I can't move. I don't want to move.
I don't want to do anything, to be honest. I don't want to cry or feel, I don't want my heart to beat or my lungs to fill. I would much rather just vanish, if at all possible, into the wind where no one can find me. Or hurt me.
Unfortunately, I am not the wind. I cannot whisk myself away or disappear amongst the clouds. And everyday I am reminded how easy it is to be harmed in this entirely too tactile world.
Every hour, down to the exact minute, tears swell behind my eyes and make them hurt until they close. A short while later, they open once again. But nothing has changed. The world is still dark and cold. My body is still numb. My heart throbs a little out of rhythm and my mind trudges through desultory thoughts that makes my surroundings appear less vibrant than they probably are. Everything around me is dull, so I adopt the same sensation and I simply let myself subside.
Further and further.
There is only emptiness to keep my veins supplied with curses and discourse but there is not enough left in me, not enough to feel anger or hatred. But I almost wish there was. Because at the moment, I do not feel much of anything.
And this sensation ... of feeling nothing and caring about nothing ... scares me, or at least it would scare me if I could still feel. But even now, I do not grasp that fear with fists clenched tight or grit in my set jaw. It is a loose kind of fear, one that I sometimes entertain and sometimes exile. The kind of fear that seems to only stalk me well after the moon has risen, when the world is hushed, and there is nothing to drown out the banshee screams of my self deprecating thoughts.
Midnight has become my worst enemy. It is a time when I cannot hide from myself.
Three nights have passed since. I assume I have had visitors, though I don't recall their faces. Some features are easily remembered, some are not. I know they are my friends coming to check on me, worried about my health and mental wellbeing. But they speak nothing of hope and none of them smile when they come to see me here, in Dustin's room, where I have locked myself away from the disgraces that are too damning to face. Mostly, I only notice them peeking in through the door, then they sit with me and hold me while I cry. And eventually, when I have fallen asleep, they sneak out to let me rest.
Dustin is the only one who stays indefinitely.
"Hi, baby." He whispered tenderly from where he was laying beside me, "You're awake."
He sounds as tired as I feel but that is understandable, he has nightmares too. I do not know what he dreams of, but whatever is marred behind those harrowing eyes keeps him thrashing and suffering at all hours. Sometimes, I sit up almost all night to watch him while he sleeps, it is easier than having to endure my own subconscious terrors. He talks in his sleep, revealing more than he would ever care to admit while awake, and the things I have heard him recall are ... heartbreaking.
Sometimes I wake him, sometimes I do not; I just don't have the energy. But when I do, we spend the rest of the night holding each other and avoiding our inner demons, waiting just beyond the veil of their subdued clutches where they wait for the next moon to continue their ploy of destroying us from within.
We have been through a lot during this journey and I expected trauma, but this? This is our great reward? This is what becomes of the heroes we all worship so dearly as children? Capes collect dust in locked closets, glass slippers crack, magic roses wilt, and the unyielding determination of dashing princes crumble beneath the towers they once rescued their cherished princesses from.
Why don't fairytales ever warn us about what happens after the happy ending? How foolish we are to think defeating villains doesn't leave scars.
Dustin felt my wandering thoughts and he pulled me into his arms, a weak hold because of his immobile shoulder but one that diffused his warmth into my chilled skin since I couldn't seem to sustain proper body heat after the horrific events in the lot. It took hours to dig the bullet out of his shoulder but before, during, and even after, Dustin has been unconditionally attentive. He is always at my side to pull me away from the ledge that I am so ready to jump from.
He kissed the side of my temple, "Stop thinking so much."
Even he would not be able to follow such a command.
"You should eat something." He encouraged, quietly.
My tone was flat, lifeless, "I'm not hungry."
He sighed and it pitted his chest inward, folding me further into him with the movement, "That's what you told me yesterday. And the day before." He was trying so hard to be supportive. I was not reciprocating the effort, but he didn't expect me to, "You need to eat, Sadie."
