The weight of what I was.

They say time heals.

But time was just passing.

And I knew, deep in my gut, that healing wasn't going to come easy. Not until I truly faced what was inside me.

So I made a decision.

The break was over. No more pretending.

I was done avoiding the truth.

Done escaping my reality.

Peter, Chloe, and I packed our bags again and drove back to the farmhouse—our unofficial hideout for all things creepy, dangerous, and now… supernatural.

"Back to the madhouse," Chloe said, hopping out of the car and stretching. "I brought snacks, tasers, and holy water. Just in case."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You really brought holy water?"

"You never know!" she snapped playfully. "Besides, have you seen Emma when she wakes up hangry?"

I smiled faintly. Their banter usually made me laugh, but something inside me still felt… heavy.

We settled in. The familiar creaks of the wooden floor, the chilly breeze sneaking through the windows—it all made me feel like we were back to where it all started. Like the air still held whispers of everything we had been through.

And so, the training began again.

We tried everything.

Anger. Sadness. Fear.

Peter tried to annoy me, Chloe made me blindfold walk into spiderwebs, I meditated for hours. We even used scented candles that were supposedly "psychic chakra openers."

Nothing worked.

No triggers.

No powers.

Just… emptiness.

We gave up for the night, the sun having long disappeared behind the woods. Everyone headed to bed, exhausted.

But I couldn't sleep.

Because when I did… the dream came.

And this time, it didn't hold back.

---

Flames.

Screams.

A town swallowed by ash and fire.

And me—standing in the middle of it all.

I was barefoot, blood dripping down my fingers, mouth slightly open. My white dress was soaked in red. My hair tangled like wild vines.

Bodies surrounded me. Hundreds of them.

Burnt.

Broken.

Still.

People had attacked me—fear in their eyes, hatred in their hearts. Not because I had hurt them yet, but because they were afraid I would. They cornered me, blamed me, yelled curses. I had tried to reason, to beg, to convince them I wanted to help. That I could help.

But fear turned them into monsters.

And I—well, I turned into something worse.

My rage had exploded. My powers… unleashed.

And what followed?

A massacre.

I saw their bodies scattered—men, women, elders. Over 800 people.

Gone.

Just because I couldn't control it. Because I snapped.

My breathing turned shaky in the dream. I fell to my knees as I saw the smallest ones—babies. Infants. Six-month-olds. Toddlers who had no idea what fear even meant.

And their mothers… curled beside them, trying to shield them with their own bodies.

I heard their screams, not from pain—no, they screamed from grief.

And then I saw him.

The boy.

The one who looked like Peter.

He walked through the carnage, blood splattered on his face. Not his own.

He looked at me.

Not with fear.

Not with love.

But with pure, raw disgust.

"You said you'd never become this," he whispered. "You promised."

Tears ran down his cheeks, but he didn't move toward me.

I stumbled forward. "I didn't mean to. I—They made me—"

He slapped me.

Hard.

The sting wasn't just on my cheek. It struck my soul.

"You killed babies," he said. "Babies, Emma."

"I didn't mean to!" I sobbed.

"But you did," he snapped. "And now, they're dead. Because of you."

Behind him, a group of villagers approached with chains. Shackles. Restraints.

I looked at him.

He didn't stop them.

Even though I saw it in his eyes—that part of him wanted to. But he didn't.

Because I didn't deserve to be saved.

And he knew it.

As they dragged me away, he stood still.

Tears falling silently.

Watching.

Letting go.

Because even love couldn't survive what I had done.

---

I woke up.

It was 3:12 AM.

I was lying on the farmhouse couch, wrapped in a blanket that suddenly felt too tight. My skin was cold, but my chest was burning.

I curled into myself, hugging my knees, and I broke.

Silently.

Desperately.

I couldn't breathe properly. My sobs came out in small, sharp gasps, like I was choking on my own guilt.

I buried my face into the pillow and cried.

For those people.

For those children.

For the mothers who died trying to protect them.

For the monster I had become.

And for the boy who loved me… but couldn't save me.

I cried for hours.

By the time the sun began to rise, my eyes were swollen and red, my head throbbing, my body exhausted.

But I didn't sleep again.

I couldn't.

---

Morning came.

I stayed curled up, watching the ceiling like it might collapse. Part of me wished it would.

Chloe entered the living room, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

"Emma… you look like hell," she mumbled, padding over in her bunny slippers. "Didn't sleep?"

I shook my head.

"Nightmares?" she asked, her voice softer.

I paused.

Then forced a tiny smile. "Yeah. But I'm fine now."

She frowned, not buying it—but didn't push.

Peter came in next, holding a mug of cocoa.

When he saw my face, he stopped mid-step.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

I couldn't even meet his eyes.

I just nodded.

Lie.

Lie.

Lie.

"I'm okay."

Another lie.

They didn't say anything else.

But the guilt inside me screamed.

