it's going to be terrible

“Ghosts?”

Isabel scoffs at the idea, openly laughing at the woman who she knew could crush her if she so desired. Once she almost had; staring her down now felt no different than staring down the barrel of a gun, down the shaft of an arrow.

Or the belly of a tank.

But she taunts her anyways, though her body still shields and shies and slinks away as best it can. She tries to cover herself and protect what she can, but she still turns her head and sneers, the scarred corner of her lips tugging upwards in irritation. 

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” she snaps. (It would be far too miserable to carry on if she did.) “What is it that you’ve want? Come to finish the job?”

Because she still has nightmares, when her brain finds the energy and time. If she’s not cowering in some stable, hiding in some forgotten tavern, then she sleeps and dreams and always shoots awake in a cold sweat. Every night she sees the fire on the airfield, the creature from another world towering over her. Some nights, she wakes before the tank is thrown. Other nights, she’s not so lucky.