"I'm fine." I said without looking at him. But his worried stare continued to drill against me and it coaxed words that I repeated, emotionlessly, from muscle memory, "Honestly, I'm okay. Maybe later-"
"Stop telling me that you're okay." Every word in that sentence was spoken under a whisper, a passing breath that rustled through my hair and made my scalp tingle, "Stop lying to me, Sadie. I know you are not okay."
It was a tactic I learned from him, a tactic he hated being on the receiving end of.
Surprisingly enough, I understand Dustin much better now. I understand why he distances himself, and why he always plays the role of protector. Because it is so much less painful to be the one being tortured, all the while knowing that you spared someone you loved.
But what I am currently feeling ... is worse than death. And now I understand why Dustin craved it so badly, why he practically walked himself into the coffin of a waiting tomb. It is easy to face the reaper when you know nothing comes after that scythe takes your head.
But when life suckles at the heart, the damned organ aches and it yearns for the ones we have lost.
At times, I even digress so far as to envy Katrina for having hers so ruthlessly removed. It is wrong and disgusting of me to think that way, but I cannot help it. I, myself, would have cut mine out and offered it for anyone to take if I had known this kind of agony awaited me.
Dustin nudged his head against mine, "Let me help you, Sadie."
Effortlessly he delved deep into my suffering, but beyond my defenses was a wasteland of dying vegetation and populations laid to rest under an enemy's flag. There was no reminiscence of the girl he once fell in love with. She had been beaten and broken too many times.
She is gone and I don't know if I will ever get her back.
"How?" My face flattened against his chest, I listened to his heartbeat. It was calming but it didn't alleviate me like it used to, "How can you help me?"
He thought about it, thoroughly and tirelessly. He kissed my forehead and both sides of my cheeks where newly birthed tears were sketching the contours of my face. His lips then fit perfectly against my own, and I felt him say more than I heard him, "Just talk to me."
I was shaking my head even before he finished, "No. I won't."
"It's okay, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He held my head still and brought me closer, promising protection, "You can't go on like this, Sadie. It is killing you." His eyes intricately examined mine. His were so deep and endless that I tumbled without a lifeline, and they begged me to be vulnerable, "I'm scared of what will happen to you if you don't let someone in."
He was so gentle and kind. How unlikely it was for a past as dark as Dustin's to produce a man such as him. A man, abused and tortured, but still wearing a righteous halo that hung from the devil horns unfairly forced upon him.
"Talk to me, Sadie." He urged again, "Please."
I licked my lips, they were salty from tears and swollen from crying, "What do I ... say?"
"Anything." He answered quickly. My willingness to at least entertain the idea was more improvement than I have shown in the last three days, and that made him hopeful, "Whatever is the first thing that comes to mind."
The first thing that comes to mind?
The very first thing?
"There was so much left for him to do."
Dustin let me sink into him and he nodded along, he knew better than to denounce this reality. His fingers drew comforting circles along my back and he borrowed my pain to release some of the pressure that was constricting my heart, "Yes, he did."
"He beat cancer, he was finally healthy. He wanted to be a doctor." I muttered through a tearful smile, I don't think I ever told Dustin that. So many times I talked about Toby's sickness but not nearly enough did I idolize his triumph over his shortcomings. I should have though, there were so many things I should have done, "He was going to do so much good."
"He would have been a great doctor." Dustin's embrace warmed at the thought of Toby's once bright future, and we both shared a weak laugh when he added, "With the most dysfunctional stories to tell his patients."
It made me happy to imagine, "Everyone would have loved him."
They would have ... but now no one will even remember him.
Am I supposed to tell his friends? His school? Do they already suspect, considering Toby and my father went missing over a week ago when Eli brought them to the compound? Are there documents I need to fill out, legalities to be sorted?
