Is there hope for anything? Is there hope for survival? Is there hope for you? Or are you completely lost to the world? Travelling to Miss Peregrine's loop with your ymbryne Miss Avocet was a struggle. Your loop was raided by wights and hollows...
Barron morphs. It happens so quickly that I didn't even realise or else I would've spilt his blood on the floor. I blinked and then Barron was no longer under me.
A little girl with brown piggy tails lies replaces Barron, who is staring up at me with her big brown eyes, not unlike Enoch's.
Agatha.
No, no, no, no, no. Agatha's dead. This is Barron. Agatha's dead. This isn't her. This is Barron. This is a monster. Slit its throat!
The more I look at her, the more my twisted, haunted mind makes me believe this is Agatha. The real Agatha. Even though Agatha is dead. I watched her die. I watched the hollows kill her. In this very loop. My loop. Along with all the other peculiar children.
Agatha blinks and looks down at the blade beneath her neck.
"Y/N..." She trembles, her innocent and high pitched voice echoing though my head.
I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't, I can't, I can't.
"Y/N, what are you doing?" She says to me, tears sparkling in her eyes.
What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? I don't know, Agatha. I don't know anymore.
No, I won't let you die. I won't let you di— Wait. No. I think. You're already dead. This is Barron. Don't let your unstable mind fall for his tricks. Agatha is dead. And Barron is about to be.
I start to push the blade ever so slowly into the flesh in Agatha's—No, Barron's flesh. Agatha's words echo around in my head.
What are you doing?
Please stop.
Don't hurt me.
Y/N.
Don't let me die.
Again, again, again, again...
Agatha's scream pierces my ears, the sound a horrible, guttural cry. The exact same sound she made when she died. And now she's dying again. The scream undoes me. But this time, it's my fault. I'm a monster...
I fall back off Agatha, my body reacting, the repressed memories coming back. All those nights when I would look at the stars to drive away these images away. Only for them to come back. I press my hand against my ears, trying to drive out the children's screams, the hollow's growls, the death, the carnage, the misery. My body is reacting, I can feel myself repeatedly shape shifting, trying to drive away the memories, the pain.
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I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.
