A/N: Greetings! This is a fic derived from my frustrations of Loki not being held accountable for many of his crimes in various forms of fanfics. I love Loki to death and I think he's a great and amazing character to build on BUT because of all he encompasses- the possibility of redemption. And the only way that is possible is to see how much harm and pain he has caused his victims that are (ahem) sometimes glossed over. So that coupled with extreme procrastination and me literally having no life made... this thing. Hopefully you enjoy!

"What will survive of us is love."

-Phillip Larkin

I wander. That is all I really can do.

Here in the blank walls there is stillness. But not peace. Everything inside of me rages and storms. A fury I cannot contain.

I wander the bleached-out halls of the hospital. Everywhere the nurses titter and doctors rush quickly from room to room, all in a display of organized chaos. In a place full of the reek of death, the nurses and doctors add a sense of comprehension to it all with their tittering chatter, clipboards, and smelly disenfectant.

I wander to room 101 where my mother kneels at my bed, clutching the sheets where my body lies.

The steady beeping is the only sound in the room. Even my mother's sobs are silent. She never made any noise when she cried. Or laughed, for that matter.

The question of what could have been confounds me. If I had just opened that door one second later, imagine the possibilites. I could have made it, I could have ran like everyone else did around me as I fell to the concrete ground.

(And I would not be here now, to haunt you.)

I walk out of the hospital. Away of my catatonic, brain dead body and grieving mother. I cannot stay here I cannot can't can't can't.

I want to Float Up Into The Stars and disappear into them and stay warm forever.

But the clunky, noisy machine beats my heart for me and breathes for me and chains me here.

Exhale and inhale and exhale and inhale. My heart beats on and curses me. I am Ghost-Girl.

I return to where he is. I close my eyes and when I open them I am in a different world I did not know existed when I lived. Just like that. As easy as not breathing.

I did not know there where other worlds until I died. But I am a walking contraindication for What Can Be Possible and What Cannot Be Possible. Ghosts and aliens do not exist right? And yet here I am, and there he is.

He sits there reading a book.

Inside his prison cell my rage fills up to the very ceiling it surprises me he does not burst into flames.

(I curse you a million times. It is because of you my mother cries because of you I stand here invisible and you sit there and turn a page without a care in the universe-)

I hate him.

I was in New York a year ago during the alien invasion. I was walking out of the library when suddenly I saw a flash of light shooting from a metallic monster in front of me and that was it. All over, stupidly quick.

Here, the flourescent lights shine and light up the cell the entire time. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. No sense of time of day or passage of time except the changing shifts of the guards stationed around the door. It makes my skin itch. It makes him pace.

I sit here watching him more than I sit watching my mother.

He paces around the length of the cell. After what seems like hours, he slams his back against the wall and slides down to sit. His long legs stretch out in front of him and his back leans against the wall. And his face- hollow eyes. He stares catatonic at the wall and I think I spy myself in his reflection.

(I do haunt you, even if you do not know it.)

He is painful to look at, and despite what I thought I would feel, it is not joy.

I want him to see me. I want him to feel the scorch of my stare and then, maybe I will finally be at peace.

(You ruined everything of me and you do not even know my name. You do not even know my face.)

I stand in front of him, wave my arms and jump. I try to slap that hollow stare out of his face and shock him into finally looking at me but my hand goes right through his sunken face.

I stand and holler hateful words but he does not react.

"Your father hates you." Nothing. "You are disgusting, reviled everywhere, especially by me." Nothing.

I mimic what I've heard before.

"Your birthright was to die." Nothing. "Everywhere you go,there is war, ruin, and death." Nothing. "You were cast out unto a frozen rock." Nothing.

"Nobody wants you." A twitch of the eyebrow.

I think he hears me sometimes. His face hurts something deep inside my chest, heart pounding against all of the pain and rage I was not born to feel.

When I get tired of hollering obscenities, I collapse on the floor, and god, I'm exhausted. I want to go home, I sob, over and over and over and over...

I miss you Mommy.

I hug myself on the ground in front of him and cry until my seams come apart and the room fills up with salty water. We're floating in the middle of a stormy ocean and he doesn't even realize.

These waves of grief are crashing over the both of us and I dimly see a single tear spill down his dead, hollow face.

I think I imagine it.

His eyes look up right into mine and for a heart wrenching, painful moment, I think he sees me. But I know he doesn't because I move to the side and his eyes don't follow me. I'm still weeping out this storm that engulfs both of us and I float suspended in front of him.

Your eyes look into mine but do not see.

His tear enrages me. Monsters are not allowed to cry. Sacred acts like weeping are reserved for lost girls and grieving mothers. Dead children and murdered fathers.

(Not for you.)

I found out his name when I found out the chances of me waking up from my coma was seven percent out of a hundred.

I left behind the hospital and the sullen doctor and my sobbing mother and ran out unto the streets of New York. I ran through people working on clearing out the rubble. I ran through fallen buildings and I avoided the library where my blood still marred the cobblestones. I ran and ran until I found it.

A wall. A wall of rubble. Millions of papers and pictures with names scribbled on them taped on the surface. The wall extended down the length of the street, the crumbling stone surprisingly staying upright, fulfilling the heavy obligation of holding the faces of ones most likely buried underneath the rubble. I could feel the words on the pictures and papers shrieking the same indecipherable song.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

So many people, so many lives. But one paper caught my eye. A newspaper picture torn down the middle by the wind, almost lost in the clutter of photographs of people who were loved somewhere, who meant something to someone.

The picture contained a hazy photograph of Stark Tower, half destroyed. The edge of the clippings contained a greenish blur slightly recognizable as the Hulk. The one that caused quite a buzz in Harlem almost two years ago.

The other edge of the picture contained a tall figure. Dark hair and a pallor that bordered on unsettling. Crazed eyes. Arms raised in a position of defense. Angry. Psychotic. Terrifying.

Nearly unrecognizable with the calm, cool, and collected prisoner tucked away deep inside the cells of Asgard.

The headline read: ALIEN ATTACK ON NEW YORK: RUMORED "LOKI" RESPONSIBLE FOR DESTRUCTION-

The rest was cut off.

Loki.

A soft and almost musical surprise of a name. Not at all what I expected.

To be continued.

A/N: Let me know what you think! I am planning on making this a multiple layered fic with much more to come. Eh he he he he