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked between unsteady breaths and once again, my questions were twisted with that same soul crushing misery, "What am I supposed to do with all of this, Dustin? I don't know what to do ... the house is empty but all of their stuff is there. Do I ..." My body stiffened at the mere thought of returning, "Do I have to go back there? Do I clean out their belongings, do I sell them or keep them?"
"Don't worry about all of that right now." Dustin told me, "We will figure out all of that later, right now you just need to-"
"I don't want to figure it out later." Then again I don't want to figure it out now either, "I should do something nice with all of their things, maybe I should donate them."
Dustin knew the signs of someone cycling through grief. Worrying about something as mundane as materialistic belongings was easier than dealing with the vacant space they left behind and knowing they will never return. So he only sighed and nodded, "Sure honey, if that is what you want."
"I have to do something nice with all of it." I started crying again, I don't even know why, "It's my fault after all, so I should be the one to handle everything."
Dustin heard my words a moment after I had spoken them, "What? No, Sadie-"
"I mean, if I had made different choices then they would probably be alive." My breaths were coming faster and that impending sense of doom strangled my sob clogged throat, "So it's only fair for me to do all of this. It is my punishment for getting them killed."
"That is not true. None of this is your fault-"
"Yes it is." I answered sternly.
"No, it isn't."
"Yes it is!" I said too loud and shoved away from him. He hissed when I pushed against his shoulder but I was far too deep under my own pain to hear his, "Don't tell me it wasn't my fault! Don't you dare, we both know it was!"
Even my dreams warned of this, the beast himself delivered that message a long time ago. From the beginning, my nightmares depicted versions of Dustin with an empty chest from where his heart had been confiscated. An empty chest is a sign of death.
Then my nightmares changed drastically and Toby appeared. In those nightmares, Dustin ate my brother's heart to replace the one he once lost. How much more obvious did it need to be? How stupid could I have been to not see the beast's clear warnings?!
One timeline devoured the other, over and over. There were so many signs. So. Many.
All I had to do was listen!
"I killed my baby brother." I didn't protect Toby, I didn't listen to the warnings. I don't know if I could have changed this outcome but there were so many opportunities to try. I should have done something, anything! I should have left Dustin for good, I should have taken myself out of the timeline indefinitely. But I didn't. I stayed. And by doing that, "I killed him!"
Dustin took my shoulders firmly in his hands and he shook me. Only once, but rough enough to spark my senses at his aggressive behavior.
It has been a very long time since Dustin has looked at me this way. There was no cruelty but there was a lot of anger, second only to the amount of fierce love that was driven by the absurdities he heard me spewing.
"Do not say that again." This was an order, "Ever."
My mouth had barely begun to open in response.
"Sadie, listen to me. Things go wrong sometimes, this life and this world are not perfect. People get hurt and people die." He was furious, not at me and not even at himself. Perhaps just at existence in general, at the powers that be for their decisions on which lives are taken and which ones are forgotten, "I lost my brothers, too. I'm not saying that I know what you are going through but I know what it feels like to watch someone you love die."
Of course he does. Dustin has seen more death than an undertaker.
"And I also know that it gets better. It hurts like hell right now but that's good, it means you are working through it. But do not ever accept the responsibility of what happened to your family." He was talking to me, about me ... but deep inside I knew he was trying to convince himself of the exact same thing. Because he has been carrying that same burden since his own family was murdered. It has dragged behind him for as long as he can remember, "We don't deserve that."
He is right, we don't deserve it. But someone has to be blamed, I have to hate someone for what happened. And if I'm not going to hate myself for what happened then I will hate someone who does deserve it.
"We are lucky to be here right now, on this day in this month in this year. We are lucky to be alive at this moment in time when so many others are not. And we are going to take full advantage of every moment that we have on this earth. I am going to help you, and you are going to help me." He saw me beginning to believe him and it made his eyes sparkle tremendously, "We are going to get through this, Sadie. All of us. Together."
My hands slipped over his wrists, just to feel him, "It's not that simple."
