CW: This chapter describes a character death at the very end. There are no graphic scenes.

Darkness surrounds me on all sides. There doesn't appear to be any walls, floors, or ceilings, although I am standing upright. There is nothing but black as far as the eye can see in every direction.

My mom stands before me.

"What do you want?" I demand sharply.

"We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Well I have a lot to say to you."

I turn around, turn my back to her. "I won't listen," I threaten. "I don't care."

"You don't have to listen," she says. Her voice is calm. "You just have to watch."

Everything is nothingness before my eyes. I blink, and I am back in my old house, the two-story one by the beach that I loved so very much. I sit on the sofa, looking down at my lap. My left heel bounces impatiently atop the hardwood, up and down, up and down. There are no shoes on my feet, only a long pair of socks. I am nervous.

After a moment, I hear a light "rap, rap, rap" on the back door. I hurry to it, my footfall making no noise. I push away the beige curtain and I see a man's silhouette through the window, although it is too dark to notice any detail. Heart pounding, I open the door.

The man stands before me, and the shallow light from the lamp beside the sofa floods the darkness and illuminates his features. He is middle-aged, maybe forty. His dark hair is silvering at the sides, as if his ears are slowly draining the color from it. His eyes are hard and green like the ocean. His lips are pursed into a thin line. He doesn't seem as happy to see me as I am to see him.

No, happy's not the word. I'm not happy. I'm... relieved.

"You came," I say, but my voice is not my own. It's lighter, breathier, more musical.

"I said that I would," Ian answers. But I don't know him as Ian. I know that his name is Liam. I know that I know this, but I don't know how I know. "Can I come in?"

I step out of the way and let him in. I follow him into the living room. We sit on the sofa. "Did you bring it?"

"No, Delly," — Delly?! — "I drove all the way from Fort Collins to say hello," he says sarcastically.

"Right. Sorry."

He brings his duffel bag from around his shoulder and sets it in his lap. "It's all in here."

"May I see it?" I ask.

Without speaking, he unzips the duffel. It's sole content is a hinged metal box with a keypad lock. I watch as he types in a six-digit code, and the box pops into two. He opens the lid, revealing a rather large syringe filled with a thin, bluish liquid with floating gooey particles. It strikes me as something that should never enter the human body.

I nod. My heart continues its steady pounding. I roll my sleeve up past my elbow. I hold my exposed arm out to him and squeeze my eyes shut. "Let's just get it over with," I say.

He scoffs. "I'm not going to administer it. I haven't even tested it. I have no idea what the outcome is going to be. If it'll even work... Or worse..."

I open my eyes. "You know I can just trick you into doing it."

His eyes narrow. "You promised me a long time ago that you would never use your gifts against me."

"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago."

He only glares at me.

I sigh. "I can't live like this anymore, Liam. The pain... it's excruciating. The abilities aren't worth it. I want a normal life again. I want to be with my child and not have to worry about getting sick all the time."

His gaze softens at the mention of the child. I look over at the idle television screen across from me, and my worst fears are confirmed. It is black, and I can see my reflection in it. I am not me. I am her.

"Don't you want to meet her?" I ask.

"And how exactly do you plan to explain to her who I am?"

"I can alter her perception. Make her see Brian instead. She'll come right to you."

I can see the hesitance in his expression, but I can't decide if it's due to the thought of meeting her — me — or being seen as Brian — Dad. "I think it'd be best if I just go." He begins to stand.

I wrap a hand around his wrist. "Wait—"

And that's when it hits me. The most terrible, awful, excruciating pain I have ever felt. I let out a blood-curdling scream, but I make no sound. She was used to this feeling, I remind myself. She learned to cope. I, however, want to shove an ice pick through her temples so that the pain will drain out alongside the sticky, red blood. My hands clutch both sides of my head, squeezing. As if I could push the pain back into where it came from.

"Is it happening?" I hear Ian ask, and it sounds like his voice is covered in a thick film, it echoes to me through a deep, dark space that separates me from reality. But I cannot answer. I am too busy biting the insides of my cheeks to prevent myself from crying out. I taste metallic liquid on my tongue.

But even now, as I am enduring the most incredible form of torture I have ever experienced, I am not thinking of myself. I am thinking of my daughter. Our daughter.

"Promise me you'll help her," I force out through a clenched jaw. "If this serum doesn't work, take my blood and fix it until it does work." I inhale sharply with an audible wince. "If she becomes sick when she gets older, promise me you'll help her."

I can all but hear his surprise. "Are you saying she has an abililty?!" he asks incredulously.

I avoid the questions. "Promise me!" I demand, as forceful as can still be considered an inside voice. "Promise me you will help her if she gets sick!"

Several emotions pass through his eyes — amazement, curiousity, distaste, distrust. And then the eyes land on mine. "Okay."

I snatch the syringe from the metal casing and jam the needle into my arm. The liquid burns as it enters me, and I wait for the pain to subside. But it doesn't. I am only partially aware of the arms that cradle me as my eyes fall shut.