It's a dream. This isn't real, it can't be real, she's going to wake up and be fine and it will be as if none of this mess ever happened. Maybe she won't even remember it.
Her relief doesn't last too long, though. Greta stares at Iman, the implication of 'wake you up' slowly sinking in. They don't mean pinching her. If what she's already been through hasn't been enough to rouse her from this awful nightmare, there's only one other option.
"I..." she looks away, her gaze landing on the sorry mess by the door, distantly aware that her heart is racing. What if this isn't a dream? It doesn't matter; it's the same conclusion either way. If she doesn't want to become one of those monsters, risk the awful memory of--of attacking people like some kind of rabid animal, of wanting to tear into the nearest living person (and look at who the nearest living people are, god, her dearest friend and a woman who shares her own face)... she has to die.
They'll have to kill her.
She pulls in a ragged breath, makes herself look back at Iman. "Yes," she says brokenly. "I... I understand." It's not real. It's not real. There's no reason for her to be shaking like this. "But I don't..." she looks up at Rita, easily the most stoic of the three of them, the least invested, and the other woman stares back before shifting a little, shoulders dropping in unspoken acquiescence. Greta bites her lip and shoots her a grateful look before looking back to Iman. "I don't want you to--to do it," she says, lifting a trembling hand to Iman's hijab, straightening out the creases. "I don't want to remember you doing it, I don't--I don't want you to have to..." she cuts herself off, unable to continue.
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Her relief doesn't last too long, though. Greta stares at Iman, the implication of 'wake you up' slowly sinking in. They don't mean pinching her. If what she's already been through hasn't been enough to rouse her from this awful nightmare, there's only one other option.
"I..." she looks away, her gaze landing on the sorry mess by the door, distantly aware that her heart is racing. What if this isn't a dream? It doesn't matter; it's the same conclusion either way. If she doesn't want to become one of those monsters, risk the awful memory of--of attacking people like some kind of rabid animal, of wanting to tear into the nearest living person (and look at who the nearest living people are, god, her dearest friend and a woman who shares her own face)... she has to die.
They'll have to kill her.
She pulls in a ragged breath, makes herself look back at Iman. "Yes," she says brokenly. "I... I understand." It's not real. It's not real. There's no reason for her to be shaking like this. "But I don't..." she looks up at Rita, easily the most stoic of the three of them, the least invested, and the other woman stares back before shifting a little, shoulders dropping in unspoken acquiescence. Greta bites her lip and shoots her a grateful look before looking back to Iman. "I don't want you to--to do it," she says, lifting a trembling hand to Iman's hijab, straightening out the creases. "I don't want to remember you doing it, I don't--I don't want you to have to..." she cuts herself off, unable to continue.