#I'm a friggin mascochist so please be kind

[esthermitchell-author]

Because, apparently, I am a masochist who enjoys torturing myself, and Good Omens isn't tearing my guts out enough (it is, but still... I'm writing HEA fanfic for AziCrow because... well, until Neil tells us otherwise, I CAN)...

Believe it or not, Good Omens, Sandman, and Bones (this last of which is, sadly, finished, but I still own and watch the hell out of -- don't snark on it. I WILL fight you, and I will NOT be nice about it) are my happy place, where I got to play and get out of the really fucked up shit that lives in my head... a lot of it drawn in painful, glass-shard-sharp pieces across my soul.

So, tonight, I was working on the worst of these -- edits for a SF series that memorializes not only the love of my own life, and moments of our life together, but also the very soul-shredding way it ended. I changed details, to fit a fictional world (to help me maintain distance, according to my therapist at the time), but the important stuff came from my memories... and it's not a pretty place in there.

Anyway, this is what my masochistic brain has me working on edits for, this AM... 😢💔 It's from the 4th book in the series, called Hero's Hope...

Housing Sector, Underground Command Post, Manhattan

17 February 2119 -- 1415 Hours

A hell she didn't even believe in just came to Earth.

The silence of her and Rick's quarters closed in on her, until all she could hear was her own labored breathing, and the crack of her splintering heart. Moisture burned her cheeks and filmed her eyes until the world blurred into the darkness around her.

Shoving up from a bed that felt too big and empty, she padded across the bedroom and into the bathroom, squinting against the glare as the bathroom light flickered on automatically as the door slid open. Moving to the sink, she ran her hands under the cold water, cupping her palms to collect enough water to splash on her face in an attempt to drive away the images still clinging to the inside of her eyelids.

Blotting her face with the towel, she stared into her own dark-ringed eyes, aware sleep would be her enemy for a while. The flash of silver caught her attention, and her hand lifted to the two pendants on a single, thin chain around her neck. The small, laser-cut rose charm Rick gave her the day they met, and the hololocket he gave her back at Christmas.

Hands trembling, she dropped the towel beside the sink and reached for the 'locket, prying the small compartment open with shaking fingers. Instantly, a ghostly image rose before her, reflected in the mirror, of an angel, its wings folded protectively around a female soldier carrying a small child in her arms.

"I got your six, sweet rose."

A gasp jolted through Tamia as the words murmured from the 'locket in a voice she knew better than her own soul. She'd never left the 'locket open long enough to trigger the audio, before.

Clutching her hand around the 'locket, closing off the device, she stared into the mirror, fighting for a calm she knew was forever in her past. Without Rick here to steady her, she would swear she was in free-fall, and there was no bottom.

Her gaze caught on the splash of blue across her chest, and her hand moved to the outline of the cobalt-blue Ace of Clubs tattooed on the left side of her chest. Her wedding rings flashed under the light as she laid her hand against the patch of skin forever marking where her heart and soul belonged.

Throat closing, tears blurred her vision, and she flung herself back toward the bedroom, unable to look at the symbols of a love the universe refused to let her have.

Sinking back onto the bed, she hung her head and sobbed, torn apart from the soul out. Walter was right -- she got her wish. The terror of being all alone was nothing compared to the chest-tightening pain of reaching for Rick in the night, only to come away empty, or staring at the evidence of everything they had together and knowing her life would never be the same.

More tears spilled down her cheeks as she hugged Rick's pillow and sobbed until she couldn't breathe, falling back into the bed and curling up as far as her pregnant belly would allow as she sought to make herself as small as possible against the pain eating her alive. She wanted to die, too. Anything to escape the gnawing pit of missing Rick steadily carving its way through her soul.

With a hoarse scream of pain and fury, she pounded the bed with her fists until she collapsed, exhausted and heartbroken.

"Why?" she cried, her entire body shivering with agonized fatigue. She curled tighter, sheltering herself and her son from a world where even love lied. She closed her eyes, and Rick's face materialized in her mind's eye. She couldn't stand this; couldn't handle the emptiness, or the silence, for even a nanosecond more. With another hoarse scream of frustration, she levered herself back up from the bed, dressed, and stumbled for the front door. Outside the door to these quarters represented safety from her nightmares. At the door, she paused, her gaze turning back into the darkness as the sense of unseen eyes haunted her.

"You promised," she whispered to the darkness, just before the door closed between her and the love and pain she already knew she could never move past. Nobody was that strong. "You promised."