She needed Michael. She really did. Or maybe a relationship was all she needed. Not for the sake of physical satisfaction, not for the sake of just 'having' an inamorato. She needed the support of a partner— the emotional attachment.

            She was tired of having to strive to be strong for herself, of always having to play the role of the emotionally independent,  self-sufficient woman with no need for anyone or anything. That's the role everyone had attributed to her, hadn't they? But then she'd catch herself in her weakness, in her need for attention, for affection, and something within her, automatically struck back.

"What are you saying, Samantha? That you're weak? That you can't handle things on your own? Here you go victimizing yourself again. Quit reveling in despair, and get a grip on yourself. You don't want to rely on medication? Then prove to yourself you can handle these little slip-ups."

That had been the story of her life, hadn't it? She always had something to prove to herself. And even now, she was scared of calling Michael, scared of hearing his voice. She knew she would crumble down if she heard his voice. And that's when she understood the irony of it all. The one person who made her the strongest, was her greatest weakness.

Was she really going against her nature? How many times had Michael not told her that no man was an island, that it was human nature to crave, to need someone to care, to love you? Did that mean it was OK to be so needy? She hated that part of her, that flaw. The worst part was that she was painfully aware of her flaws, and the fact that she couldn't do nothing about them, tortured her.

She knew she was dysfunctional. She knew she was unstable. She'd been unstable for more than four months already. She knew she had only herself to blame. Free will. Cause and consequence. She had willingly ceased to take her medication because she felt it didn't work. She'd rather not take anything at all, and deal with it herself. She knew she could handle it… but Michael didn't know this, and she was scared of calling him, telling him she was going through an episode.

She was afraid of telling him she had been feeling the overwhelming sadness, the despair, sneaking up on her. That she was having self-destructive thoughts, thoughts of worthlessness, uselessness. She didn't want to disappoint him. He'd gone through all the trouble of creating a system for her that worked, though he'd said it'd been no trouble at all.   

She didn't stop taking her medication on purpose, of course. She simply forgot about it. There were just so many things on her mind, and the watch he'd given her was packed away somewhere. Eventually she realized her oversight, when she started to go through a manic depressive episode, and didn't find her bottle of medication until it was too late. It'd been neglected, accumulating dust in one of the boxes she hadn't opened.

She coped with the episode purely by will, by talking herself out of it, and it worked. After a while, she purposely stopped taking it. She wasn't weak. She could take it. She was sure of herself. And it was partially true. Yes, she could talk herself out of an episode, but it would only block it for a small about of time, before it would hit her again, and it would become a vicious cycle after that.

 After dwelling for a bit too long on the matter, she came to the conclusion that breaking up with Michael had been her fault too. He wanted a long-distance relationship, after all. At the age of nineteen, he was ready for that kind of commitment. He was truly, deeply in love with her, but Samantha had insisted she didn't want neither of them to feel restricted.

Michael wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face against his chest, below his chin. There was a growing sob she tried to hold within her chest. "Why the hell did you come here?" He asked, his tone as bittersweet as the look in his eyes.

"Michael, I'm not—" She couldn't speak. Her voice cut off by a sob. She swallowed hard, and took in a deep breath through her mouth. She was trying so hard, not to cry.

"Why did you come here?" He pressed.

"I-I don't know, Michael." She sobbed. "I don't know anymore." She could hear the beating of his heart, feel it pumping the blood all over his body. So delicious… No. You can't do this. You can't. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. The electric flare in them, making them seem wild, treacherous. "T-to apologize…" She said, finally, trying to regain some coherence in the chaos that was her mind, her thoughts. "I wanted to tell you I loved you, before—" He cut her off, hugging her tighter, pressing her face against his shoulder, his neck. You don't know what the hell you're doing, Michael.

"I'm not asking you to give anything up. I want you as you are." Her clenched teeth began to relax, and soon her whole body began to give in. She was feeling drowsy, weak, and her lips pressed against his neck, and he felt her kissing him softly.

He felt two sharp blades pierce his skin suddenly, and his instant reaction was to push Samantha away violently. He immediately rubbed his hand against his neck, and looking at what exactly had caused him such pain, he realized there was a warm trail of blood, dripping down his hand.

"What the—" He looked at her, horrified. Eyes widened, and staring back at her, he noticed the fierce look in her eyes, that savage piercing gaze he'd seen only in Cassian's eyes, and Jan's eyes. Samantha lay motionless on the floor. Knees bent to her side, her arms pressing against the cold floor in two clenched little fists, she looked at him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you…." More tears slid down her cheeks, the blood soaked handkerchief lay folded on the ground. "We belong to different worlds, now." She smiled softly, miserably, and turning to look at the lace handkerchief, she stood up.

She avoided his gaze. She didn't want to look at his horrified expression. Her telepathy took care of it, and she realized his thoughts were more than enough for her, so quietly, she took each and every one of the blows, slowly.

I'm crazy. This is a dream—

A Nightmare.

Not. Alive. Not Alive.

Not. Human. Not. Samantha.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Dead.