Synopsis: What if inanimate objects had a voice? What if they thought and felt things just as we do? A one shot collection recording the deaths of the main Until Dawn characters from the perspectives of their beloved possessions.

Genre: Angst, Horror

Ending: No one survives

Rating: T

A/N: Well, I haven't been here for a while, have I? I'm so terrible at focusing on multiple fics at once. I'm so sorry for those that are waiting for an update from my other fics. I'll get back to them eventually (hopefully sooner rather than later)! Sometimes I just need to take a break from certain styles – which is why WIOW is here!

Hope you enjoy this rounded off chapter. I kind of liked how this chapter rounds back into Chris' chapter. That was totally unintentional but, hey, it worked out that way!

NOTE: If you're looking at this chapter, confused that it's number 11 and not number 10, I switched Hannah and The Stranger around. I felt like this one provided a better and more rounded ending.

I'm gripped in the sticky, sweaty palms of a stranger. The heartbeat thrumming in his wrists don't belong to the one I know. His pulses are worn and ancient, thick and rough. This strangerrattles with young, shuddering fear.

He never trusts me with anyone else. I don't trust him with anyone else. My metal is melted into his skin. His veins of soot and gunpowder are woven into me, pulsing life into my barrel. Steady hands, a family trait; solid aim, a gift of time. Powerful impact; that's all me.

We started when time began. He was sixteen. I was stubborn. His fingerprint had convulsed over my stiff, crisp trigger. I'd leaned into his shoulder with a crack and a sigh. His fear was in his breath and determination in his grip. I'd willed him on, my barrel warm and pulsating – like the crackling coals on a fire or the grainy sizzling of a hot pan.

And he'd jabbed his finger into my trigger. Crack! Bang! My bullet biting through the caving, shattered metal of the can. Crisp and sharp. The first target.

Not the last. Never the last.

We fought battles together.

I'd cut into rotten skin and torn teeth. The thrill of the rush, of the attack. He'd guide my eyes. He'd give me strength. I'd give him power.

The shrieks of our targets would bounce off the walls of the cave, their stringy, decaying bodies thrown around like rag dolls. Trapped in the cages of their bones. They were powerless.

We were invincible.

Until we weren't.

Because he's not. He's empty. His palms are empty. He's empty amongst the snow, the ash waiting for the blood. The stranger grips me with his foreign, sticky fingers. I want to curse at him. There is no determination in him. Not like the him I belong to. This stranger – he is all fear.

The shrieks, they echo in the night sky. They are quick. Too quick.

I need to aim. I need to shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Aim. Pull Trigger. Shoot. But I can't work without limbs. Without hands and fingers and shoulders. And this foreigner is weak. A tumbling mess. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know the curves of my metal. His veins are disconnected from me, thrumming somewhere else. Cutting short.

No. No. This is all wrong. It's all foreign hands. Foreign palms. Foreign sweat.

Wrong hands, wrong palms. Wrong sweat.

He should have kept me. He shouldn't have given me away. I am a part of him. He needs me.

I need him.

The sky cuts with a choke. Blood gurgles, creatures cackle. The stranger's throat cracks.

His head tumbles. Thumps. Rolls. The blood tastes like gunpowder. My barrel chokes on bullets. No more hands. Fingers. Shoulders.

The stranger stumbles back. I burn in his hands. Red hot metal. He blasts at my trigger. Oh yeah. Now he wants to shoot? But it's too late. The hands that belong to me – that I belong to. That are melted into my metal. They're gone.

Empty.

I hate this stranger.

Shrieks are blurred out by my bullets. One by one by one. They drain me, sucking the life out of me. My metal shrinks into the heat.

He's crying out. He's running. He's running.

I'm losing.

I'm empty.

The bony rag dolls crack across the sky.

And this time the stranger falls. Head tumbles. Thumps. Rolls.

And I fall with him. There is nothing to fall to.

Except the cold, bitter taste of blood and snow. And the freezing chill over my barrel. Like the coals of a fire that have been kicked out.

I used to be able to fit perfectly across the bridge of his nose...