Prompt:  'If only I could go back, back to when I had a heart...back when I had a brain...when I had you'

Grian hadn't meant to be a killer. Nobody really did, he supposed; nobody told their teacher they wanted to be a murderer when asked what they wanted to do when they grew up. Nobody wanted that to be their legacy, nobody wanted to be remembered as a monster. But still, time and time again, Grian edged closer and closer to such a thing.

But truly, he hadn't meant to kill Scar, or Ren, or least of all BigB. He didn't think the dripstone would land, or the warden would land that hit. He didn't want to die, or for Scar to fall with him.

But what he meant, or thought, or wanted didn't matter. Still, the universe played games, pushed him into such a position.

At least, that was his excuse. Something to blame. A lie to cling to in order to escape his guilt.

But every time, it grew harder to believe. Every drop of blood on his hands seemed more and more like it was his fault, like it was because of him, like he was the monster parents warned their children about at night. Like it was his fault, like he was to blame.

Whoever's fault it was, maybe it didn't matter. At the end of the day, they were still dead. Maybe it was always meant to be that way, maybe it was always going to end like that.

He was still alone, and still in hell. He was still alone, after everyone had left him. Or maybe they'd never been with him. Maybe he'd been all alone, maybe the only one who'd given a semblance of a shit about him was S-

No. That bastard hadn't cared either.

And when he thought about it, he couldn't really blame any of them either.

Maybe that was why he was curled up on the dirt, shaking so heavily he doubted he could hold a pickaxe, and there was nobody around to comfort him. His gaze was glazed over, staring at a blurry structure. And it was only as he focused upon it, that he realised what it was, and panic began to set in.

Whether he was shaking from cold or fear, he couldn't tell anymore; all he knew was that his heart was racing, and his brain was fixated on the familiar symbol, and he wanted, so very desperately, to run.

Yet, he was completely immobilised. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins with nowhere to go, and he was shaking so hard it felt like he couldn't breathe. Maybe a part of him didn't want to.

Rain pelted down onto his shivering form, turning the dirt into mud, and the clay lining the paths wet and sticky. His clothes clung to him like a dog to it's owner, grime coating every part of him. But despite the physical discomfort, his mind was still racing with regrets, and fears, and every little thing he could've done differently.

Because the fact he seemed to struggle accepting, was that he was the reason he was alone. He'd driven Scar away for some temporary relief, and the thrill of secrecy. In the end, trying to have both ended with having neither.

"Oh Scar, I'm so, so sorry," he groaned, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes that he refused to let fall. Crying was for wimps, and for weak little boys who couldn't just suck it up. Little boys like him. "If only I could go back, back to when I had a heart, when I had you-" He refused to acknowledge the way his voice caught, how desperate he sounded. "Believe me, Scar. I would in a heartbeat."

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but in that moment, he felt as if someone were wrapping their arms around him in comfort. More realistically, it was just his imagination.

That didn't stop the voice in his head, telling him it felt like Scar. But Scar was dead, and so was Grian. He would be left to suffer in hell, alone.

And honestly?

He probably deserved it.