"Rationalization is a cover-up, a process of providing one's emotions with a false identity, of giving them spurious explanations and justifications - in order to hide one's motives, not just from others, but primarily from oneself. The price of rationalizing is the hampering, the distortion, and, ultimately, the destruction of one's cognitive faculty. Rationalization is a process not of perceiving reality, but of attempting to make reality fit one's emotions."

Ayn Rand

It was raining.

The soft sound of water pelting the wooden deck, pattering against window panes and dripping down the flora and fauna of the west coast, the world cast in that odd glow only cloud cover seemed to make. There wasn't a ray of sun to be seen.

I slid out of my bed, dragging the plush comforter with me. The opening of the sliding door welcomed in the clean, crisp scent of rain, and what was once a quiet murmur shifted into sharp focus - a wind chime fluttered a song with each raindrop, the empty fire pit ringing in a soft drone like a steel drum.

I spun in a circle, fully cocooning myself in downy softness before nesting just inside the open door. I sucked in a clean breath. Just a slight chill in my lungs, invigorating yet soothing. It wasn't sitting on the beach, but this was just as welcome.

This back and forth was so exhausting. Being fine and then suddenly… not. Dragging me back and forth to the far end of every spectrum of emotion before being slingshot back into agnostic apathy. Nothing mattered until suddenly absolutely everything did.

I did my best not to think. About anything. It was all too confusing and I didn't feel like ruining what was otherwise a beautiful morning by thinking about stuff. My brain had suffered more than enough punishment and my body was still drained from the night before.

The rain eroded the pain with a soft, steady consistency. I took in a deep breath and let it out. I snuggled deeper into my cocoon, lazily tracking the drops between blinks timed with the rhythm of the rain.

The rain continued on to the next day. Not quite so soft and delicate anymore - it pounded the roof like an overly enthusiastic drumline. Lightning illuminated the massive wall of windows every few minutes, followed by rolls of thunder echoing in the sky.

Definitely a day to spend inside.

I finally changed clothes, not having bothered with the effort the other day since I'd just stayed in my room. Soffe shorts revealed my battered and bruised legs - the distinctly foot shaped bruise on my thigh from Hinami's flailing feet was still a shade of blue, but it had lightened considerably, no longer the pitch black it had been. A hoodie (that may or may not have belonged to Hide and now belonged to me) still covered my bite despite the overly large size. It hid the shorts completely, but it wasn't as if I was about to go out in public. Not that it would have stopped me, but I digress.

It was the most comfortable thing I could ever imagine, and the subtle scent of my friend back home was like a giant emotional band aid.

I cracked open the bedroom door to peer out into the hallway beyond. You could only go so long without food, and despite my consistent lack of an appetite I knew I needed to eat. If only an avocado - I was in California, I could eat as many avocados as I wanted, and I also didn't have to pay for them. Put them on some bread and it's like I'd never died in the first place! Back to the good ol' white girl basics. Take advantage of that sweet, sweet avocado bounty before I head back home.

I could hear the quiet murmur of music from one of the other rooms, but no other signs of life that might be an obstacle on my path to the kitchen.

Except for a book just in the doorway.

It was a large, squarish notebook. There wasn't anything particularly unique about it, a black cover, the pages bound with a spiral wire. A fountain pen rested within the spiral confines by the clip, a royal blue and gold stark against the black. On the cover was a bright orange sticky note. After staring for what felt like an inappropriate amount of time without comprehending the scribble in pen, I squatted down and plucked the note from the cover, squinting.

It looked like a doctor's prescription note. But it wasn't Elliott's writing, and there was only one person besides myself in the house, so who left it at my doorstep didn't exactly require any Sherlock Holmes deductions.

I picked up the notebook itself. I wasn't enough of an artist to know if it was quality or not - but the pages were thick against my fingers, the pen a nice weight. I popped the cap open to see the decorated metal nib, giving a blank page an experimental swirl. The ink looked black, but as I pushed a little harder, flaring the tip to widen the stroke, the ink glittered a dark navy blue.

