she catches sight of her reflection, gleaming in the glass shards that make up this world.
this reflection isn’t hers. nothing is hers. she’s just an idea, a theory, something that shouldn’t exist anymore.
she reaches for a memory, and it cuts her, hot crimson blood welling up in a pinprick.
(just like she did, though only in her heart).
it seems that in an instant she’s falling, though it could be just an illusion. her arcaea, her memories, fragmenting around her, although to call most her memories would be a lie.
she’s stealing from them, stealing their memories.
is it better to have loved and lost, or to never have loved at all?
they can’t choose now.
in each moment, more and more feelings leave her, dissipating in the wind with the glass shards.
is she even anything, now? can she have memories, feelings, or anything like that?
the arcaea seems to decide for her.
the fragments reform themselves into sick, twisted shards, embedding themselves into her heart.
and there, she has to see it again, see all the deaths and pain she was powerless to save.
she curls in on herself, just enough to clutch at her skull, because she only wants the pain to stop .
the arcaea seems to agree.
she shatters into a million pieces, both inside and out, because there’s no way to come back now.