As always, LJ is better. Also, don't own anything, but then I wouldn't be on here if I did, would I?

She nurses the spot of heat in her chest cavity, its hollowness burning her from the inside out. She's drowning in phoenix-fed flames and she longs for slim fingers to reach for her. She is Myka, but she is not. She is not the woman Pete love(d)s, the woman Claudia look(ed)s up to. She is not the agent Artie was proud of.

She dreams in black and white, lace and silk covering behind her eyes, a dark gaze smiling coyly back at her.

A pale hand reaches out to her and Myka slaps it away; she can't bear to look up into those dark eyes she hates (loves) and fall in two again.

The dream-Myka whimpers, reaching back for those pale fingers, remembering nights spent seeing clouds and stars behind her eyelids as Helena laughs breathlessly in her ear. Dream-Myka's eyes blur, and Myka wakes up, sobs building in her throat. She grips her cool sheets desperately, and she doesn't make a sound.

Once, there would have been someone to hold her close, someone who would have been tangled in her sheets, smiling sleepily up at her.

There is a darkness to her, a black heat she nurses with every cool slide of tears slipping free. She sees a bright smile and thinks only of the madness that must have lurked behind those laughing eyes. She sees thin fingers tapping away at a keyboard, remembering sucking slim fingers into her mouth, smiling up at Helena on half-forgotten nights, but thinks only of those cool fingers she wrapped around hers, aiming the barrel of Helena's gun to her head, begging "Kill me now."

This half life, she thinks, and you were all I wanted and you threw me to the ground with little more then a squeeze on a trigger. How do I live now?

"This stupid thing," she murmurs to the air, "This stupid—stupid—"

Her hands grip at her chest, and all she feels is that hole. Artie dragged her back, kicking and screaming, but she lost something when Helena was taken, and she doesn't know how to get it back. She is inflamed with love, but all she feels is anger/hurt/betrayal/fury/pain. She doesn't know how to hold Helena close anymore, can't imagine doing so even if she got the chance.

She keeps her gun with her always now, fingering the trigger guard and wondering what she would have done if Helena had never pulled the trigger.