When she woke up, she was lying on a cold steel floor. There was darkness all around her, pressing down on her from all sides. She had no idea where she was or what her purpose was in this strange new world, where even breathing took effort and the darkness felt like wet silk against her skin. She licked her lips and tasted the salt of old tears and the vague bitterness of peppermint tea. She stretched out her hands and felt only air. Space. Blankness. Like a page without a single word on it or a dream lost in the mist between dawn and dusk.

She didn't mind that she didn't know where she was. She was pretty much used to that strange emptiness at this point. But she did wish she could remember who she was... she wasn't sure why, but she felt in the grand scheme of things that might be a helpful thing to know. She was a blank canvas now and she had the opportunity to create herself as everything and anything she wanted. Maybe she should have been happy about that, but she was tired. Tired of redrawing her life and her identity to fit whatever adventure she was on. She wished she could just stay the same, but living on the boundary between fiction and reality did not exactly encourage an acceptance of the concrete. Such was life.

Taking stock of her surroundings again, she became vaguely aware of the fact that a greyness was breaking it's way into her field of vision, like a light had just been turned on behind a thick, dark curtain a hundred yards away. More of a suggestion of light than the reality of it, but it was better than nothing, so she picked herself up and began to make her way across the hard steel floor, trying to walk in a straight line towards the light and failing utterly. She got turned around so many times she became convinced that there had never been a light, or even the suggestion of one, and maybe she was right. It really was too dark to tell.

At first, when the whispers began, she barely noticed them. They were so quiet, more like the silence after a nightmare than the nightmare itself. They slipped around her effortlessly. She might as well have been a rock in the middle of a stream for how little they cared about her. They carried on about their business, and she carried on about hers. Just as it ought to be, she thought when she finally noticed them. No problem there.

Of course, she was just beginning to notice they were starting to get a bit snarky when she felt her feet begin to squish against the floor instead of thud. She paused and reached down and felt the ground. It felt moist, and squishy, and when she raised her hand back up some of whatever it was clung to her hand in a glob. It felt like mud, but when she put it up to her face and took a deep breath of it, it smelled like dying rose petals, a sweet aroma coupled with the distinct unpleasantness of rot. “What is this?” She wondered aloud, and her voice seemed smaller than she could ever remember hearing it sound before, as though it was being drowned out by a much louder noise. It was then that she realized that it was, the whispers were as quiet as before but now there were more of them, and they spoke faster, as though they were desperate.

“What is this?” She demanded again, louder this time. The whispers didn't respond. She started to get angry. “Come on, I know you can hear me.”

“Can we, dear?” The voice was hers, but colder, more bitter. Her voice at it's nastiest.


“Yes?” She said, but it was more a question than a statement. “They told me you would be able to.”

“They know less than you think they do... do you really believe all those things they say to you? They say you're fine. Do you feel fine?” She could hear the sneer in the voice, even if she couldn't see it.

“I don't feel hopeless.” She answered honestly.

“But are those the same thing?” The voice prodded. When she was silent it continued, smug. “You don't know. They wouldn't tell you, and you were afraid to ask.”

“I wasn't afraid!” She protested. “It wasn't a good time.”

“Real life doesn't have good times. Only bad times and in-between times.”

“I don't believe that.” She said, shaking her head. “That can't be true.”

“You don't have to believe it. It will still go on being true.” The voice sounded sadder now, more regretful than angry.


“What do you know about it anyway?” She demanded, hoping to catch it off guard. “You don't ever leave... this place.”

“This place is the most honest part of you.” The voice was angry again. “Don't act like you're any better than this.”

“I am better than this! I'm not this... this darkness. I don't need it to survive. You do. You need to hide.” She sounded more desperate than she had intended.

“You're just afraid that someday someone will find out what a coward you really are.” The voice was dripping with derision, the words were so sharp that they felt like a lash from a whip.

“I-I'm not a coward.” She said, but the words came back sounding hollow, even to her.