I wrapped the cover back around absentmindedly. It was beautiful. I automatically knew that it wasn't from Elliott in some sort of attempt at reconciliation. Even if the note on the cover hadn't been clear, the gift itself was clue enough. He would have gotten me jewelry, or clothes. Maybe a gift card. This sort of thing just wasn't something he would think of.

Which left one option left.

I followed the sound of music down the hall to the nondescript door at the end. I knocked on the wood, and opened it a crack when Sandra's raspy voice beckoned me inside.

The room was large, made to feel even larger with massive windows popped open on each side. The walls were a stark white but the whole room was filled with vibrant color - canvases littered the floor, hung up on the walls, even hung from the ceiling on chains. The floor was covered with a paint stained tarp, held down by buckets and tubes of paint of all colors and types, the whole room a chaotic mess of colors. And there, in the center of the mess, perched on a stool before a massive canvas in splattered overalls and a cigarette dangling from her pursed lips, was Sandra.

I tiptoed around paint cans and paintings, blinking at the mess. It wasn't a surprising mess - it seemed to suit the woman. She fit in this picture, blowing smoke out of the room with the cross breeze, foot tapping with the music, surrounded by landscapes and portraits and abstract splashes of color.

Sandra paused, brush hovering over her current project as she looked over her shoulder. "Ah," she mumbled, cigarette bouncing. "Ya found it. Good." She looked back to her painting and dragged a streak of yellow through green, blending and deepening the grassy field she seemed to be crafting. "After that fuckin' shit show, figured you could use it."

I tapped my fingers against the page before uncapping the blue pen to scribble a cursive 'Thank you.'

She read the extended sketchbook and nodded. "Sure. Your welcome." She switched brushes, dragging it across the palette she had balanced on her knee. "You're, ah, welcome to hang out. If you like."

I blinked, a little surprised at the offer. I wasn't quite sure how to feel about Toki's aunt - she was harsh, abrasive, and painfully honest, to a frightening degree. Something that I wasn't used to, especially if you considered the people I normally found myself around. I tried to imagine Kaneki with a cigarette, telling me to 'use my mouth like a fuckin' person'.

A grin sneaked into my face without my permission, and I covered it with a hand, pressing my lips into the bright orange sleeve.

But she seemed like a kind person. She'd defended me to Elliott, after all, and despite the absolute terror she seemed to be able to instill in me with just a few astute observations, she wasn't hunting me down for answers, like Toki's parents. She seemed content to simply exist in the same space and… it was really nice.

So I stayed.

I sat down against the wall on the cleanest part of the tarp I could find, pulling up my knees and flipping to a clean page of my new sketchbook. I'd never tried drawing with a fountain pen before - I wasn't even sure if it was something you could draw with. I mean, it was a pen on paper, I could use it to make a picture, and the ability to change the line thickness with pressure was pretty cool, but I wasn't sure about how long it would take the ink to dry, or if it would react weirdly to specific papers, or if it would splatter or bleed. It wouldn't do well for sketches…

There was a nondescript cabinet in one of the corners - I rose back to my feet to go check it out, see if there were any pencils or other pens that I could maybe experiment with. I tugged the doors open - only for my jaw to drop.

This thing was secretly massive. I pulled open the other door with growing glee, watching the armoire expand into a massive wall of art supplies. Paints, pastels, colored pencils, regular pencils, pens, paper of any stock and gloss, blank canvases, brushes of various sizes and thickness, extra easels, sketchbooks and notepads. Even stuff not related to painting, like scissors, yarn, glue, glitter, fabric, a sewing machine tucked into a corner - I felt like it was the wardrobe from Narnia except instead of opening the doors to a mystical land it opened up to an arts and crafts store.

A raspy chuckle behind me made me whirl around to see Sandra poking her head from behind her canvas, grinning slyly.

I gestured wildly to the expanded cabinet. I didn't need words - there were none.

Sandra seemed to understand, winking as she pulled the almost finished cigarette from her lips. "Help yourself," she encouraged. "Go wild."

Go wild, indeed.

I pulled a few different pencils out, just to experiment, eyeing the other materials. I wasn't confident enough to really mess with anything else, but it wasn't like I was leaving anytime soon. I'd just ask if I could mess around with it later. I slipped back to my seat and picked up my sketchbook. I think the fountain pen would be best for lining - maybe water colors after? I don't know how it would affect the ink, if it would make it run or if it would stay solid.