"Of course it's not." He agreed. Where his hands were still capped over my shoulders, his fingers lost their grip. They ran the length of my arms, up and down, over and over, "It is important to mourn. Cry and get pissed and break everything in this room, I don't mind. Take my Harley for a ride and just scream into the wind, tear up the tires and empty the gas tank. Lay in the sun with Lumiere, get drunk with Eli, dance around like crazy with Corinth, do whatever you need to do. Let yourself hurt." He bent forward until our eyes were level, "Then let yourself heal."
I was still crying, I am not sure when or if I will be able to stop. But these tears were smaller, not so numerous, and not quite so painful. They were present because I was sad but not because I was alone, "Don't lose my smile, right?"
Finally, he recognized me again and he dived into the girl he has missed so dearly, kissing me and holding me, loving me so wholly, "I promised I would never let that happen, didn't I?"
For the first time in days, I felt something again. Not joy, not tranquility, not retribution. Just the smallest hints of love, for this man that was created solely for me.
"I think ... I think I know something that will make me feel better." I said quietly.
He nodded enthusiastically, "Of course, anything."
"You won't support it."
"At this point, I'm pretty sure I will support anything." He was that desperate for me to get better. But his head tilted on an afterthought, "Unless you are planning on sleeping with Lumiere, in which case I will have to adamantly object."
Even in the midst of my despair, he managed to make me laugh. It was small and quiet, but it was a stepping stone to something more, "No, it's not that."
He laughed too, "Then what is it, Dimples? Just say the word and it's yours."
When I told him what I wanted, his lightened mood disappeared.
It was replaced by grim understanding.
He recognized my dark desires from personal experience, it was something he too sought after losing family and friends. Although from the look on his face, it was clear he never thought I would follow that same path.
"Are you sure?" Dustin asked.
I nodded.
That was the only confirmation he needed. He slid himself off of the bed and helped me down as well. I was wearing his sweatshirt and it swallowed my small frame, draped down to my knees and hiding the gauze that was taped around my stomach and leg. I walked opposite of his injured shoulder and he supported my weak leg. Together, we emerged from his room for the first time in three days.
The hallways were quiet but would soon be echoing with long departed laughter of reunited friends. Tribe members are set to return at the end of the week, at which time Erie will be here to announce an official transfer of Council ownership to Dustin and his chosen Councilmen. At that time, the Tribe and Reapers will merge to become one massive troop, as a testament to surrounding gangs about the possibility of peace amongst enemies.
During her visit, Erie will also consult with the newly elected Council about a punishment for Count Marx.
Dustin and I passed through the lobby, pausing only for a moment to greet the bartender who had arrived early to prepare for the members' return. It has been so long since he served drinks from the bar but the sight of him standing there, amongst his bottles of liquor, cleaning glasses and hanging them overhead, was nostalgic. Almost as if nothing has happened.
He tipped his head in our direction, that alone fixed some small portion of my broken heart.
Then we exited the warehouse and crossed the lot. I refused to look at the garage, I'm not sure I will ever look at it again.
At the back of the compound, past the isles of motorcycle parts waiting to be used or recycled, just before the chainlink fence that outlined the perimeter of compound grounds, there was a small group of people.
One of them wore a thick chain around his neck that was hammered into the ground, like a dog on a leash.
All of them turned when they heard us approaching. Eli was seated in an old lawn chair that had been brought over for his comfort. A black cast was fitted snugly around his leg, signed in silver marker by only those present minus one. Although it prevented him from standing or walking, his injury did not hinder the bright smile that crossed over his face when he saw Dustin and I.
Corinth was sitting on the arm of Eli's chair but she jumped up to meet us. Her dark hair was in a high ponytail and her makeup had been cleared, it has been a lifetime since I have seen her this casual. But her smile was more beautiful than ever before, "Oh my gosh, you're awake! How are you?"
She didn't really expect an answer and I was thankful to not give one.
