It would have been pathetic for Megan to break down into tears and blubber her thanks to Blaise for that admission. Blaise spared her that embarrassment.
It was for the best, really, that Megan didn’t die on top of Princess. Lessened the risk for injury, and meant Princess wouldn’t have to wake up in the arms of a corpse. Megan let go. Blaise wasn’t strong enough to drag her away, not really, not if Megan didn’t want to be dragged away, but Megan would oblige. And she didn’t need to be strong anymore. She didn’t need to bother with hiding the strangled, tearing sound her throat made. The right choices were coming to her so easily, now. It’d taken her all of one day to decide she was ready to die for Princess, but hey, she’d been ready to die for anyone. Might as well, if you’re dying, right? Isn’t that what she had decided, all those days ago?
Megan’s hands felt so empty, now. Just her and Blaise. Not too far from Princess.
God, Blaise. They really just couldn’t, could they. She’d promised herself not to get her hopes up, but damn, Megan really had loved them. She just wanted to say: It’s okay, Blaise. I don’t have to--want to--be your disaster. You don’t have to. God, just. She just wanted her death to accomplish something. She wasn't even going to find out if Princess...
And then it happened. She would’ve screamed if she could have, when the axe sank into her throat. The blood drained from her head, flowing freely, her shirt getting sticky wet, Megan gagging on blood. Fainting felt so easy. They wouldn’t even give her a clean end, the bastard.
Tears streaming down both their faces, they faced each other, staring into each other’s eyes. Or Megan did, or wanted to, anyways. Blaise had closed their eyes. They’d probably told themselves that that would be a mercy to her. Megan searched their face for something, anything. Her last moments deserved better but theirs was the last face she would ever get to look at, after all. The thought crossed Megan’s mind, that if she really really wanted to she could collapse onto Blaise, wrap them into a hug of sorts, a promise, she wasn’t sure her words would be audible but at least mouth it, you don’t have to run away anymore. She didn’t, though. Fell over backward, curled up, gurgling, gasping. Blaise probably wasn’t crying for her, but a girl can dream.
Megan was lying just a few feet away from Princess. Princess, who she couldn't touch or even see. She had chosen this, so she had no right to complain. But still, she wanted. Something. She wasn’t sure what. They were right there, Princess and Blaise, and she was listening, but it was all so very quiet.
Wasn’t too different from crying yourself to sleep, really. Shapes getting blurry. Hoping to be seen and not seen. Waiting for it to end.
Female student No. 074: DECEASED
deconstruction
private - tagging Zetsu. set day 6, early afternoon
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Alexander had been so distant. It was raining. Nia pushed him out of the way and returned fire immediately. They had not so much as seen the wound that killed him before they scrambled out of the garden, and then they were off. No clear goal in the moment other than survival but no reason to linger on what they'd done. They had no success recalling it.
Dolly, too, had been at some distance. Not nearly enough but not intimate. Some argument could be made for overkill, the first shot might have done her well enough left unattended. It had been so important to maintain their cover then. Pretenses of tactical imperative draped over the memories. They were too ethereal to mask reality in this state. Running from others had been second to running from what they'd done. Disguise was abandoned in favor of zealotry after Dolly offered them purpose. In clearer mind they might reflect on her occult leanings and muse that she had weaved a sort of curse into her request. An unsolvable task that would drive them mad without any rational suspicion. They could not be expected to read tells in the supernatural. It was not so terrible a loss. Lorenzo consumed them and they did not have to reflect on-you know, even with the second shot they had not watched her go. They were not even sure she was dead when they fled the house. Another wound left unexamined.
Joanne closer still. They had already told themself then that they barely remembered pulling the trigger. The memory did not come any clearer now. Sensation, yes, but not attachment. It was a sort of metaphor they were too clever to realize they had been making; the trigger was no more remembered than their reason for pulling it. A distraction. Some bit of cruelty on a target that exposed itself to reprisal. They had framed it as a game, cat and mouse where neither knew their role or the other's. That was the reasoning they had convinced themself of, but perhaps there was more. Perhaps for all the talk they did not have as much stomach as they pretended, and after Alexander the thought of shooting someone else totally unprompted chilled them. What came after she lost was foggy, their next clear moment was cutting the rope. The body was still there when they returned, but by then it had cooled from person to decoration worth no more attention than the fading paint.