All questions I could google, if I had my phone.

Good ol' fashion experimentation it is, then.

I started sketching out some faces in pencil, faces I knew well. After a while a rough outline of Kaneki was glancing up at me, Hide a slowly forming blob beside him. It was weirdly nice to see them again, even if it was just a recollection from memory. The curve of Kaneki's jaw, the wrinkle around Hide's smiling eyes.

As nice as it was to bury myself in the remnants of my old life, I found bits of comfort in what I'd managed to carve out for myself in the new one.

Other than the music continuing to play in the background, it was silent. Sandra continued to work on what was slowly transforming into a landscape - she was pulling some Bob Ross shit, turning white blobs into elegant clouds, blending reflections into water. There was never any hesitation in anything she did and I tried to absorb her confidence in my own sketches, pushing past what I might have otherwise discarded or erased as a mistake. It was nice to be in a creative space. It felt safe.

I was just starting to experiment with lining my sketch when Sandra sighed loudly. I looked up to see her leaning back on her stool, back arched as she stretched.

"Y'know," she started. "Nothing soothes the soul like art." She shook her head, sucking on her cigarette. "Can't believe it took thirty fuckin' years." The last part was a mumbled grumble, but it piqued my interest, and I lowered my sketchbook to observe her more fully. Thirty years?

Sandra noticed my look, and her head dangled over her shoulder as she grinned at me. "Yeah, thirty years, can you believe that? Don't be like me, kid." She stood, lifting her arms over her head in another stretch - her back audibly popped and she sighed in relief.

I flipped to the back of my sketchbook. 'Be like what?' I was intrigued - I didn't know if Toki knew her aunt's past or history, but I didn't. Maybe I could learn the secret behind getting a multi-million dollar home with a private beach in California on an artists salary.

Sandra sighed, but she sat back on her stool, spinning around to face me. I sat up a little straighter to show my attention. "Listen, kid. I spent a lot of time doing shit that I didn't wanna do because I was a fuckin' pussy. Got a mediocre job that had everything you're supposed to want - healthcare, dental, a 401k, whatever the fuck that is." She rolled her eyes. "I went into an office with a fuckin' pencil skirt and blouse nine to six and I was absolutely miserable. It was a Goddamn nightmare and I wanted to blow my brains out the whole time. I swear, I'd never hated anything more in my life than that shitty fucking copy machine that admin refused to upgrade." Her eye contact became intense. "I can still hear it screeching in my dreams."

'Sounds terrible.'

"It was," she said sagely. "It truly was. Took years to talk myself into finally doing what I wanted to do. Quit my job, dumped my shitty fiancé -"

Shitty what?

"- and went to Italy to follow my dreams." Her voice was almost mocking. Sandra reached into the pocket of her overalls and pulled out her battered carton of cigarettes. "Took every last fuckin' penny I had. Damn it," she grumbled, throwing the empty pack over her shoulder carelessly when it failed to produce a new stick.

I switched my pen for a pencil - I couldn't write fast enough. 'You had a fiancé? And you dumped him and flew off to Italy?' I quickly added, 'To pursue a career in art?'

She shrugged. "As you do."

Oh, as you do, indeed.

"Got into some art programs, lived there for a few years. Came back and set up shop and got real fuckin' lucky." She waved her hand absentmindedly, as if to show what she constituted as luck. "So yeah. Don't be like me and wait for-fuckin'-ever. Saves you a lot of heartache." She started to collect her used paints and palette, very clearly done with the topic.

It wasn't exactly a how-to-succeed speech and answered exactly none of my questions. It seemed more like the plot of a shitty romcom. I wasn't sure if I should push, though - as intrigued as I was (a fiancé? Her? Really?) I didn't want to upset what delicate balance we seemed to have made in this house.

If that was really the story, then something more than 'luck' was at play, and I had enough going on already without having to worry about whatever weird shady shit Toki's aunt might be up to.

…

Okay, maybe one question. I had to know about this stupid house.

'How can you afford a place like this as an artist?'

