Everyone is dead.

Even me.

I'm alive. There's breath in my lungs, movement in my chest. But I'm only a vessel for devastation, and it's waiting to swallow me whole.

And I want it. I need it. I can't carry on like this.

How can I even want to live, knowing I've killed the people closest to me?

They understood, I remind myself as the world's revolutions catch up to me and I'm sent spiraling towards the ground, only to brace myself by planting both hands on the polished tiled floor. My arms are trembling, and I doubt it's only with the effort of supporting my desolate frame.

They knew what they were getting into. They asked for it. They... They asked me.

But that's an excuse and I know it.

My friends are still dead, and I'm the one who pulled the plug.

I wait a moment, try to blink away the haze distorting my vision, then push up, attempting to get back on my feet. Everything protests. Not a single cell in my body wants me to stand, to get up, to move on.

I should stay. Stay here, wither away, pretend I'm more than capable of facing the empty, endless abyss I escorted them to. Stay, and hope I'm dead before the insanity whispering through my thoughts overtakes me completely.

If I was brave...

If I was brave, I wouldn't be having these thoughts. I'd pick myself up, lock away my insecurities, and fight on to live another day. They'd want that. They'd ask for me to remain here, on this all-too human plane, and just live.

...Right?

I'm standing - swaying a great deal, feeling nauseous and paper-thin, but standing.

Everything around me is in a complete disarray; papers strewn about with haphazard precision, torn to jagged little pieces, or adhered to the walls with thick, crimson liquid; vibrantly colored wires have escaped their confines in the ceiling and dangle rebelliously above me, hissing luminescent sparks that glitter for but a moment before passing into obscurity. Heavyset metal drawers are toppled onto their sides, their precious innards spilling out over the defiled floors, like warriors unable to withstand Death's constant calling.

Death thrives here.

He haunts every shadowed corner, every ounce of silence that fell on ears long deaf to his murmurings.

He wants to claim me, for me to offer myself as his latest - and finest - captive. I'm sure my eternal cage would be quite extravagant; I've delivered so many souls into his skeletal hands that I've probably earned something glamorous with my Frequent Killer Card.

"Fi... that was lame. Extra lame, too, since I'm sure you thought it was hilarious. Am I right?"

Well beyond desperate, my entire body whips around, my eyes darting about the room, searching the murky darkness just outside the open door. Just a trace, that's all I want. An afterimage, even, if that's what the last of my good fortune will get me.

I want to see his smile again.

"Idiot, pointing it out to her won't do anything. She's... glemsom?"

"And you insulting her will not accomplish anything either. Let her realize her own faults, slowly."

"Fi. You're not funny."

"Hal!"

Oh.

They're in my head, aren't they?

They would have to be, as my powers don't extend to hearing whispers from the great beyond, as Alyona would call it. Afterlife or oblivion - they were much too gloomy for Alyona. The great beyond was mysterious, a place meant to be explored when one's time was up and they finalized their plans to travel there.

It's not a depressing final destination, not really. It can't be.

"She's sad again. Why're you always so sad, Fi?"

"Probably because she has a bastard like you always hounding her."

"Honestly, Finn, you think you are much better?"

"I'm better company than this ass, yeah."

"You're both asses."

"Mon Dieu, Hal, shouldn't you watch your language?"

"You're not supposed to say the Lord's name in vain."

"Dammit, Hal!"

A bubbling laugh touches my lips, then falls, heavy as a choking sob. I slowly sink to the ground again, careful not to let my fingers trail among the crimson patches that border me every which way. I've enough blood on my hands already, after all.

This is too much. Too much, too soon, too late. There's no comfort in this phantom conversation, when I can't feel the warmth of their breaths filling the room, against my skin, when there's no hand to find mine as the darkness gradually descends, swallowing the bleeding sunlight dripping down the walls.

I'm all alone with only Death as my constant companion. And I deserve it. I brought this on myself. I could have refused, told them it was impossible, that I wasn't capable of bringing myself to commit such atrocious acts. But I was weak. I bent to their will, and I killed them all.

No, no wait. Not everyone. Not every death should be added to my list of sins.

Not everything was my fault.

"Fi..."

Stop.

"C'mon, Fi, brighten up!"

Stop this. Please.

"We're waiting for you, idiot."

Stop. I don't want this.

"Fiorella, do not listen to these brutes. Take your time, little one."

Do I? Am I lying to myself?

"Um, Fi... We miss you. Don't you miss us?"

More than words can say, Val.

"Hurry up. It's boring without you."

Hal...

What would they want from me? I thought I understood them, I thought I knew that they'd want me to live, to preserve their memory, to make sure this never happened again. But is that really it? Why should I survive, why should I choose to keep breathing, when none of them were given the same choice?

"Ha, even when you're not here, you're giving me headaches," I mumble, tucking my legs into my chest, turning my cheek against my knees. My eyes flutter closed, though now there isn't much difference between the inky blackness cradling me and the shadows dancing under my eyelids. "Don't all talk at once... you know that annoys me..."

I can hear them laughing. Some too loud, others too soft. Then there's Hal, forgetting himself for a moment and releasing a low-toned chuckle, which he's quick to excuse as a throaty cough, ignoring how Bastian grins triumphantly at him, looking as though he's just climbed Everest in a day.

I miss them.

It hurts, not seeing them, living through these echoes alone.

Are you guys really waiting for me?

"Of course, Fiorella. We are waiting, always, because without you we are not whole."

"...What she said."

"Something like that. I'd trade Bastian for you, anyhow."

"Finn... that doesn't mean anything, mon ami."

"Valerie! You're making it sound like he hates me!"

"Is she wrong?"

"...Finn?"

"...Idiots. Just shut up until Fi gets here."

So that's how it is.

Even if these are just my mad imaginings, I almost need them to be true, somehow. I need them. With my body, with my history, I won't live until the average seventy-eight-point-seven years - I'd be lucky if I make it into my forties. It wouldn't be so terrible to end things here. It'd drastically shorten my waiting time, as well.

Even now, I can't smile. The most I can manage is a less-depressed frown, something that leaves my lips flat-lined instead of arced. They've stopped their trembling; since when, I'm not sure, but most likely sometime after the voices began.

Is the fall from sanity gradual? Or can it happen all at once, like a dam giving way and allowing the violent waters to overrun the fragile scenery it had been protecting?

Grief sped up the process, however long it was originally. I know that. And it's grief that's influencing my spinning thoughts now. Grief, that's leading me to make some very morbid decisions.

But that doesn't matter. Not now, not with everything that's happened. Grief is as familiar to me now as breathing. It's lost its meaning, but its sharpened over time, pricking at my heart, my mind, every day, every hour, every second, digging deeper with each dying moment.

I've been influenced by grief for months. Succumbing to it now won't make any difference.

"Fi?"

"Give her a moment, Bastian. She is thinking."

"What's there to think about it? It's us, or solitude. And we all know Fi's never liked to be on her own."

"Ah, I think we're making it difficult for her to think properly... Should we go?"

"She's done."

"What?"

"She's done."

"...Fiorella...?"

"Yeah, I'm done."

My voice cracks twice, then dies in my throat, suffocated by my pounding heart. Hal always knew me best. He knew everyone best. More than Finn, which we could never quite understand. It's fitting he'd be the one to call me out just then.

"I'm done," I repeat, my fingers - steady and firm - just barely brushing my temple. I can feel the neurons reacting to the light touch, buzzing like expectant dogs. They'll fall quiet soon enough. "I want a hug for once, as soon as you all see me... No chickening out, Hal..."