Fighting the Losing Battle

Chapter 6 - Lies, Betrayal and the Painful Truth

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Unedited - Will be edited at a later date (May contain spelling/grammatical mistakes)

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Kira POV

"You," I whisper.

I can't believe my eyes. It can't be... But it is, right before my eyes. I can't deny it. I suppose I could try to blame it on the pain, to convince myself that I am hallucinating. Right now, that would be so much more comforting than the reality of the sight before me. But somehow, deep inside, I know I would be lying to myself. My heart aches, and I feel hot tears prick my eyes. Oh, I've been so stupid. So very, very stupid. How could you let yourself be deceived like this? You idiot, Kira!

I should have listened to the warnings.

Of course, I didn't know they were warnings, not at the time. But that doesn't change what they were. That's my gift for you – not as useful as you might think.

I suppose, most of all, I feel betrayed. I feel numb with the betrayal. In amongst all the chaos and change in my life, all the lies and the pain and the loss, I always had that one thing to rely on, that one thought that I could hold onto, to keep me strong. And now even that turns out to be a lie. Yet another lie. I don't think there can possibly be any truth left in my life anymore. All things pure and innocent and honest have been stolen from me. I thought I had gotten used to the restrictions of the life I was born into – the running, and the hiding, and the constant paranoia. And the lies.

I guess not.

Because only now, with every hope I had left crushed and defeated, do I realise the one thing that I have overlooked (or at least ignored) all these years: I never did have a choice. My entire future was planned out for me the moment I was born into this hellish life. I was destined to lose everyone and everything I ever cared about, either to death or to an even worse fate: the enemy. No matter what I did, no matter what I do now, nothing will change – nothing will stop the deaths and the betrayals.

And that choice? It makes all the difference. If I had consciously chosen this life, perhaps it would all be easier. The running and hiding, I can handle. But I can't cope with the lies. Because each time I discover that another broken fragment of my life is a lie, I feel a part of me die inside. I am one of those 'all-or-nothing' people, and it literally kills me to find out that I have given everything to someone, who never really cared. Or, in the case of so many of my people, someone who is destined to be killed.

I never got to make that choice.

If I had, my life would no doubt be different, for I would choose a normal life over this any day. But no one can choose their life, and so I'm stuck with this. And so, from now on, if by some miracle I find a way to get out of here, I cannot allow my feelings to get in my way. I must rid myself of human emotion. It is the only way to stop all the heartbreak and misery.

All of this time, he has been stood there, retreated slightly into the shadows of the door. Him. I thought I could trust him. I wanted to trust him, so badly. I never knew... He just stands there. Watching. Wary. Waiting. But for what?

I hesitantly glance at my surroundings for the first time, and realise I am in some sort of a cell. I am lying on a cold stone floor. I shouldn't still be alive. They don't take us prisoner - they kill first and ask questions later. I don't understand why I am not dead. I thought they had killed me. They shot me, didn't they? In the back? Didn't they? I try to think back to...when? This morning? Yesterday? I can't remember – back to when I was running from them, anyway. I remember the forest, the panic rising in my throat, the pain. But the details are hazy. I should be dead. I don't remember how I got here. Why am I still alive? I don't have time to wonder. I have get out.

I turn to the left, and am greeted by a pair of large, heavily studded boots. Turning to the right, I see a second pair, almost identical except in size – these are even larger. Intimidating. A shiver runs down my spine. If the boots are this menacing, how can I possibly stand up to the people in those boots? I realise pretty quickly that I must be surrounded. They aren't stupid. They have killed enough of my kind to know what we're like. The moment that I process the thought, I instantly feel defensive. I may be trapped, but I sure as hell won't go down without a fight.

I shift my weight, trying to make the movement subtle in the hope that I can catch them by surprise. I almost make it to my knees. Almost. That is, until I see the guns. Huge, deadly weapons, that could blow me to pieces with one shot. Just like that. BANG! And it would all be over. I lose my balance, and feel myself falling forwards. I throw my hands in front of me to protect my face, without thinking, and land awkwardly on my injured left arm, which faces the impossible task of supporting all of my body weight. A searing pain shoots through the tender nerves, and my arm gives way to the pressure. I collapse onto the floor, face smashing into cold stone. I hiss loudly in pain. I can sense every single one of those guns trained on me, and in that second, I know I have lost any element of surprise that I may have held over them. But that won't stop me.

I try to get up again, only to feel the chilling metal of a gun against my head. I freeze. The warning is clear. Try to move again, and we shoot.

And then I realise what he was waiting for. What they all were waiting for. Me. To make a sudden movement, to try to escape. They were wary of me.

I don't sense them approaching until it's too late.

I am unable to fight against the needle that pierces the tender skin at the nape of my neck.

A sudden wooziness tangles my thoughts, and my limbs suddenly feel dense, as though I was once floating and now I'm sinking. Fast. What have they injected me with? Drugs? Poison? I'd much rather they had saved themselves the effort, and shot me instead. At least death would be quicker that way. I frantically attempt to form coherent thoughts, anything to keep me from succumbing to the familiar sensation of unconsciousness. But it's no good. I can't fight the darkness much longer. All of the pain, once sharp enough to keep me conscious, fades to a dull ache.

I don't have much time.

Before oblivion can steal me away, I struggle to lift my heavy head, letting out a soft moan of protest. It shouldn't be this difficult. I manage to raise my face to the doorway, to him. My eyes - surely distant, bewildered - desperately search his, for some kind of sign, anything to prove that I am mistaken, that this is just another of those dreams, but I find nothing. HIs eyes are empty, resigned.

I blink unintentionally. Once my eyes are closed, it is a struggle to open them again, but I fight tirelessly against it all and, eventually, I succeed.

Only to find that the doorway is now empty.

Every trace of him, gone. Except for my fading memory. But there is no doubt in my mind. As much as I wish I could change it, there is no doubt at all. In a moment of perfect clarity, I can see it all. It all makes some sort of twisted sense.

He may be gone, but I know what he is now.

All this time, I've had it wrong. He was never trying to save me. You see, my angel never was an angel. He was never good, never there to help me overcome the trauma of my parents' death. In fact, he was the complete opposite. He was sent as a warning.

Because, my angel?

My angel is one of them.

He is the enemy.

And he could kill me at any second.

All I can do is pray, pray to any God that may or may not exist.

And as the darkness consumes me, I realise something else:

No God has ever listened to me yet.