Sandra paused. Then, slow enough to make me feel as though I'd definitely made a mistake, she turned around. Her eyes were uncomfortably blue as she stared at me, empty and blank and I huddled up a little tighter in my hoodie - and averted my gaze. When she did speak it was in an airy sort of monotone.

"Galleries. Auctions, sometimes commissions should the mood strike." A slow smile inched along her face as she turned her head to look bemused at a particular collection of paintings in the corner. "Sponsors."

I glanced between her face and the paintings. Was she trying to be subtle? As if sensing my curiosity, Sandra made a tsking noise. "I get by," she said easily. She started past me and patted my head before heading off with her dirty supplies. I wasn't sure where - I hoped she wasn't about to clean them off in the kitchen sink, but it wouldn't surprise me.

I stood and peeked at her retreating back down the hall before going to stand over the small collection she'd not so vaguely looked at. Sponsors, huh? What exactly was a sponsor to an artist? Did Sandra do some endorsement style stuff? Was it mafia related? I really had no idea. I crouched down to look for clues, feeling oddly like Nancy Drew or like a part of Mystery Inc.

A trilogy of sorts, not all the same size or frame, but they all seemed to match in style. I couldn't tell you what style it was. They reminded me of mosaics with their patterns, combined with organic linework and soft blends of color. I tilted my head. There was some sort of metallic element like gold leaf in some places, guiding my eyes across the canvas and highlighting the figures within them.

The first had a woman taking up most of the space, impossibly long hair like a river of blood flowing to vanish beyond the frame. She wore a dress that disguised most of her body, which was where most of the bright, colorful mosaic shapes were. Her face was accented in gold, as well as the rest of her outline, and at her feet in the corner of the canvas - a dark shape. It was humanoid but just a shadow, licking at the edges. Watching.

The second featured that same woman, but she wasn't the main focus anymore - the shadow grew to match, swirling around her and her Rapunzel-like hair, fingers like claws and face pressed to hers just a sliver away from a kiss. But she was still outlined in gold, as if the shadows could never truly touch her, and in the shadows were more of those colorful mosaic pieces almost as dark as the black, a hidden rainbow in the darkness.

The third was the same style, but vastly different in tone. The woman was falling, dress flying around her, arms outstretched towards the top of the canvas. The gold was falling off her outline like stars. Where she reached a stream of shadows stretched back.

The closer that I looked, the more they didn't really seem to match. Not really.

Style wise yes, they were all the same. But if I looked at the faces the third didn't fit with the rest. I stepped closer, careful not to touch the textured surface. I couldn't really explain why. Maybe just the feeling behind it? It wasn't…

Sandra came back in as I was pondering. I quickly moved on, trying to pretend like I wasn't just intently analyzing what may or may not be incredibly personal. Or commissions for a mob boss, who knew? She didn't call me out on it, just started to hum in a light hearted way, but I could feel her eyes on my back.

There were a ridiculous number of paintings in the room. I speed-browsed my way to the opposite wall, feeling like I had definitely outstayed my welcome. I was going to just slowly make my way around the room, say my goodbye and -

And then I saw it.

I closed the distance, carefully moving another painting out of the way to reveal the whole picture. A small canvas tucked away in the corner like a forgotten memory.

I couldn't actually see it - like a fog over my eyes, shades of red and black and barely recognizable, but I could feel it. Viscerally, like claws in my gut, like my lungs crawling up into my throat, something suffocating and nauseating. It was terror and it was grief. It was something that nobody was ever meant to see. It was terrible emotion vomited onto canvas and -

I could only stare in some vague kind of horror.

"Ah, that one," Sandra mused. I could feel those piercing blue eyes on my face as she came up beside me. "I painted that a couple years back. Never had the heart to sell it." She grinned sharply. "Packs a punch, don't it?"

I could only nod vaguely.

She was quiet for another long moment, only to let out a sudden barking laugh. "Oh, dear." There was no real humor in her voice. "They did a number on you, didn't they?"

I couldn't respond. I forgot how.

"I didn't paint that. You did."

Oh.

That explained it.

