You've changed.

"I'm mad at you, Ryder. Not only did you kill David, the person I was supposed to get rid of, the person I was supposed to get my revenge on...You killed Marius. The only person who helped me create those leaflets."

"She did wha-"

"WHY, RYDER? WHY?!" She screamed, grabbing my shoulders harshly and throwing me back. Her voice was full of nothing but rage, her face red and fists clenched so tight, her blood was no longer pigmenting her skin. "David was supposed to be mine. Marius wasn't supposed to die and, and Marlowe..He-"

"Wait, Marlowe too?-"

"DON'T INTERRUPT ME!" she screamed, striking my face. I fell back, my nose bleeding and my head throbbing. "Marlowe was sent by me to look for you. But you killed him."

"I didn't know! I-"

"YOU NEVER KNOW, RYDER," She screeched, "You're useless! I never wanted to have you!"

I was speechless. The blood circulating around my body rose faster as my heart thudded in my chest. My hands shook. My vision disfigured, as if I were looking through a fish-eye lens. My breath trembled as I tried to talk. "So...You've never cared about me?"

"Never."

"You just wanted to find me so that you could kill me?" I yelled.

"Not kill you. You're going to be punished, Ryder. Punished for your sins. You murderer."

'You murderer." The words echoed around in my mind, bouncing around, invading my thoughts and throwing a cloud over my critical thinking. Murderer? Not once had I thought of myself that way. And yet my own Mother had used such insults on me. She had dared to spout such a word to my very face, in front of me, right at this moment.

Suddenly, I wiped away my tears. I stood up, looking down at her, my eyes narrowed and my face bare.

"What are you looking at?" She said, getting up slowly. "Ryder, whatever you're thinking, don't try it. I'm your Mother. Listen to me."

I didn't. I stood still, breathing heavily and grating my jaw.

"Do you want me to hit you? Huh?" She said, nudging my shoulder, "Answer me! Shall I hit you, you murderer?"

Those words. That word. Murderer. "Don't say that." I said calmly, shaking my head.

"Why? What are you going to do? Murder me?" She laughed, cackling loudly. Her voice was so loud, so thunderous, that I couldn't concentrate on what she said. She became a different person. Her eyes had warped into a miserable black.

Anger curled hot and unstoppable in my gut, like a blazing inferno that wanted to burn me from the inside out. I clenched his fists so hard that my nails cut into my skin. "I don't want to hurt you, only because you were good to me when I was a child. I don't know what happened to you, Arya. But you need to calm down."

"Ohh I'm so scared!" She mocked me. She mocked ME.

My pulse raced almost as if I would burst. My muscles grew tense and I cracked his knuckles. My body temperature rose so high, I could feel my blood boiling.

I was no longer patient.

"Murderer huh?" I laughed, grabbing her by the neck.

Restrained and choking, she attempted to talk, "They are on their way." She mumbled, her voice scratchy.

I sighed and threw her to the ground. "Speak."

"They are on their way." She said, clearly this time.

Of course I didn't know what she was saying, but I assumed it was to scare me. "Whoever they are, I hope they have fun finding your body."

"You're gonna kill me?" She laughed, rubbing her neck in the same place I had grabbed her.

This was odd. Arya was too calm to be lying. She didn't seem panicked at all, neither did she seem scared that I was serious about harming her. Something here was wrong, but I ignored it anyway.

"Not kill you. Not yet." I pulled her up by her hair and squeezed her wrists tight. I wasn't going to kill her, I just wanted to be heard.

"I love you, Mother. Actually, I loved you. I really did. I longed for the day I would meet you again. I viewed you as my saviour, I took you as my God. But you betrayed me."

Arya stood, wide-eyed. I smiled on the inside, knowing I hit a nerve. Just as I was about to put her down, a wailing siren grew louder in the distance. At first I didn't think anything of it, but then I realised- that sound... was it?-

"They are here." She chuckled, knocking my grip off of her wrists.

I stumbled back, and realised with a shock that I knew such sounds. It was the one thing I had run away from. The only thing I couldn't bear to hear- not even see again. But it was here now, parked outside the cabin, the blinding lights still flashing my blurred vision.

I was breathless, unable to speak. I mumbled, "You...This is how you're punishing me?" I looked over to see her, tears streaming down her face. She was crying.

"You're sick, Ryder. You need help. Make up for your sins, son."

I let out a stifled gasp and threw my hand onto my mouth, muffled cries escaping from my palm.

Is this it? I progress this far, find my mother, and now I'm dying? I'm going back to prison? No, I can't accept this. This can't be happening!

I have nothing to live for, but this isn't how I want to die! I can't go back there again!

Arya ran up to the door, forcing it open and running outside screaming, "He's here! In there! He tried to kill me!"

I stood, my mind blank and flooded with a sea of emotions. I had been manipulated, fooled and now betrayed. I looked down at the shards of plate on the floor from when I threw them to the ground.

They can't get me if I'm dead, right? That's right, Mother. I'm a murderer. I was born to be a murderer. It's who I am. What I live for.

And also what I'll die for.

Perhaps for my last murder, I can punish myself. I deserve it, do I not? For my last murder, I am my own victim.

As policemen rushed in, I laughed, tears streaming down my face.

"Ryder, put down the weapon!" He yelled, the muzzle of the gun aimed at my chest.

I ignored everything around me. With each tear, each memory came flooding back. I hadn't once stopped to think what my life would be like if none of this had happened. If I had been born into a loving family, a loving mother and a caring father.

I held up the shard at my chest, and only lightly forced it onto my skin. My life never had any meaning- I should have died at the age of 12. At 12, which was when the meaning of life had run out for me. Yet I carried on living, for thrill that was never found.

What a twisted journey this life was. I laughed at myself, pushing the shard further in, ripping through my flesh.

'Slice'. I felt the cold, splintering glass being penetrated through my chest, as blood poured out quickly. A simple red gash formed on my chest as though it had been painted, and the ichor of mankind poured from them as though it were no more than watercolour. It ran up my throat, escaping through my parted lips. It blocked my lungs, stuffing them with a familiar feeling. It was the feeling I had been born with and the feeling I would end with.

Pain.

Agony.

Confusion.

I felt my head hit the ground, stopping my thoughts and sending an electric chain of unbearable torment through me. A velvet river poured from the wound, meandering effortlessly as it carried away any hope of survival, staining all it touched with unthinkable relief.

And that was the end of my journey. The journey that led to death.

The end.