the metaphor — perdita v. gemstone lurker, day five

"I'm not doing this again."

She's talking to herself now, knees on the ground and a hand to her chest. She watched her arrows go soaring over their target, felt the claws digging into her skin. And it's familiar. All of it. But she looks to the side, and there's no one smiling at her.

He's not there.

She closes her eyes, slides her fingers through the blood and feels the heat wash over her body. It's like a fire inside of her, burning its way to the outside. She doesn't know why it would want to be here. She looks at the creature, and grits her teeth.

It feels hopeless, but she still rises to her feet. She doesn't reach for another weapon, doesn't try to pretend like her arm is going to stop shaking. A tear slides down her cheek, every movement is like a fresh wave of pain. But she still loads another bolt.

"I don't have anything for you."

She opens her bag with her free hand, rips out her morning star and throws it at the beast. The sun is gone, and nothing is shining. "Is that what you want? Then take it." It doesn't move. It doesn't understand. She narrows her eyes, squeezes the trigger.

"Just leave me alone."

This is solitude.

Another arrow misses its target, another set of claws across her skin.

She screams in frustration, throwing the crossbow to the ground. Her hand is throbbing, the bones are crying out in pain, and she's losing this battle. She refuses to admit to it. "Okay," she says to herself, as she has always said.

It'll be okay.

I'm okay.

We're okay.

Okay?

But she's not, and they're not, and nothing is. She takes a knife from her bag, closing her eyes and exhaling. It doesn't do anything, nothing changes, but she opens them back up and rolls her shoulders. "Rip out my throat."

Emmett appears in her mind, a red wave blocks out the sun. He's laughing, holding a stuffed lion, and then he's choking on blood. She almost snarls, moving closer. "You wanna kill me? Try harder." She's terrified. Her grip is sweaty.

"I'm not afraid of you."

She's always been a good liar.

Her blade cuts through hard flesh.

The claws miss her skin.

She smirks.

"Hurts, right?" It feels childish, talking to this creature like it can understand her. Gloating. But her chest is still burning, and her eyes are still stinging, and there's something so human about wanting someone else to hurt with you. Something.

Another knife is in her hands, her gaze still locked on the enemy. She moves a few steps back, hears the kitten mew from the bag bouncing against her thigh. "Give me a minute," she scolds the little beast. It's easier to believe this will be over in a moment.

That she'll stop hurting.

But it still has claws, and teeth, and she still has skin to be torn. "I'm going to feed you to this cat," she growls at the monster, pulling her arm back. The kitten makes a cry that sounds almost approving. She has to laugh, even with fear in her eyes.

Niko's gone.

There are no stories to be told.

Nothing gentle is left in this place.

The blade leaves her grasp, and all of her sharpness goes with it.

She jerks back, pressing a hand to her cheek.

"Fuck," she hisses, wind rushing across her face. And it burns, and she's furious, and the creature doesn't understand. Maybe she doesn't, either. There is nothing else to say. She has always been the silent one. She can't take Niko's place.

There's a knife in her hand, blood drying on her skin. It's not raining anymore. But the ground is still damp, and the mist still lingers. She blinks, and she sees memories flashing in the darkness. A boy screaming. An arm sinking in the floodwater.

The colour red.

So much red.

It's all she can see when she throws the blade.

She ducks to the side, digging her heels into the mud.

Nothing exists except this moment. This moment, and the mist, and the blood on her skin. She takes another knife in her hand, looking down at the creature and the blades sticking out of its torn flesh. "You could run away," she says to it quietly, a thought forcing its way to the surface.

'I could run away.' She could have, and she has, and perhaps she always will; but for now she pulls her arm back, staring at this dying beast and wondering if there's a metaphor to be found in the carnage. It moves closer, and she moves back. She refuses to stop fighting. It refuses to hide its claws.

She can no longer run, but she can still be cruel.

The dagger goes flying.

The moment is frozen.

Steel in the air, claws running over old wounds. It doesn't understand, and neither does she, and they're killing each other. They're trying to get away, with nothing but their teeth and their rage to close the distance. It's not working.

And then she hears him. His voice. Her eyes go wide, the blade in her hand nearly slips from her grasp. It's only a scream, but she would know it anywhere. The kitten starts mewing, and she regains focus in the most horrible way.

Suddenly she's not a girl trying to survive on her own.

Facing down a beast and trying to hold herself together.

She's broken, shattered by the truth of her actions. He wasn't dead when she left him, he didn't die in the flood, he's still out there and he's afraid and he's crying and she... she doesn't run to him. She doesn't leap over the beast and charge into the unknown.

Not yet.

"Get out of my way."

She is not smiling, not cracking jokes.

She is not trying to take his place.

She doesn't have to, not now.

"Last chance. No more warnings."