#scooper

“End communication.”

A trap with no escape, under a crumbling roof that shelters her from everything but her sins. What was once a fiery passion slowly dies with the growing tongues of fire that flanks her on all sides.

Trapped. It was all a trap. Not a gift. It was never a gift, not the present wrapped in a big red bow she had believed it to be.

Thoughts careen past her, they race as she paces with a mindless desperation. The heat almost solders her joints together.

I can't. I can't. Not like this. I have to do something, anything— I have to make him proud, anything to make him proud! I have to do something. Something with my life, at least. Something. Anything.

Her once relentless resolve can't help but crumble with the filthy cheap walls, melting with erratic grace under the inferno. What did she do? What could she have done to deserve this life of hers?

A voice whispers the answer before she could even finish thinking.

Nothing.

That's all she's done. Nothing, nothing remotely outstanding. Just average, average, so painfully average. She had nothing to be proud of. Under her sharp, cold, calculating facade—that's all it was, a nothing more than a facade, something to convince herself she knew more than she did—what did she have? Under her wits. Under her poker-face. What did she have?

The man takes off his mask. His face– his face looks familiar. But it can't be. Nobody was ever familiar, everything and everyone that could've been had packed up and moved away. Away from here. Away from her.

He turns for a moment. His eyebrows furrow. Is she imagining it, the way his very flesh almost seems to hesitate, flickering between alive and something that wasn't quite there? The way his eyes held a faint, luminescent pink buried deep beneath his irises?

For a moment, she thinks he'll run, fight, keep her out like he always does. Like he was no doubt told to do. His expression is unreadable. Fear? Disgust? He's frozen in place, it seems, even among this scalding amber.

And then he's not. His shoulders sag. He relaxes. He smiles—why is he smiling? Why is he still here? Get out. Get out! He takes a step toward her. She tries to yell, but the blaze chokes her throat dry. Scare him. Scare him away, away from this hell, away from this torture! Can't he feel it? Can’t you feel it? Why is he still here? Why does she want him to leave?

The voice returns, it rejects, it insists, the icy, blue-eyed beast. No, he has to stay. Stay and atone. He was a part of the plan after all, she remembered now. It's his fault. It's him, all him and the Cassette Man, all his fault, his fault, his fault. His fault for everything! A murderer, that's what he was. A murderer, though they weren't technically alive.

It's a thought tugging at her brain from the deepest, oldest parts of her, murderer, murderer, murderer, yet another voice argues back. Don't you understand! He's all we have. He's all I have.

The man reaches out. His wrinkled prune of a hand tells of a damage wreaked by something more than fire. She almost reaches back. She catches herself.

No, she knew better. She had nobody. Father said she had nobody, nobody but him. A part of her wished that was true.

But she saw no truth, none in the way his father spoke to their endless metal labyrinth like it could answer with anything more than a child's lofty giggle. Never an embrace, not a hug, not a meaningful word to her. Not even her own father could spare her a second glance.

The man’s hand is still outstretched, a defiant glint in his eyes that says she must take it. She has nobody. Amongst the vast universe, she was nobody. But maybe, if even for just a fleeting second, maybe she could have somebody.

She reaches for his hand. The barrier separating them falls. Good riddance, she thinks. She wants a hug. She wants to feel something more than a hand on hers—how long has it been since she’s had a hug?—and he steps forward too. He raises his other hand. A hug. The thought of it makes her smile. She can't feel the fire anymore. It's nothing.

The last of whatever was holding this wretched place together finally gives way, and his hands just fall short of hers before the building crumbles to ashes.

With a final glance into her brother's eyes—they look kinder now, the kindest she's ever seen them—she succumbs to the void as the evening wind whips the rowdy flames into submission.

And then she was nothing.

they live happily ever after right scottt?? right?? .

Think about relaxedly listening to your favorite music on the couch.

You scooch your chair closer to listen better.

Juan likes to listen to Brazilian music. A Juan le gusta escuchar música brasileña.