How's the flow on this one?

Fäolin's dead. So why was Arya so attached? Fäolin's dead. Fäolin wouldn't want her to be upset. Right? Then again, here she was, replacing him. Do I even love him? She knew she did. Screw Fäolin! Making me fall in love... But then, hadn't she chosen to let herself do so? Screw you! Arya snapped to herself. He was too young.

Your mother used to say that. Well, she was dead now, too. Whoever said that the dead lived inside of the living, Arya supposed that they were right. Because now I am her. It made her angry. What right did her mother have to influence her? She'd said those things before he had died – before she had died. Before Arya had forgiven her again. She had known, too. She had known that she'd been forgiving a relapse in her mother's behavior. Even when she was dead, that woman was still so...

"Ergh!"

Just like her. I didn't even like her. How could she do this to me? As if disowning me wasn't enough – now she's influencing me?

Why had Arya let her? Figures, she told herself. Arya: always too vain to think she could ever be influenced.

Fäolin's dead.

I'm just like her.

And then there was Eragon. Sweet, dear, naïve Eragon. That's how I used to think of Fäolin. Oh, dear God, it's happening again.

It's happening again.

Fäolin's dead.

I'm just like her.

Why'd I let this happen? Why did they let me let this happen? And to think that I'd become who I swore I'd never be. I don't want to be myself. I don't want to be her.

The world had wronged her. Izlanzadí had made her act like the world was a conglomerate of peasants. Eragon had let her lead him on. Fäolin had let her love him, and then he had gone and died.

Arya frowned. Again, it sounded like something her mother would say. She shot out of the chair, marched towards the exit, grabbed the doorknob, stepped out, and threw the door into its frame. It rebounded. She placed her palm flat against its surface and forced it to stay where it belonged – shut. But the hinges had bent, and the door resisted. She huffed. She imagined herself riding riding the cool steel frame of her motorcycle, the wind displacing her hair behind her back. But then she thought of how Eragon was a rider as well. She rotated one-eighty degrees to face the narrow, dimly-lit corridor.

Eragon. This was his fault. If it weren't for him, Arya's mother wouldn't be dead. Fäolin wouldn't be dead. She wouldn't have become her mother. She wouldn't have experienced any emotions. Yes, it's all his fault. On a deeper, subconscious layer of the mind, she knew whose fault it really was. She didn't acknowledge the realization, but it still furthered the rage. Arya needed to be right. She had suffered so much that she could not be responsible for her predicament. They were wrong, not her. She was the wronged one, not the wrong one . . . Right?

It's happening again.

Fäolin's dead.

I'm just like her.

They let this happen.

It's all Eragon's fault.

Mother would say something like that. There those words were again. Something she would say.

"AGH!" She punched the door to her left. Flecks of paint sprinkled her knuckles. She swept and blew them off, but she saw what could possibly be a speck of the rubbery white peels, so she shook her hand, and it yanked on her wrist. So angry...

It's happening again.

Shut up.

Fäolin's dead.

I said, 'Shut up.'

I'm just like her.

"Nope. Shut up."

They let this—

"Shut up!"

Arya pushed against the door to support her weight. It opened inwards. She teetered momentarily, then fell . . . right into Eragon.

It's all Eragon's fault.

"Arya? Are you—"

"Haven't you done enough already!" She shoved him. He landed out flat, but he didn't move. Instead, he sighed and furled his fingers inwards.

Why'd I just do that? . . . Oh yeah, 'all his fault.' She frowned.

Am I wrong? No. I have to have been wronged. It's the only way it works. I need to be wronged. Then why did Eragon have to be so nice? He didn't deserve this. Yes, he does! I am not wrong.

"I'm not wrong," she whispered.

"Arya, do you need, like, help?"

She laughed. "Says the guy who can't hold a gun."

The door shut.

The door shut? He shut the door on me! Can't he see that I need him!

Arya grumbled and scratched the bridge of her nose. I don't need him. I'm Arya. I don't need anyone . . .

Just like her.

Arya returned to her room, slumped into the corner, and sulked.

Remember that vanity? It's how I'm shattering the vanity. Anyways, I wrote this a bit like poetry, so I'm really curious about how you thought of it.

Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!