Nested in his own personal chair, Lumiere craned his head to stare at us from where we were standing behind him, "Good evening, you two."
Dustin ruffled his hair and squeezed his shoulders, "Feeling okay?"
Lumiere rolled his eye, "Stop worrying about me, I'm fine. You were the one who got shot."
That did not matter to Dustin in the slightest, because Lumiere currently could not walk. It would be an extensive amount of time before his severed muscles recovered enough to bear weight and it was no surprise that Dustin felt guilty for Lumiere's injuries, especially since the Count hurt Lumiere only to get him out of the way in an effort to reach Dustin.
"He's okay." Corinth reported quietly, "Doc checked on him and Eli this morning, he said he would be back later tonight with more supplies and pain medication."
Lumiere took my hand in his and dragged me closer, "Seeing you up and moving is the only medicine I need." I must look quite horrid but still Lumiere beamed as though my tear stained face and unwashed hair were signs of immaculate beauty, and he kissed the crest of my knuckle as he once did when we met so very long ago, "We missed you, sweetheart."
I hugged him tightly, mostly because I longed for the way his hugs always made me feel better. But also because I needed to be close to him, close enough to reach into his pocket.
"I missed you too." I said quickly to keep him from noticing my wandering hand.
"Oh yes ... yes, we all missed you." Came a depraved, strangled voice from the ground, "But I missed you most of all, my sweet little angel."
Instant rage flared in my chest. I pulled away from Lumiere slowly and turned to face the creature that was huddled in the dirt.
He has been here for three days, open to the elements, without food or water. No one had tended to his injuries and now dried blood darkened the already black bruises that marched across the entirety of his face like an army into battle. His eyepatch had been removed and his absent eye draped down as a stretched curtain over the uppermost part of his cheek. His hair had been glued against his head from where I hit him with the wrench, and now it was crusted over.
Corinth slammed her foot into his side and commanded, "Do not talk to her."
The Count curled himself into a ball, holding his ribcage and coughing while he laughed, too deranged to truly feel any pain, "Ahh yes, we do not talk to angels. No, no, no. We are not meant to speak to them. We can only pray to the skies and hope they listen, that is right."
He sounded delusional.
More so than usual.
I stalked closer to him. Everyone was tense and watching closely, and Dustin's intimidating presence warned the man below me of what would happen if any indication of suspicious behavior was detected.
But I was not afraid of this thing that lay at my feet.
Not anymore.
"You look like shit." I told him.
He snickered, "My compliments to the attacker."
I lowered myself to the ground and sat beside him. Dustin shuffled forward, clearly uncomfortable with my proximity, but he did not intervene. He knew I needed this closure.
"How does it feel?" I wondered.
Count Marx could hardly swallow from how tight the chain was wrapped around his neck, "How does what feel? You will have to be more specific, my dear. How does my broken nose feel? How does my concaved head feel? The bruises? The cuts? The godforsaken sickness that I am still cursed with even after everything I have done to rid myself of it?"
No emotion was present in my next question, "How does it feel to be the one on the ground Marx, while the rest of us stand over you?"
His eye slithered between me and the pillars of strength gathered behind me, as if he hadn't previously considered his position. But he noticed it now and he hated how far he has fallen, how quickly the cards fell out of his hands and into ours.
"I would have thought you might sound a bit more pleased at my defeat." He dodged my question to spare himself the humility, "Why so glum?"
I didn't have the energy or the desire to boast about our victory. Because in no way did it feel like we were victorious, not when we lost so many people in pursuit of this so-called glory.
"I want to ask you something." I readjusted my injured leg to allow me more direction, in case I needed to quickly move. Forward or backwards. Count Marx waited for me to continue, "Will you answer my question truthfully?"
He nodded but the motion was interrupted by the chain, "I can't see why I wouldn't. What would I gain from lying?"