“Ha!” The voice laughed mockingly. “You act like you're so brave. You go off adventuring and laughing and pretending that you're not broken. But you are. They'll never find all of the pieces of you. They're scattered far and wide. Lost in the darkest depths of your eyes and washed away by the river of lies you tell yourself just so you can fall asleep at night. You're nothing. You're shattered. You are incomplete.”


“Stop it.” She said, her voice tight. “You don't even know me.”


“Oh, sweetie. I know you better than anyone. I am you.” The voice grew nearer. Louder. Drowning out the other whispers. Or maybe they were joining in. Coming together. Forming one voice. “Even you with your precious little ideals and morals and all your flimsy excuses, even you can't outrun your own shadow. And you never will.”

She wanted to put her hands over her ears, but she was still holding the unidentified muck from the ground. “....what is this?” she said again, her voice quieter than before.

“It's your idealism. You forgot it one day didn't you? Forgot to care about whether it lived or died. You were too busy scraping together what was left of your sanity, and you let it wither away. It's dead now. Murdered. And you're the killer.” The voice was icy. Accusatory. Mean.

Her hands were shaking as she flicked the stuff from her fingertips, but her voice came out strong. “Let's get one thing straight.” She stepped forward, nearer the voice. “I know who you are. Really.”

“Oh, really? Who am I?” The voice laughed.

“You're the empty shell of a happy little girl who had to grow up too fast. You're the wrong note at the end of every song, every spilled cup of tea and broken plate, you're every unfinished sentence and unending thought. You're the cracks inbetween the sections of the sidewalk and you're the ripped seams in every single one of my daydreams.”
“Oh, you don't even know what you're talking abou-” the voice began, but she interrupted.

“I'm not finished yet! You're scared. You're alone. But worst of all, you like it. You like being this way. Because some sick part of you thinks that this is all there is. That this unneccessary misery you put yourself through is synonymous with having a life. But it's not. Life is so much bigger than that. And you can call me naïve for thinking that, but I know I'm right about this. My words might not be loud enough and my ideas might not be broad enough but I know for sure happiness is real, I've felt it, and you're never, ever, going to convince me otherwise.”

There was a light now, vague and weak, but growing brighter every second. She could see it. She could feel it in her bones, washing over her like a breath of fresh air.

“You're delusional!” The voice spat out, filled with rage. “This is bigger than you. This is stronger than you. Pain will always catch up with you. It will trample all over you and break every last one of your bones.”

“So let it.” She said, her voice growing louder. “The only thing I need is my heart.”

The light was growing even brighter. The voice began to sound panicked. “You can't do this to me! You need me! I am the only part of you that really makes sense!”

“Or maybe you just make all the other parts of me seem like gibberish.” She said calmly. “And maybe I'm tired of it.”

The light was burning like a fire a mere few feet away. The voice was shrieking now, like a wailing siren cutting through the darkness. “You'll get crushed out there. Your blood will get drained from your veins by cynicism. You won't have a breath left in your body to call out for help. You will be broken.”

“I'm already broken.” She said. “But I'm not as ugly as you.”

The light was washing over her now. To her it felt like a baptism. A blessing. The voice screamed once more, “You're insane!” And then it vanished. Ripped from reality by the light that was now flooding over her, leaving a blank hole, like an open door directly in front of her. The whispers gave one last harsh screech and then withered into eternal silence.

The light shone brighter and brighter until she had to close her eyes. It was so bright it felt sharp, like a knife being pushed into her chest, but without any pain. She threw back her head and laughed as loud as she could. It sounded like a victory cry.


When she opened her eyes she was standing in a rose garden. The buds were just beginning to open. The scent in the air was gorgeous, like a thousand new beginnings and ancient stardust and a warm cup of tea all at once. And for once she didn't even mind that she couldn't remember who she was supposed to be. Maybe that was the whole point of her endless journeys and quests. So she could find out.

She reached down to picked a rose and cut herself on a thorn. Ah. She thought to herself, smiling wider than ever. So it begins.
And she turned and headed towards the light again.