Dante.
They had not thought about Dante in detail since they left his body. A distraction was always at hand, they made sure of it. The moment hung in their mind: fingers tangled in his hair, blood spattered all over their clothes, shattered gun burning their hand, but the wound? No. They did not hold on the wound. They had gone straight from holding him to collecting all that was now theirs. Before they were interrupted, their only pause was to command all who saw to forget, and to move on.
So they had.
Megan's presence had been just as intimate as Dante's in the moments before her death. It was the only similarity they shared. Each life they took was unique in a number of factors, but despite this they had developed the same coping strategy for all of them. It served them with Dante. It had served them all along since, and it would not fail them now. Megan had confronted them more directly than any of the others. Demanded attention down to the last second. Like so many other things she desired, Blaise chose to deny her. Just before the axe made impact they closed their eyes. There was sound. Impact as she hit the ground. Wet, disgusting attempts to steal their attention one more time. Blaise did not rise to them. They waited there trembling until there was nothing but silence. Megan would trouble them no more. They had lost control. Let her take most of what she wanted. It did not matter. They would move past her like all the others.
They opened their eyes. She was still staring right at them. The stare, that was the important part. They had seen enough blood now that it would not trouble them so deeply. The wound itself was still mostly covered by the axe. Eyes, though. They had not yet been forced to look into the eyes. The eyes of the dead should be empty, they thought, perhaps with some remnant beyond repair floating in their gaze like the fuse in a burnt out light bulb. Dead eyes were not meant to have purpose.
They met Megan's gaze not by choice, but because no matter how they stumbled it seemed to follow them, waiting for an answer to a question they had stolen her ability to ask.
The rest came in flashes. Falling hard on their ass. Retching. Choking. Vomiting. Fumbling through their bag. A glass bottle they should have known was empty. Fumes through its lidless neck too similar to undertones in their mouth. Gagging. Water. Dripping. The axe in their hand. Echoes through the hall as they stumbled their way towards daylight. They tried not to remember. Tried to reach for some thread they could weave to protect themself, if not a task then at the very least another lie. Yet in a relationship defined almost entirely on falsehood, the final tragedy between them would be that they were both too true to their word.
As Megan promised, she would haunt them.
As Blaise promised, she would not be alone.
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In Who's To Know If Your Soul Will Fade At All?))
Dolly, too, had been at some distance. Not nearly enough but not intimate. Some argument could be made for overkill, the first shot might have done her well enough left unattended. It had been so important to maintain their cover then. Pretenses of tactical imperative draped over the memories. They were too ethereal to mask reality in this state. Running from others had been second to running from what they'd done. Disguise was abandoned in favor of zealotry after Dolly offered them purpose. In clearer mind they might reflect on her occult leanings and muse that she had weaved a sort of curse into her request. An unsolvable task that would drive them mad without any rational suspicion. They could not be expected to read tells in the supernatural. It was not so terrible a loss. Lorenzo consumed them and they did not have to reflect on-you know, even with the second shot they had not watched her go. They were not even sure she was dead when they fled the house. Another wound left unexamined.
Joanne closer still. They had already told themself then that they barely remembered pulling the trigger. The memory did not come any clearer now. Sensation, yes, but not attachment. It was a sort of metaphor they were too clever to realize they had been making; the trigger was no more remembered than their reason for pulling it. A distraction. Some bit of cruelty on a target that exposed itself to reprisal. They had framed it as a game, cat and mouse where neither knew their role or the other's. That was the reasoning they had convinced themself of, but perhaps there was more. Perhaps for all the talk they did not have as much stomach as they pretended, and after Alexander the thought of shooting someone else totally unprompted chilled them. What came after she lost was foggy, their next clear moment was cutting the rope. The body was still there when they returned, but by then it had cooled from person to decoration worth no more attention than the fading paint.
Dante.
They had not thought about Dante in detail since they left his body. A distraction was always at hand, they made sure of it. The moment hung in their mind: fingers tangled in his hair, blood spattered all over their clothes, shattered gun burning their hand, but the wound? No. They did not hold on the wound. They had gone straight from holding him to collecting all that was now theirs. Before they were interrupted, their only pause was to command all who saw to forget, and to move on.
So they had.