At first my eyes would not meet his. But I remembered this might be the last time I am able to speak with him, and I can't afford to regret this moment for the rest of my life. So I lifted my head and stared at him directly. He was already watching me, too excited for this interaction and curious about my question.
"Why did you do it?"
His eager smile slipped, "Do what?"
No matter how strong I wanted to make him believe I was, my voice still cracked when I asked, "Why did you kill my brother?"
The Count's eyebrows rose, genuinely unprepared for my question, and he looked up at the sunset sky while thinking, "Hmh ... why did I kill the boy, eh? That's your big question?" He was watching the burning clouds as they drifted by, I saw their reflections in his eye, "I suppose I did not have to, but I did it for the domino effect it would cause. His death hurt you, your pain hurts Dustin. And Dustin's pain makes me feel so ultimately alive."
My throat closed quite suddenly, "There were other ways to get what you wanted."
"But the boy was the most effective way-"
"That boy's name was Toby." I snapped at him.
Count Marx sighed dramatically, "My apologies. Toby was the most effective way to get to you, to then get to Dustin. And blame me for his death if you desire but don't act like you are innocent. If you had just given Dustin over to me, I never would have had to resort to such unfavorable actions against your family."
His words were disgusting enough on their own, but the lies woven between were far worse, "That makes no difference. It wouldn't have ended with Dustin. No matter who you hurt, you never would have been satisfied."
"And are you satisfied?" His gaze dropped back down onto me and it physically hurt to be under his scowl, "Can you say you are content with the way things have ended?"
"No."
"So what are we to do? Two people, unsatisfied?" Count Marx contemplated, "Would you like to hit me again? Beat me with your fists until red rivers spill?"
My voice was smaller, "No."
"I assumed as much." That always present, egotistical sneer was on his face, "You are not like these dogs are you, my sweet angel? They chase their tails and roll in the mud, anything to appease their relentless need for primitive pleasure." His beady eye gleamed, "But not you. You are not dirty like them, you are clean. Uncorrupted, as they say."
"I suppose I am."
"You were so close though. In that garage, you were going to kill me but you didn't. When you had absolutely every opportunity to end this game, still you let me live. Such kindness shown by you, such mercy." His speech was breathy, still bewitched after all this time, "You are better than these expendable misfits." His grin broadened when he saw how his sermon affected me, "You are still my perfect little-"
I jammed a knife into his mouth.
"Stop talking." I demanded.
Behind me, Dustin and Corinth jumped forward in mortified shock. Eli sat up in his chair and shifted to stand even though he physically was unable to, and Lumiere swatted at his pockets when he recognized his knife in my hands.
Dustin was closest and he reached for me, "Sadie, you said you wanted to talk to him! What are you-"
I leaned forward, over the Count, so he could see my face from where he was choking on metal and blood, "You say I'm better than them? You think I'm clean and uncorrupt?"
Words he once said drifted from my memory, his gory descriptions of the way it feels to cut through skin. And I was pleased to discover that as Marx once gloated, he is indeed a man of his word. He was, as always, telling the truth.
The knife in my hands glided smoothly through his skin, cutting deep and drawing blood, with unexpected grace and poise. There was hardly any resistance, perhaps a little from underlying muscle and connected vessels, but that opposing pressure declined as more blood oozed from around the blade and pooled in the notch on his neck.
The same blood he has spent the last forty years of his life trying to expel from his body.
Well, he finally got what he wanted because now it is expelled.
All of it.
The Count's body rattled as death invaded and bloody gurgles puddled in the back of his throat from where he was drowning. Slowly.
So very, very slow.
I lowered even further, I wanted to watch the life snuff itself from his eye. An eye that was clouded in fear and rage and horror ... and respect.
"I am all of those things Marx, and I am better than all of this." My voice sounded inhuman even to my own ears, "But I am not any of those things right now. For you, and only for you, I am going to surrender."
He tried to say something but his mouth and tongue could not form words while a blade was stabbed through the underside of his jaw, efficiently inhibiting him from speaking.