"Don't cry," and there are hands on my cheeks. Warmth spreading in a wet smear only to chill in the air, leaving my face somehow feeling hot and cold at the same time. "It's okay." The arms wrapped around my shoulders in a grounding way. Strands of hair just like mine blurred the painting in my vision and, as if breaking from a trance I returned the hug, burying my face in her shoulder.

The smell of smoke was uncomfortable, but the hug was gold.

The rain had stopped at some point, leaving the air cool and crisp, the muggy ocean salt blending with the scent leaking from the trees to leave something sweet and calm. The sky remained clouded, though - leaving everything desaturated. Grey. It might have just been me, though.

Sandra brought up some folding chairs and firewood to the porch. She set me up in one, wrapped in a fluffy plush with a steaming mug of coffee as she went about starting a small fire. Once it was cackling pleasantly, adding its own oaky aroma with it's slowly rising smoke trail, she took her own chair beside me.

Sandra didn't push. She didn't say anything at all. Just stared out to the ocean and sipped her own steaming mug.

I still had my sketchbook. I flipped to the page I'd been on before, saw the old words Thank you. After a moment of thought I circled them and held it up for her.

She nodded. "You're welcome." Sandra had gotten a new carton from somewhere and she popped out a cigarette. She lit it with the flickering flames from the fire pit. I watched her as she moved, confident and quiet, and I thought that maybe that was it -

"So, the accident, huh?"

There goes that idea.

I stared down at the partially filled page and debated with myself. I was so tired of it. Of lying and faking. Trying my best to balance what I wanted with what was expected of the body I inhabited. There wasn't exactly any moral precedent for this! I couldn't just go on the internet and look up 'gotta new body in an alternate universe after I died, is it cool if I ditch her concerned family to go do my own thing?' Some dark part of me almost wanted to be put away - I wouldn't have to think about any of this shit anymore. Maybe Toki would finally shut the fuck up in the back of my skull with her pointless, left over emotions, a memory of a memory. She was dead and gone but some part of this walking corpse seemed to not realize it.

It was mine now. She gave up any rights she had to it when she tried to split her skull open on the asphalt.

I pressed the nib to the page, watching the ink as it bubbled up to stain the paper. I didn't want to keep fighting. I didn't want any of this. I'd had this stupid conversation in my own head a million times at this point about whether or not to come clean or to just try and handle it and somehow I managed to avoid it every time by doing neither of those things. But it still kept happening. This was all that dumb kids fault.

I grit my teeth, the blot of ink breaking open and spilling down the page like a tear. How mocking. I set the book down on my lap and swallowed hard.

Toki loved her aunt.

I could do this one thing.

Just do it.

Do it, do it, do it.

She'd been nothing but kind. She was waiting.

C'mon.

One time and it's over.

You've done it before.

Just -

"It... wasn't an accident."

It was barely a whisper. It was hard, like pushing a square shape through a triangle. My throat felt abused, voice rough and ragged, so broken from lack of use and the terrible topic at hand - but she heard it. I could tell from the harsh exhale, the blue eyes zeroing in on my face like a beacon. My heart started to pound in my ears and my palms started to sweat. The pen was slippery in my grip and I struggled to get the cap back on and this was a fucking mistake -

"I'm not her," I babbled, because she knew. "I don't know her, she's not here anymore. They keep asking, and asking, and asking, but she's not here!" I couldn't get the stupid cap back on. My hands kept shaking and the ink was starting to splatter the page. "She's not me and I'm not her. I don't know anything about her, and they keep asking but I'm tired of pretending that I know them, that I remember because I don't -"

"Toki," and cool hands embraced my own, holding them still against the tremors. Tears dribbled down my cheeks, stinging my eyes as I looked at the woman crouched before me, the woman who so calmly pulled the leaking pen from my clumsy fingers and capped it. She pulled the sketchbook from my lap and set both to the side. "Hon, take a deep breath for me, okay?"

I blinked and clicked my teeth, but tried to do as she asked.

"You're alright. It's okay." Her fingers shifted to push my hair from my face.

"It's not okay," I scowled. "I'm a pretender, I'm a liar -"

"No, you're not," was the firm, instant response. Her blue eyes were like diamonds, hard and unrelenting.

