At night, when everything's quiet, I toss and turn like I always do. Suddenly, Chicago is before me, the Windy City, the Second City, the capital of the Midwest, and everything smells like blood. It hurts to see your friends die, but it hurts even more when a year goes by and you start to grow up. You start to realize how tragic it is, exactly, to be maimed to death at age 15. 

You barely had a chance to do anything. To travel. To know yourself. To fall in love.

This is what flows before my eyes over and over again. Chicago spiraling towards the sky; the Empousae crowding on Millennium Park; my friends dying. Sometimes it's out of order. Sometimes it's not an empousa that kills them. 

Sometimes it's Aria that kills Kiera; sometimes it's me that kills Lucas.

Sometimes they kill themselves.