"For the next minute only, you should feel ridiculously proud Mr. Wyatt Marx." I spit his name and I cursed him to hell, "You killed Sadie Caster."
He was the type of man to obsess over recognition. For him, not being able to brag about his victory was the most heartless punishment I could give.
And I was so very willing to reprimand him in this way.
"I hope you enjoy your reward." I seethed.
Then I punched the hilt of the knife and it launched the blade upwards, through the roof of his mouth, and into his brain. His body jolted from the force and reflexes continued to spasm after connection between his brain and body was lost.
Blood leaked down the knife and over my hand, still warm. Almost burning, but in a good way. And it allowed momentary insight to comprehend why the Count was so addicted to screams.
I twisted the knife hard, harshly dismembering skin from bone and tissue. His jaw dropped open due to loss of muscle control and I saw the blade within his mouth, skewered through him and glistening in red that was brighter than I would have thought. I half expected his blood to be black.
His body slowed and the tremors stopped. His eye was wide and watching me, but it was drifting. He was at death's door and I summoned the worst hell imaginable when his escort arrived to take him.
In his final moments, I granted him no peace. I forced his stare to find me, only me, so that I would be the last thing he ever saw. My lip curled back, "Your minute is over. I win, Marx."
Then I ripped the knife out, causing just as much damage as it did going in. Blood poured from the hole under his jaw and his head lagged in the direction of the knife's exit.
His mouth bobbed and his head rolled. His eye stayed wide and I left it that way, forever open, never at rest. He deserved that much and more.
Finally ... finally ... Count Marx was dead.
My self control returned and I backed away from him, shaking and gasping. But this was the settlement I needed. It did not heal me completely and it did not hurt any less knowing that Toby was still gone. But staring at the Count's mutilated body, caused only by my own hands, made me feel a little better.
I am not a monster, I will not let myself become the sinful entity that the Count became. But in this moment, I allowed myself to do something terrible. Something truly unforgivable.
After all, the devil was once an angel too.
But this was the end of my crusade. My fingers loosened and I let the knife drop from my hands. It thudded heavily into the dirt and lay there.
I turned to face my audience, already knowing how I must seem. I tried so hard to be the good one, to be logical and rational, to keep our group together when evil was vigorously trying to rip us all apart. I wanted to be the one they could turn to when their sins became too great, I wanted to be the one to redeem them if they ever felt less than their actual worth.
But I have been trying to be all of those things for too long, and I am tired.
Eli and Corinth were openly gawking. Lumiere sat quietly, analyzing the Count's body. The ghosts floating through his eye were active, vividly remembering all that had been done to him, but those phantoms were exorcised by the sight of the Count's lifeless carcass. And a relieved – somewhat spiteful – smile tugged at his lips.
Dustin was not staring at the body. Of us all, he had every right to celebrate the Count's death. It should have been Dustin's luxury to take the Count's life and feel his soul pass on. Count Marx has harmed us all for weeks, but he has been playing God with Dustin's life for an upwards of twenty years.
Yet Dustin was not at all concerned about the man who instigated his death, tortured him, chained him to a wall, drugged him for weeks, threatened his entire family, nailed his hands to the floor, and drained him of his blood. Dustin did not even seem to notice.
He was only staring at me, "Feel better?"
I should feel ashamed for nodding but I'm not, "Yes. I do."
How many times did I preach to Dustin about doing the right thing? How many times did I view Dustin differently after watching him kill someone who rightfully deserved the punishment they were given? Since the moment I met Dustin, a war has ensued between us about whether his actions were justified or heinous, and so many times I judged him for his barbaric behavior. I criminalized him based on his murderous conduct.
But look at me now.
An orphaned hypocrite.
Dustin approached me slowly, never losing my gaze, never letting me break contact to hide from whatever he was about to say. But I was fully aware of what was coming. He was going to scold me and tell me what I did was not in my proper character. He is going to tell me I am supposed to be better than this, that it is his duty to punish the guilty and it is my responsibility to prolong optimism of decency.