Megan's presence had been just as intimate as Dante's in the moments before her death. It was the only similarity they shared. Each life they took was unique in a number of factors, but despite this they had developed the same coping strategy for all of them. It served them with Dante. It had served them all along since, and it would not fail them now. Megan had confronted them more directly than any of the others. Demanded attention down to the last second. Like so many other things she desired, Blaise chose to deny her. Just before the axe made impact they closed their eyes. There was sound. Impact as she hit the ground. Wet, disgusting attempts to steal their attention one more time. Blaise did not rise to them. They waited there trembling until there was nothing but silence. Megan would trouble them no more. They had lost control. Let her take most of what she wanted. It did not matter. They would move past her like all the others.
They opened their eyes. She was still staring right at them. The stare, that was the important part. They had seen enough blood now that it would not trouble them so deeply. The wound itself was still mostly covered by the axe. Eyes, though. They had not yet been forced to look into the eyes. The eyes of the dead should be empty, they thought, perhaps with some remnant beyond repair floating in their gaze like the fuse in a burnt out light bulb. Dead eyes were not meant to have purpose.
They met Megan's gaze not by choice, but because no matter how they stumbled it seemed to follow them, waiting for an answer to a question they had stolen her ability to ask.
The rest came in flashes. Falling hard on their ass. Retching. Choking. Vomiting. Fumbling through their bag. A glass bottle they should have known was empty. Fumes through its lidless neck too similar to undertones in their mouth. Gagging. Water. Dripping. The axe in their hand. Echoes through the hall as they stumbled their way towards daylight. They tried not to remember. Tried to reach for some thread they could weave to protect themself, if not a task then at the very least another lie. Yet in a relationship defined almost entirely on falsehood, the final tragedy between them would be that they were both too true to their word.
As Megan promised, she would haunt them.
As Blaise promised, she would not be alone.
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In Who's To Know If Your Soul Will Fade At All?))
Her arm was itchy. Really scratchy. Really painful. Princess knew she wasn't supposed to move it and wasn't supposed to touch it. Mom said to let wounds alone so they'd heal. But Princess couldn't help but want to rub the spot. Maybe it'd make the pain go away. It'd at least confirm that it still hurt as much as it did the last time she touched it. It was a big-feeling spot on her shoulder, that was also sticky and wet in a larger patch, which overlapped with the hem part of her shirt. She couldn't actually move her other arm to check, but she wanted to.
She was probably supposed to get up now. She wondered where Megan was. There had been people shouting at each other, loud noise, the world spinning and heat rising up from her stomach. She couldn't remember anything after all that.
She probably needed Megan's help, still. Princess could vaguely recollect scary feelings of doom, and scary feelings that she would be dead without Megan being there for her, which were scary because Princess didn't want to be a burden like that.
Mostly she could remember she just wanted Megan to be okay. It was hard taking care of someone when they were sick. Princess didn't like it when mom was sick, after all. It was scary to have to be the big girl. But she, Princess, was the big girl. She was taller.
Princess opened her eyes. It was too dark for the sun to still be up, but it was too bright for it to not be. Explosions happened behind her eyelids again. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, groaning as a loud buzz accompanied the flashing lights. They made kind of pretty patterns, but those patterns were hard to look at.
She counted to five. That was a trick for doing things that were hard. Princess remembered sitting in class and counting the seconds as they passed. It seemed like such a far away moment.
Then she could open her eyes again. Everything hurt a bit less, which made her feel better. There was a vague shadow shape human nearby her, lying down on the ground like they were sleeping. They looked like they were peacefully resting. Maybe Princess could snuggle up with them, which seemed impolite, but also Princess wanted to at least ask. Some of her friends killed people now. Some others were dead. Princess missed them all. She thought she could at least make friends with whoever was left, and that'd be less lonely.
Walking was hard. She kind of got up off the ground, but her knees were still touching the floor, which felt like lava because every inch of her trying to crawl forward hurt. She wanted to be tough, though. For some reason that was important, though she couldn't remember why it was so. She held back the tears and the panting. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. Every time she put weight on her right arm there was a really big tremble and loud heartbeat sounds in her head until she relieved it of that duty.
She reached the sleeping person. Checked them with her left hand. They were a bit cold, maybe they needed a blanket. Princess guessed it was really nighttime now, maybe that was why. She probably just didn't feel cold because she was sick.