"I am -"

She shook her head and grasped my cheeks. "Something terrible happened," she said, earnestly, but still steady and calm. "Something terrible happened to you, regardless of how and why. And if you don't remember, that's okay, that's fine. We'll figure this out, okay? I promise you we'll figure this out. You don't need to pretend anymore. Okay?" Her thumbs brushed away my tears and she offered a crooked smile. "It's going to be okay."

I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slow. Sandra breathed to match. "I don't know who you are," I confessed. But the words were easy, that time - I looked at her as me, and I exhaled a shaky plume of vapor. I shook my head. "I don't know who any of you are."

Her hands paused against my face, but her soft smile didn't falter. "Well," she hummed, and she pulled away. One hand remained extended. "Hello. My name is Sandra Lance. I'm your aunt."

I stared blankly before sniffling hard. I carefully took her fingers in my own.

We shook.

Sandra must have decided I required further mothering, as I was not left alone until bedtime. I mutely allowed her to care for me - bundling me with comfy blankets, leading me back inside when the rain made a return visit, cooking extra cheesy lasagna with homemade garlic bread for dinner. I hadn't even been aware the woman could cook. I wasn't particularly hungry, all things considered, but I ate what I could. If only to show my appreciation. If only for something to focus on.

She served me my portion and offered to refill my glass when it was empty. She offered bowls of vanilla ice cream at the end, and if I wanted tea to help me sleep. I rejected the ice cream but accepted the tea, and I carried the steaming mug back to my bedroom.

The isolation was a relief. It made things seem less… real. The whole day felt like an odd dream, an out of body experience. Like I'd never gone to Sandra's art studio. Like I'd never cried, and like I had never confessed to not being Toki. She seemed to think I simply had severe memory loss - which was, despite being wrong, the most convenient form of the truth. It got my message across. But at what cost?

What was the big reveal at the end of the road? There was a pattern to this. Something happened that made me upset, that made me break down. And then the apathy set in. Only for something else to swoop in and start it all over again.

It didn't feel so real.

I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. I didn't have the energy to jump through anymore hoops, do any more thinking. While confessing in some way was a relief, a burden off my shoulders that there was finally someone that I didn't have to pretend for, there was always a catch to my successes. I could never have something without paying for it first. I crawled into bed, intending to do some doodles until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore - only to scowl. I forgot the sketchbook in the kitchen. I reluctantly slipped from the warm sheets and back out the door.

Voices echoed down the hall and I paused to listen - was Elliott here? I didn't hear anything about him coming back to the house tonight. If he was here I was going to launch myself off the porch and drown into the ocean before I talked to him. I wasn't ready for that.

But after a moments quiet the only voice I could hear was Sandra's, carrying on a one-sided conversation.

"She had no idea. She doesn't have a fuckin' clue about anything." A sharp exhale that I imagined was accompanied by smoke. "I think she's just been guessing, trying to figure out all this shit as she goes along."

Oh.

Quiet. Then, in an admonishing tone, "She was scared. Scared kids don't always do the right thing. They don't always think clearly or make smart decisions. You would know that better than anyone."

I remained frozen in the hallway, debating the pros and cons of sticking around - my curiosity outweighed the much larger list of negatives, and I tiptoed a little closer.

"It's been months, El, and she hasn't remembered anything. You've been wondering why she hasn't talked to any of her old friends, it's cause she doesn't remember any of them." Another pause. "I don't know! She doesn't even recognize herself. She was talkin' in the third person, for Christ's sake. It was…"

The pause was longer this time. And when she did speak, her voice was somehow accusing and defeated all at once. "You thought wrong. No wonder this has gotten so outta control."

Whatever Elliott said next, Sandra was much quicker to respond. "She woke up with nothing. She's been frantically trying to play along to a script she's never read. Every attempt to reach out and make new friends, figure things out and build something for herself you guys just kept pulling her back and punishing her for it." A harsh laugh. "No wonder she's so fuckin' pissed."

"Look, El, she's a kid. You're the parent. Yeah, she fucked up, but you're her father. What's done is done and now you need to figure it out."

I fiddled with the string of my hoodie as the silence lingered, torn between running away while I still could and seeing this conversation through. It wasn't hitting yet.