I waited for Dustin to tell me that I was wrong to kill Count Marx, that I should have shown him compassion because I am not the kind of person who would willingly take a life. I waited for him to tell me that I am a disappointment, a mistake, not only an atrocious sister but now an atrocious human being as well.
When Dustin was close enough, his hands folded around my own even though mine were drenched in blood. His eyes were soft, his lips ever so slightly heightened, and his words rolled steadily from a place of genuine care, "Marx should have known better. There is a reason why God appointed angels as Heaven's warriors."
My mouth sputtered in search of a response before words were discovered, "You ... you aren't mad?"
Dustin seemed more upset that I would expect such a reaction from him, "No, of course not. I'm not mad at all ... maybe a little concerned about your mental stability," His hands curled tighter, "But how could I ever be mad when I have stood in your exact same position, and committed much worse?"
"So ..." Even a child would sound less pathetic than I did in that moment, "You aren't disappointed in me?"
"Disappointed? Shoot, I would pay good money to watch that again!" Lumiere hollered from his chair. He couldn't stand so he resorted to kicking dirt onto the Count's body via uncoordinated legs that didn't quite obey his commands, "Serves you right, asshole. He is just lucky Sadie gave him a quick death because I would have kept him alive for weeks, peeled apart each and every part of his body one by one, sewn it all back on, then ripped him apart again and buried each of his pieces at opposite ends of the earth just for kicks!"
Dustin raised an eyebrow, "You know what, never mind. I'm not worried about Sadie's mental stability. I'm worried about yours."
"As you should be." Lumiere announced proudly.
Corinth hugged Eli from behind, and they both eased at knowing the greatest threat to our family was finally gone. She squeezed him, he returned her hold, and nonchalantly she said, "We probably could all use a little therapy."
"That is an understatement." Dustin agreed. His hands shifted to my waist and he ushered me away from the man I had just slain.
Lumiere, Corinth, and Eli continued an untroubled conversation about counseling with no indication of being disturbed by the Count's nearby corpse. But this was normal for them and it was becoming increasingly more normal for me as well.
However, Dustin didn't want that for me and so he led me away, just far enough to be out of direct sight of the body, and he asked me again, "Are you okay?"
This time I could honestly answer, "Yes."
Killing Count Marx has lifted the weight from my shoulders, but my heart still beats in tune to a song only I hear now that Toby is gone. I am hurt and it is going to take time to move on, but Dustin was right.
I have to be thankful to be alive. Toby did not get to see the world, so I will see it for him. Toby was not able to live a full life, so I will live it for him. I will race motorcycles with Dustin, and sneak midnight snacks with Corinth and Eli, and sunbathe with Lumiere; because Toby never had the chance to do so. I will make every day worth living to commemorate the hopes and dreams that died with my brother.
And someday, when I see Toby again amongst the stars, I will go to him with grand stories of adventure and love. I will have experienced a life so full of memorable endeavors and extraordinary friendships that it will be enough for both of us to flourish from; enough for Toby to feel as though he lived a thousand lives.
On this day, Sadie Caster has indeed perished but she lives on as well. Not the same, not ever again. Learned lessons converge, mistakes and messages delivered. An alliance between who she once was and who she is now. Thus a poor girl bows to the cultivation of an empress and her story is cried through the streets as legends so often are.
Rise queen, and take your place.
Your kingdom is waiting.
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Posting this (the last official chapter) is breaking my heart. I know I have put these characters through a LOT of horrible things but they are still my babies and I have been writing them for three years ... I cannot believe I am about to say goodbye </3
Be sure to return for the epilogue (I will be posting it in a only a few short days) so we can all bid farewell to these wonderful and courageous characters for the last time.
As always please vote, comment, and follow me!
Thank you forever, my darlings!
xoxo