The sleeping person was Megan, Princess realized. Their hand felt very familiar. Princess squeezed it, but after a whole second there was no response.
"Megan, wake up." Princess sounded drowsy. She really wanted to sleep.
"Come on!" Princess sounded really shrill when she whined, she realized. It was okay to be like that though. That was who she was, but she tried to disguise it sometimes. For reasons she couldn't remember. "It's dark outside and we might be in danger." Princess remembered they were in a dangerous place. People died and Princess and at least some of her friends were still alive. But not all of them... Princess remembered, now. She'd had difficulty understanding how she felt about the fact that some people were gone and that they were never coming back. There were lies, like happy dog farms and Daddy coming home, that weren't true. And Princess had been okay with that, she'd insisted. It had made her feel better when she'd said stuff like that. Still, she'd been sad. She was sad now. She'd just not said it like that yet. She'd said other more complicated things that meant the same thing, but only kinda.
She did things like that sometimes. She couldn't remember why.
Megan needed to wake up. Princess didn't know what to do without her. Thinking too hard hurt, like someone trying to squash her brain like pumpkin pulp. Princess needed help, but Megan also did too. She always did. It was her thing.
Princess needed to help Megan up. That was right. Princess grabbed Megan. Megan was heavy. She was tiny but heavy. Princess' arm wobbled. She only had one to use. It tried to wrap around Megan's waist but she refused to move off the ground enough for Princess to get her hand around all the dirt Megan had sunk into.
"Please?" Please was a magic word. Princess probably didn't say it enough. She had to remember to tell Mom sorry for not doing that.
She had to tell a lot of people sorry still. People she wanted to see again. People she couldn't. Princess was a bad person. She realized that now. Maybe Megan was refusing to get up because Princess needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe when Princess said sorry and meant it and did better next time Megan would get up, and they'd walk away, go to a safer place, a place they both belonged because it was a better place than a place like this.
Princess tried to think of words, but her brain was slow.
Someone in there was faster. They were saying things like:
But of course, the inevitable breakdown of your carefully constructed facades as you attempt to construct reality is not even enough to pierce through the virtually psychotic way you experience reality. The pretentious tropes of art, indeed, are a security blanket turned mummy wrapping around your bony little ass because they are the safest way to understand the world, wherein, you convert yourself into something akin to a walking museum exhibit.
Exhibit A, you struggle to connect your intellectual comprehension of the world around you with a more emotive one. This gives you a contrived degree of utilization of your emotions, which very aptly could be called tools of the trade much like you style yourself as some overwraught, haughty asshat who is better than the world she was born into. A world, incidentally, that actually owes you nothing, a fact you yourself recognize but only ever on the level where you tried ever harder to couch your interactions with that world in terms of the pretentious terms: bildungsroman, archetype, dramatic irony? As if any audience would consider you the protagonist.
No, see, this mindset can get you through life but only through life lived as a phantasm, wherein the deaths of the ones you loved- and yes, she is dead, you're touching her corpse, my darling Miss Dipshit- are merely arbitrary plot points to be ticked off until you can finally justify to yourself that you've deserved a poetic end.
By the way, who are you hearing now? Violet? Megan? Yourself? All one and the same. You know that, but you don't necessarily understand what it means yet. Narcissism, in so many words, needs so many words to justify the appropriation of people you only ever really understood through the self, and never through who they were, and what they really meant to you, as opposed to what they meant to your poorly written storybook.
They sounded a lot like her, anyways. Princess wasn't sure who they were though.
Megan still wasn't moving. Princess began to cry. She started to understand, through the odd jumble of shapes and stimuli she couldn't really add up into a coherent picture, that the color red meant blood. She cried until that red turned blurry. That didn't make her feel any better. It was still there, just jumbled up with all the other colors that Megan was supposed to be.
"... I'm sorry. Megan, I'm sorry! Please, just...! Just get up, I won't ask you... anything..."
She never got up. Princess gracefully accepted it, she supposed. She was crying for Megan, not for herself. She just wanted Megan to be happy. Wherever, whatever she was now.
She was still crying. It was hard to stop it. It made her eyes feel dry. She didn't feel any better. She wanted to sleep.
