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Tate stayed silent as much as he could, walking from room to room. The only sounds he heard were his footfalls and his breathing. His face itched, and he tore at it to try and satisfy it. He heard a stampede up ahead and felt a dark satisfaction in the panic. No matter how many had seen him, no matter how leisurely he walked, he was still finding people who were slow to evacuate.

He came around the corner and a saw few stragglers behind the heard. He could hear them all; hearts pounding, ready to burst and tears in their frightened breath. It was music on the air. He raised his gun towards the closest kid; some boy who he recognized from track tryouts but didn't know by name.

"Run little rabbit," he whispered, steadying his arms as he pulled the trigger. The boy fell boneless to the tile floor as the blast echoed down the hall.

Tate was about to continue up the stairs when he heard the muffled crying. He stood outside of the janitor closet, listening to the frightened sobs that whoever it was was trying to subdue. Just one person in there; one terrified person. He held the gun to the side, slowly opening the door. He could practically taste the bitter fear from the person trapped inside.

He didn't have time to register who it was before the mop hit him clear in the face. He stumbled back and whoever it was pushed past him. It was definitely a girl. She was small and smelled of the flowering clean smell that most girls naturally had. He righted himself and cocked the gun. The girl stopped, trembling pathetically. She turned to face him as he lifted the gun, ready to face her fate.

Julie stared at him with sunken and horrified eyes, her face wet and pale. Tate moved closer, his gaze and gun never faltering. She cringed away from him, and he saw her fight the instinct to flee from him. He finally lowered the gun when he was only a step away from her. She didn't move away, though she still trembled.

He slowly lifted his hand, delicately wiping the tear tracks from her cheeks. She didn't flinch, and he saw from the quivering lip and closed eyes that she wasn't here. She'd gone to her bedroom to listen to Paul and John ask to hold her hand. The park to lay in the grass. Maybe his bed where he'd told her he loved her while he worshipped her body with his. Wherever she was, it definitely wasn't here.

"Don't cry," he murmured. This had the opposite effect, and a large tear fell on his thumb. "Everything will be okay. I love you."

"I wish you didn't. I wish to God you hated me," she murmured and something deep within him shriveled. How could she not understand that he was doing all of this for love? If she understood, she'd be beside him, not before him. But if she understood, he'd hate her. This was better. Now he could save her. He could save her from the blackness that lived inside of him; keep it from taking her, too.

"I love you," he repeated, searching her eyes. She was gone again, her eyes focused on a point too far away for him to grasp. He placed his palm against her cheek, pleading her to answer. She blinked and her eyes met his. "I love you, Julie Gray."

She let out a pitiful sob, lowering her head and letting herself cry openly. He tilted his head, watching her. Finally, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes again.

"I love you back, Tate Langdon," she answered, her voice thick with her tears. She held his gaze and he knew. She loved him and feared him. She hated him, and hated herself for still loving him. She was sorry she met him, and sorry that she regretted knowing him. He could see it all, and he loved her for feeling it.

The gun weighed heavily on his arm, and he set it down. He moved his foot so that it lay between his feet. He held her face in both hands, and the fear in her eyes was so tangible he could almost touch it. He moved his face to hers and gently kissed her. Her lips were unyielding, and he kissed her again. Her mouth finally softened and melded against his. Her soft hands hesitantly touched his face. His breath hitched. This had to be quick.

He snapped her neck. Her body went limp, and he scrambled to catch her before she fell. He laid her down carefully, as though he was trying not to wake her. Her brown hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo; her face serene and no longer plagued with fear. He stood up and lifted the gun, giving the love of his life one last look before ascending the stairs toward the library.

Tate awoke, sitting straight up and gasping. He hadn't had nightmares like that in months. He was sure Julie had cured it. Thinking about her made the dream come alive again. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his hands. The smell of gunpowder was in his nostrils, and he could hear her bitter, sad voice that wished that she hated him. He needed air.

He walked past her house. The lights in her bedroom were off; his insomniac princess was actually asleep. That was good, because he wouldn't be able to look at her right now. Guilt over things he hadn't done still weighed heavily upon him.

He found himself in front of the old house without really thinking about it. He was met at the door, and guided inside. People were moving around, sitting him down, doing things for him. All voices sounded like they were underwater; all except the one in his head. The only thing he could hear clearly was Julie's loathing. It ate at his brain and made him want to tear out his hair. The powder was in his nose before he knew it, and soon enough, the voice was gone.