It's not something easy to talk about. He knew that the others could understand. After all, he wasn't the only one. They had all suffered, had all been through some kind of crucible. But how could one possibly say anything? How could he talk about the blood, the smoke, the sounds of screams and legs propelling bodies as they rained down from the trees, attacking, attacking, attacking…

And the nightmares, the pain, the crying out for help, when no one came.

For Sen, it wasn't something he could talk about. He had always been a freak—they all were—but the rebels had looked past that, had offered him a place among them, a place that he had never had before.

The rebellion wasn't easy, no, they never were. He had fought on the wrong side, had been ignorant to the truth, blinded by the Fuhrer's false promises. But he did better, he understood, he tried to fix his mistakes.

In return, the one person he could call his friend stabbed him in the back.

Yet, now, this was all that remained of that life. Nightmares captured in the still of a photograph at his bedside. When he looked at the picture, those smiles mocked him. They boasted of the happy life he could have had and leered at what was left.

If he had not lost his body that night, he would have lost his legs. If he had not died that night, he would have been crippled. Was he better off? In this building with other people like him. For what were they really? The dead that were not really dead. The Unlucky Ones. Plucked out of the stream of rebirth and redeath, and left kicking and screaming, not allowed to return to their home, their dimension. What were they alive for? What had they died for?

He had died for nothing. He had died so the rebellion could be crushed and his trust could be betrayed, torn up and ripped apart and thrown to the wind.

Sen wanted to lie there and wallow in his despair until he could finally die. He didn't understand how the others could pick themselves back up and move forward. He didn't understand how they could live a different life.

Perhaps it was because he was the youngest, the only one who had not yet lived long enough to understand. But what understanding, he wondered, could there possibly be. When even their humanity had been stripped from them, where was the reason?

But it's not something easy to talk about. He knew that the others understood, but he still could not understand. How did they continue living, continue loving when all they knew was the nightmares, the pain, the crying out for help when no one would come. Because no one came. No one ever came.

Sen let the tears trace lines across his face and tickle his nose, dripping onto the mattress. What else was he supposed to do?

A sound broke that unbearable silence. Sen didn't lift his head, but the slab of wood creaked anyways. False light cast shadows onto his floor.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn't remember the last time someone had shown him the meaning of living.