Princess got up. It was hard to. Her knees were scraped by the dirt and rocks, but they hurt even more when they were cushioned by air. She stumbled away from the big red shape that was Megan. She deserved to be peaceful. Princess couldn't do that yet. She was going to die. She needed to go somewhere else. She understood those things even through the agonizing haze of herself breaking down and all the world around her conspiring to resemble the friends she'd lost and forgotten how to mourn.
She saw bags and grabbed them. There were two. One was too heavy because it was on the arm that was painful, that screamed like she wanted to- but didn't know how- whenever she tried to use it. That bag dropped onto the ground. She left it behind.
She didn't know where to go actually. But she needed to go somewhere. Maybe she was supposed to stay put. Wait for Megan. Wait for Kate. For someone who knew better than she did, who could help her help herself, because the grownups always said to wait when you were lost, because when you were lost you only got yourself more lost when you tried to get found. Only other people knew how to find you.
She didn't know if she was going towards those other people. She'd left one of them behind in a temple. Left another of them behind sleeping. Left a third behind on a hospital bed.
The fourth and the very last person she trusted was still screaming in her head. She was a good fake, but she wasn't that good when everything else hurt this bad.
((Princess McQuillan continued in The Spirit World 2))
She was probably supposed to get up now. She wondered where Megan was. There had been people shouting at each other, loud noise, the world spinning and heat rising up from her stomach. She couldn't remember anything after all that.
She probably needed Megan's help, still. Princess could vaguely recollect scary feelings of doom, and scary feelings that she would be dead without Megan being there for her, which were scary because Princess didn't want to be a burden like that.
Mostly she could remember she just wanted Megan to be okay. It was hard taking care of someone when they were sick. Princess didn't like it when mom was sick, after all. It was scary to have to be the big girl. But she, Princess, was the big girl. She was taller.
Princess opened her eyes. It was too dark for the sun to still be up, but it was too bright for it to not be. Explosions happened behind her eyelids again. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, groaning as a loud buzz accompanied the flashing lights. They made kind of pretty patterns, but those patterns were hard to look at.
She counted to five. That was a trick for doing things that were hard. Princess remembered sitting in class and counting the seconds as they passed. It seemed like such a far away moment.
Then she could open her eyes again. Everything hurt a bit less, which made her feel better. There was a vague shadow shape human nearby her, lying down on the ground like they were sleeping. They looked like they were peacefully resting. Maybe Princess could snuggle up with them, which seemed impolite, but also Princess wanted to at least ask. Some of her friends killed people now. Some others were dead. Princess missed them all. She thought she could at least make friends with whoever was left, and that'd be less lonely.
Walking was hard. She kind of got up off the ground, but her knees were still touching the floor, which felt like lava because every inch of her trying to crawl forward hurt. She wanted to be tough, though. For some reason that was important, though she couldn't remember why it was so. She held back the tears and the panting. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. Every time she put weight on her right arm there was a really big tremble and loud heartbeat sounds in her head until she relieved it of that duty.
She reached the sleeping person. Checked them with her left hand. They were a bit cold, maybe they needed a blanket. Princess guessed it was really nighttime now, maybe that was why. She probably just didn't feel cold because she was sick.
The sleeping person was Megan, Princess realized. Their hand felt very familiar. Princess squeezed it, but after a whole second there was no response.
"Megan, wake up." Princess sounded drowsy. She really wanted to sleep.
"Come on!" Princess sounded really shrill when she whined, she realized. It was okay to be like that though. That was who she was, but she tried to disguise it sometimes. For reasons she couldn't remember. "It's dark outside and we might be in danger." Princess remembered they were in a dangerous place. People died and Princess and at least some of her friends were still alive. But not all of them... Princess remembered, now. She'd had difficulty understanding how she felt about the fact that some people were gone and that they were never coming back. There were lies, like happy dog farms and Daddy coming home, that weren't true. And Princess had been okay with that, she'd insisted. It had made her feel better when she'd said stuff like that. Still, she'd been sad. She was sad now. She'd just not said it like that yet. She'd said other more complicated things that meant the same thing, but only kinda.
She did things like that sometimes. She couldn't remember why.
Megan needed to wake up. Princess didn't know what to do without her. Thinking too hard hurt, like someone trying to squash her brain like pumpkin pulp. Princess needed help, but Megan also did too. She always did. It was her thing.
