Wake Up

The blade is reflecting dull shadows in the darkness of the hallway, and some part of him knows that he should be scared, something should be clicking inside of him. But there's nothing except for the muffled and distanced cries of Dead Hand's lead singer, the shrill voice echoing from the headphones that now dangle at his chest.

Clare's breaths are ragged beside him, her eyes shining with panic. To him, though, everything is just so surreal right now.

"Did pretty boy make time with my date?" Fitz sneers, and Clare gasps at the first sound of his voice.

"Fitz," she cautions, her shaking hand lifting forward as if reaching out for him yards away, "Don't do this." She enunciates each syllable, her voice calm and level.

"Shut up, bitch!" He snaps at her, taking a menacing step forward.

She flinches, stumbling back a bit.

He takes a deep breath and tries to speak. "I-I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry for everything."

But Fitz just takes another step forward, a bitter smirk pulling at his lips. "Really? No smartass comments?"

"It's over, Fitz," he breathes, "You win."

Fitz's eyes go from sick amusement to anger in an instant. "You had your chance to end this, Emo boy. Even your little girlfriend told you to stop, but now it's too late for apologies. Seems to me the only way you'll ever learn is if somebody teaches you a lesson."

Look at what I've done to you. For a moment, Eli hears the most angelic voice murmur into his ear, and he turns to Clare. But her lips are still paralyzed, and he realizes she hasn't spoken.

"What?" He breathes, and Fitz's eyebrows furrow, his eyes narrowing.

"Did you not just hear what I said?" Fitz hisses, and Eli's attention is suddenly on the sharp, silver bade that is now only feet away from his chest.

Eli can only let out a mangled, unintelligible stutter, and Fitz scoffs, "You're more messed up than I thought."

There's a scream, a flash of a movement, and pain. Oh, so much pain. He can feel the cold floor on his back now, can smell his own blood. His body is writhing on the ground, heaving up and down with low gasps for breath. He's not even in control.

I'm so sorry. Look at what this has done to you.

What? He screams the words, but they aren't real. There's a piercing light surrounding him, and he can't remember when exactly it came. He can't remember anything . . .

Wake up. Please, wake up. The voice is pleading with him, and he wants so badly to do what the angel is asking, but he has no idea how.

Tell me what to do, he begs, but she's gone, the light's gone, and there's nothing . . .

"Ahh!" Clare's screams are everywhere, and suddenly he's standing again. He smells the blood, and his hand shoots up to his chest where the pain was moments ago, but there's nothing there.

And that's when he realizes that Clare is the one writhing on the ground, her hands covered in blood where she clutches her side.

And the murderer is just standing there, his eyes startled, his mouth open without any words escaping. "I never – I wasn't going to – meant that to happen – I" –

And then he runs.

Let me go. The voice is there again. Let Clare go.

"No! No!" He screams, angry at the angel.

"It's me he wanted! It was me!" But no matter how much he protests, the bloody wound that he saw, felt, on his own skin only moments ago is now on Clare's body.

Look at what I've done to you. I'm so sorry.

"What do you mean?" He demands through panicked tears.

You have to let me go, Eli. You have to do it for her.

"Julia?" He gasps, and suddenly he's kneeling near the side of a dark road, weeping over a dark-haired girl with blood pouring from her chest, dismantled pieces of a bicycle scattered around her.

You have to let me go.

And with a sharp pang, Eli realizes that the voice isn't Julia. It's Clare's.

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Imogen Moreno feels the tears in her eyes as she asks the usual question with her raspy voice. "How is he?"

The nice lady, Martha, at the front desk sighs and looks down. "He's been . . . talking again."

"About her," Imogen murmurs, and Martha says nothing, but Imogen knows.

"It's quite a shame," the woman sighs, "To lose them both."

Imogen isn't sure whether Martha means Julia and Clare . . . or Clare and Eli. Because, despite everything, Eli may as well be gone now, too.

"He relives the moment," Martha sighs, "It must be agony."

The word choice takes a stab at Imogen's heart. "What . . . What does he say?" She asks, cautiously, unsure whether she actually wants to know the answer.

"Sometimes, it's just sounds . . . but, lately, he keeps saying that it should have been him . . ."

Imogen remembers the night of the dance, the night they lost Clare Edwards. And people still talk about her in school, even though it's been a year.

She was such a bright girl, so kind and warm. She had such a promising future.

And they still talk about Eli sometimes.

It's his fault, you know? He was the one that should have been stabbed, not Clare.

You know, that wasn't even the first girlfriend he lost. I bet he killed them somehow, set it up. That's just too suspicious, isn't it?

I heard he's gone mad now, absolutely crazy.

I heard they locked him up in some asylum somewhere.

I heard he's on an island that he can't get off of. Not that he'll ever be in his right mind to escape.

A tear runs down Imogen's cheek that she doesn't bother to catch. "Do you think he'll ever be okay?" She asks, "Do you think he'll ever wake up?"

Martha sighs, "Honey . . ."

Imogen just nods. Martha doesn't have to say it; she already knows. But that doesn't keep her from hoping, and, with a tear-streaked glance back at Martha, Imogen rounds a corner before kneeling down in her polka-dotted nylons and black-laced boots.

And Imogen Moreno does something she's never done in her life.

"Clare . . . I don't know if you can hear me . . . But Eli could really use your help right now."

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So, I guess you could say that Eli wakes up after this if you want. After all, Clare did answer Imogen's prayers . . .

I really don't know where this came from. I'm not sure I like it, but . . .

Reviews, please?