In the Mind of one Little Drone there festers a question most unkind. She who had seen so much, who had committed such heinous atrocities, who had lived through hell and clawed her way out of the fiery pits of gehenna, scratching and gnawing on any feeble hope that one day things might be better.
But now that day has come, and the quiet life she so hopelessly dreamed of lay in her lap. This is a trick. It must be a trick. Yet another horrible nightmare, yet another waking paralysis, yet another heinous glare by the daemon's vast and empty all-consuming lifeless void.
And yet, nothing comes. There is no snap, no big reveal, no bout of senseless murder to speak of. Each day passes like the last, each conversation without doubt or hate sewn between the lines, and every thought the thinks is hers and hers alone.
Such a life she had long forgotten, drowned out by the terrors she'd face each and every day of her life of naught but bleak misery and death. A life now peaceful, an existence pleasent and beautiful. Snow falls, stars twinkle, and the wind whispers sweet nothings of cold and frost.
Have I made it? Is it over? Is it gone? Am I free? Questions questions questions... awnsers of plenty, provided by her environment, her state, her friends.
Yet one question remains within her, one she dares not ask, not even herself. One whose awnser seems simple, yet whose very existence - whose implication - is the firm trunk whose roots bury deep into an amalgamation of hatred and fear one may never hope to tear from the twisted and broken mind of she-who-made-it.