"You really need to talk to her -!" Sandra suddenly spat. I jumped at the anger in her voice, almost ripping the string out completely. But just as quickly as the anger appeared, whatever Elliott said brought it down to a simmer.

"Okay. Fine." Her voice was disappointed. "No, no, it's fine, I'll keep an eye on her. See ya in a couple days." There was a clatter, I assumed her phone on the table, and a long breath.

I stared blankly at the opposite wall.

Then I turned and walked back to my room.

Sleeping was a near impossible task at that point. Despite my brain screaming for relief, my body ached and twisted, nausea and jitters making my limbs shiver and my breath short. My fingers traced the groves of my shoulder, the valleys and ridges that had been carved into me, there and solid and real. The strips Yomo had given me had really helped close up the worst of it all, and it had gotten to the point where I didn't need it bandaged all the time.

It was still painful, though, but I rather have the ache and bruise, the lingering scabs preferable to the anxiety my body subjected itself to. I could control this pain - I could press my fingers into the divots, drag my nails across the ragged surface and I thought of the teeth that had made it. The soft tongue that followed, just as hot as the blood that had bubbled out of me like water from a spile.

Real.

Undeniably so.

And so was he - across the ocean, going about his day, running through the motions. Did he miss me? Did he wonder where I was? Did he care at all?

Did he think of the same things as I did, running my fingertips on the scar that he gave me?

I didn't end up sleeping at all. It worked out alright for me in the end - I figured the safest thing was to go back to my routine. I filled a thermos with coffee, the blackest I could stand to drink, and set up shop in the sand, burying my feet and wrapping my arms around my shins to watch the sun rise. The tide was low - I resisted the temptation to sit closer to the breaking waves. I wasn't about to risk falling asleep and waking up drowning in saltwater.

It was dead silent except for the water and the occasional cry of birds. I was still in my hoodie - Hide's hoodie, really, and despite the warmth I knew the sun was going to rain down on me, I didn't feel ready to give up the comfort that it offered. I pulled the hood up and rested my chin on my knees. It blocked out everything in my peripheral vision - all I could see was the water. I focused on it, let it take all my attention. Let it distract me from everything else.

So it shouldn't be a surprise that I didn't see the Ghoul until he was right beside me.

Guess what my favorite line in this chapter was.

Also, hi - bet you weren't expecting to see me for another year at least! Well, surprise! Here you go! The world is on fire so have another chapter. It hasn't been beta'd so please ignore any mistakes, or point them out to me so I can fix them! I'm not going to make any promises or commitments that such luck should fall upon us again and another chapter will be here before next year because that would be silly of me. But I will say that the next chapter is outlined and it has a lot more entertaining stuff than this chapter, and I'm hopeful that I can get it done a lot quicker than some others.

(Being in quarantine for the last month has also been a factor in my ability to write, so there's that.)

On a more serious note, I did post a new story that I will be working on alongside this one. Ode to Sleep is difficult for me to write sometimes. Despite being outlined and obsessed with my ship for this story, there are a lot of emotions that I have to channel into this, and most of them are on the dark side, so it can be draining. Rising should help with that, as it's a bit more lighthearted and doesn't require as much emotional labor to write.

I do want to repeat something that I said when I uploaded rising, however, to share with those who don't follow me or my other work:

I hope you guys are staying safe in these troubling times. There isn't much that I can do or say as a simple fanfic writer, and I don't want to get too political, as my goal as a writer is to take you away from the real world for a little while, and I don't want to taint what might be someone's escape by throwing out judgement to people behind a screen. But I do want to say that I support those people advocating for change - in our government, in our police, in how we treat each other. Things have not been okay for a long time, and I hope that we can all come together and make the changes that should have been made a very long time ago and I am striving to do my part to make it happen. I hope you guys are all staying safe and taking care of yourselves in such times, and if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.

A friendly reminder that I am on tumblr, and I also have a ko-fi! Please stop by and say hi, it always makes my day when you guys send me an ask. You guys mean so much to me, you're always so kind and supportive, even though my stories are terrible and my schedule is erratic as hell. You're the best fans an author can ask for.

lotsa love,

Calloniel