line between skin and metal, where human met machine. When her eyes traveled down the arm, anger bubbled inside her. She wasn't all there before she met Trevor: many of her classmates called her crazy, temperamental, out of her mind, and Elizabeth completely agreed. 

But four years spent with Trevor-fucking-Philips had turned her into a monster. 

He was long dead at the hands of Elizabeth, from what her nightmares told her. He'd died one of the first few times they'd reoccurred, like a bad horror movie that was already memorized, but stuck on repeat in her brain, only allowed to play on the nights she could sleep. 

Tonight, though, it was a new scene, deleted until now. She'd been reaching for someone, something, anything to hold onto and give her comfort. Her bionic hand had hit someone else's, but the thing that threw her back to reality was that the other person's hand was metallic against her own, and the scraping sound was so unbearable, she woke. 

 Running an angry hand through her hair, Elizabeth spun on her heel and flung herself back into bed, rolling on her side to see the alarm clock only read 1:03 am. 

A/N: Hey hey! Maybe this makes the previous one a bit less confusing I hope?