Her voice.
It is a whisper. It is a tiny, small sound in the raging storm in my head.
But it is enough.
It is the cool water. It washes over the boiling red.
It does not kill the rage. But it soothes it. It holds it. It gives me a hand in the dark.
I gasp. My breath shudders out of me, a painful, ragged sound.
I look at her.
She is kneeling just feet away. Her hand is out. Her face is pale.
Her scent... it is spiked with fear. Fear of me.
No.
The thought is painful. I hate this. I hate making her afraid. I hate this monster inside me.
She touches me.
Her small, pale hand. It lands on my arm. The muscle tenses, it wants to smash things.
Her touch is light. It is brave.
She does not run.
The red haze recedes. It slinks back into the shadows of my mind, hissing and hateful.
It is gone.
I am left shaking. I am exhausted. My head pounds.
But... I am clear.
I won.
I look at her hand resting on my arm. I look at her face.
This is real. The fire and the scream... that is a ghost.
She is real.
I need to tell her. I need to show her. I need to hold onto this.
I reach for the stick. My hand is shaking, but it is my hand.
I scratch in the dirt. I will write what she taught me. I remember.
B - E - T - T - Y.
The lines are clumsy, but they are hers.
I point at the scratches. I point at her.
"Betty."