I couldn't focus on breakfast. Couldn't focus when Chloe cracked a joke or when Peter offered to try a new way to train. I felt like a ghost in my own body—drifting, distracted.

Their voices became echoes. My vision blurred randomly.

That dream… that memory... it wouldn't leave.

Even when I laughed at Chloe's weird toast dance, I wasn't there.

Even when Peter brushed his hand near mine on the table, I didn't feel butterflies.

I felt sick.

I wanted to tell them.

To scream, "I killed them. I killed them all. You should hate me."

But I didn't.

Because I knew… the second I said it out loud, it would become real.

And I wasn't ready for that.

It had been two days since the dream.

Two whole days of pretending.

Pretending that I was fine.

Pretending that the shadows under my eyes were from bad sleep and not from a hellish memory I couldn't forget.

Pretending that I wasn't a murderer in another life.

Peter had been watching me closely. Like a hawk. Not in a creepy way, just in that worried, silently-suffering-boy way he always did. He tried cracking jokes, brushing my shoulder casually, offering to read the old books Chloe had brought from the library.

Chloe tried too. A little louder, a little brighter. She did everything from dragging me to the kitchen for pancake experiments to hiding behind furniture to jump-scare me. She even made a dance routine called "Banana Psychic Energy Flow" which was… something.

I laughed. I smiled. I even let Peter braid my hair once when we were all too bored to train.

But none of it reached me.

Because every time I closed my eyes,

I saw their faces.

The ashes.

The Peter-lookalike's eyes filled with hate.

The slap.

And those babies.

Their tiny lifeless bodies still haunted me.

So I stopped trying to escape it.

If I couldn't tell them…

I'd tell something.

---

That night, after they fell asleep, I tiptoed to the study.

The farmhouse was quiet, only the wind whistling outside. I found an old notebook—leather-bound, dusty, untouched—and opened it like it might explode.

It smelled of ink and time.

"If I ever lose myself," I wrote on the first page, "I want this to remind me who I was. Even if it hurts."

Then the words poured out.

> They came after me. With fire. With ropes. With fear in their eyes. I tried to tell them I wasn't dangerous. That I could help. But they screamed. Accused. Pushed. And something in me snapped… like a bone that never healed right.

I remember the air turning cold. The sky turning red. I remember the ground splitting. I remember the way they screamed. I remember the blood.

I killed them. All of them. Over 800.

Children too. Babies. Mothers who shielded them with their bare arms.

And he… the boy with the mole, Peter's eyes, Peter's voice. He didn't save me. He looked at me like I was a monster.

And maybe I was.

I shut the notebook hard.

I was shaking.

I slid it under a loose floorboard beneath the old reading couch and covered it with the rug. No one would find it. Not Peter. Not Chloe. Not anyone.

This pain…

This truth…

It was mine to carry.

---

The next morning, Chloe burst into the room.

"EMMA! PANCAKES ARE BURNT! WHICH MEANS THEY'RE READY!"

I blinked.

She grinned. "Also, Peter might've set off the smoke alarm trying to make syrup caramel. So, you know… typical Tuesday."

I smiled faintly, rubbing my eyes.

"I'll be down in a sec," I mumbled.

When I walked into the kitchen, Peter was waving a towel beneath the alarm while Chloe danced around with two plates of very-charred pancakes.

"There she is," Peter said, relief flickering in his tired eyes. "We thought maybe you sleep-floated to the roof and got stuck."

"She does look suspiciously haunted," Chloe added, squinting. "Dreams again?"

I paused.

Then nodded. "Yeah. Just blurry stuff. No big deal."

Lie.

Peter slid a plate toward me. "You're allowed to talk about it, you know."

I cut a piece of the pancake and stared at it.

It was shaped like a skull.

How fitting.

"I'm fine," I said softly.

They didn't believe me.

But they didn't press.

---

Later that afternoon, we sat outside under the sun. Peter was reading some dusty old scroll Chloe had borrowed from a psychic shop (which might've been a laundromat pretending to be magical). Chloe had her headphones in, dancing like no one was watching. I was supposed to be sketching symbols—ones we were testing to "calm energy flows"—but I just sat there, doodling random spirals on the page.

Peter looked at me.

"You've been really quiet," he said.

"I'm just tired."

"You're lying," he replied without malice.

I looked at him, finally meeting his eyes.

And for a split second, I wondered—what would he do if he knew?

If he knew I once slaughtered people because I was scared. Angry. Hurt.

Would he slap me too?

Would he hate me?

Would he let them take me away?

I lowered my gaze.

"You wouldn't understand," I said.

Peter's voice softened. "Try me."

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

Not yet.

---

That night, I lay on the couch again, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as the sound of crickets filled the silence.

I felt the burn in my throat again—the lump that never left.

And before I could stop myself, I whispered to the dark:

"I'm not a good person."

No one heard it but the stars.