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Sitting wasn't what she wanted to do. Her leg was killing her yes, but sitting didn't help. That gave her time to think. Thinking wasn't what she needed. Action was what she needed. Thinking just left her to remember what she had done to get for, remember her wounds and struggles and arrows sticking out of people's chests and necks. It reminded what would happen if she got home. Would they already know how many she killed? Could she lie her way out of it? Could she even hold that in?


She tried to breathe more calmly, but she was breathing fast now. What would be waiting at home, the police, a lynch mob, angry parents? Would she have to go home? Or could she just run away to somewhere new and never have to confront people who knew her before? Run away and become some techie for a tiny theater. The thought had crossed her mind before. She had no idea what she was doing with life before, and doing something she had enjoyed with her friends had made some sense. She'd ultimately said no though and now she was confronted with the idea of what would she do with her life if she made it out?

Lynch mob, an institution, fucking prison...

No, holding a spotlight, community theater. She had to focus on that. It didn't matter that she hadn't been sure what she'd be doing before. That was the plan now, run a spotlight, try to go to some parties when she was older. Better than high school parties where her friends would wind up puking and then fall asleep on the floor. She would miss that though, miss my friends, but no that didn't matter! If she failed she wouldn't have any friends left anyway. Just someone, probably bitchy Renee, would get out after filling other people, herself and Katie, full of lead.

Katie, no hurting friends. She would try not to but if she had to-if she had to, could she really? Fuck, she had done it to ten other people, that had to be worth something, otherwise I'm useless and should never have started. Useless. She didn't want to be useless. She had felt that way at home, one smart sister and the other an athlete, and her, who couldn't do much of anything. Killing. Not the point.

Her stomach was churning, her breath coming in quick gasps. Her leg was still killing, but not as much as her head. She stumbled to her feet, the leg screaming pain at her as she put weight on her. No, no, I have to finish, no! One step. Another. Slow steps. Pathetic limp. The pain was still there but she was up, not falling. Her hands balled into fists around the shotgun. Keep going, not long, spotlight in a theater.

She finally got to the door to the next car. She breathed hard, ignoring her agony. She pushed the door open, saw the carpeted area of the next room. Empty, but they couldn't all be.

I only wish...
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Last of the Alderbrooks · The Train (Endgame)
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