Princess needed to help Megan up. That was right. Princess grabbed Megan. Megan was heavy. She was tiny but heavy. Princess' arm wobbled. She only had one to use. It tried to wrap around Megan's waist but she refused to move off the ground enough for Princess to get her hand around all the dirt Megan had sunk into.
"Please?" Please was a magic word. Princess probably didn't say it enough. She had to remember to tell Mom sorry for not doing that.
She had to tell a lot of people sorry still. People she wanted to see again. People she couldn't. Princess was a bad person. She realized that now. Maybe Megan was refusing to get up because Princess needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe when Princess said sorry and meant it and did better next time Megan would get up, and they'd walk away, go to a safer place, a place they both belonged because it was a better place than a place like this.
Princess tried to think of words, but her brain was slow.
Someone in there was faster. They were saying things like:
But of course, the inevitable breakdown of your carefully constructed facades as you attempt to construct reality is not even enough to pierce through the virtually psychotic way you experience reality. The pretentious tropes of art, indeed, are a security blanket turned mummy wrapping around your bony little ass because they are the safest way to understand the world, wherein, you convert yourself into something akin to a walking museum exhibit.
Exhibit A, you struggle to connect your intellectual comprehension of the world around you with a more emotive one. This gives you a contrived degree of utilization of your emotions, which very aptly could be called tools of the trade much like you style yourself as some overwraught, haughty asshat who is better than the world she was born into. A world, incidentally, that actually owes you nothing, a fact you yourself recognize but only ever on the level where you tried ever harder to couch your interactions with that world in terms of the pretentious terms: bildungsroman, archetype, dramatic irony? As if any audience would consider you the protagonist.
No, see, this mindset can get you through life but only through life lived as a phantasm, wherein the deaths of the ones you loved- and yes, she is dead, you're touching her corpse, my darling Miss Dipshit- are merely arbitrary plot points to be ticked off until you can finally justify to yourself that you've deserved a poetic end.
By the way, who are you hearing now? Violet? Megan? Yourself? All one and the same. You know that, but you don't necessarily understand what it means yet. Narcissism, in so many words, needs so many words to justify the appropriation of people you only ever really understood through the self, and never through who they were, and what they really meant to you, as opposed to what they meant to your poorly written storybook.
They sounded a lot like her, anyways. Princess wasn't sure who they were though.
Megan still wasn't moving. Princess began to cry. She started to understand, through the odd jumble of shapes and stimuli she couldn't really add up into a coherent picture, that the color red meant blood. She cried until that red turned blurry. That didn't make her feel any better. It was still there, just jumbled up with all the other colors that Megan was supposed to be.
"... I'm sorry. Megan, I'm sorry! Please, just...! Just get up, I won't ask you... anything..."
She never got up. Princess gracefully accepted it, she supposed. She was crying for Megan, not for herself. She just wanted Megan to be happy. Wherever, whatever she was now.
She was still crying. It was hard to stop it. It made her eyes feel dry. She didn't feel any better. She wanted to sleep.
Princess got up. It was hard to. Her knees were scraped by the dirt and rocks, but they hurt even more when they were cushioned by air. She stumbled away from the big red shape that was Megan. She deserved to be peaceful. Princess couldn't do that yet. She was going to die. She needed to go somewhere else. She understood those things even through the agonizing haze of herself breaking down and all the world around her conspiring to resemble the friends she'd lost and forgotten how to mourn.
She saw bags and grabbed them. There were two. One was too heavy because it was on the arm that was painful, that screamed like she wanted to- but didn't know how- whenever she tried to use it. That bag dropped onto the ground. She left it behind.
She didn't know where to go actually. But she needed to go somewhere. Maybe she was supposed to stay put. Wait for Megan. Wait for Kate. For someone who knew better than she did, who could help her help herself, because the grownups always said to wait when you were lost, because when you were lost you only got yourself more lost when you tried to get found. Only other people knew how to find you.
She didn't know if she was going towards those other people. She'd left one of them behind in a temple. Left another of them behind sleeping. Left a third behind on a hospital bed.
The fourth and the very last person she trusted was still screaming in her head. She was a good fake, but she wasn't that good when everything else hurt this bad.
((Princess McQuillan continued in The Spirit World 2))
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