It was morning.

Fallon stood in the empty bathroom on the ground floor of the remaining building of Barren Pines. The building stood like the final bastion in a dying empire. Corpses littered the ground. Blood stained the hallways. The scent of death and decay hung in the air like a wet blanket. In some places, beams had fallen away, stabbing awkward angles in to the floor. Had there been a battle? Fallon did not know. There were signs of struggle in every corner, but none of it made sense, not to Fallon. This was not a place where she had succumbed to the darkness inside her, was it? Horror struck when Fallon realized she could not be sure. Time had become meaningless to the harried girl. Days were not days; minutes were not minutes; seconds were not seconds. Existence stretched out like a long road winding around steep mountains, curving and curving until it bent out of sight. Fallon tried to imagine a future, but she could not. She was dead. She was nothing. Her life was now defined by her meals – those successful attacks and even the failed ones. Even now, staring in the bathroom mirror, Fallon could see the evidence of her bloodlust. Red patches caked long auburn hair to the side of her face. Dried flakes of blood clung to her chin like old milk. She could smell Esen and Lucas on her, and the scent only made her hungry again. For a chef to feel such terrible hunger... it was cruel.

Lifting both hands, Fallon gripped the edge of the sink, leaning closer to the mirror. Her delicate hands that received a lotion and oil treatment daily and a manicure every other day appeared as strangers – the hands of another strapped to Fallon's body. Blood and flesh clung in wet chunks under her nails, and a faint red sheen reached up to her elbows. For all her tidiness in humanity, Fallon was a disgusting eater as a zombie. She felt terrified of herself, disgusted. Should she shower? A part of her wanted to; another point screamed of its futility. Night would come, and once again, Fallon would transform into a puma – a graceful, deadly, hungry animal. Her finesse for cooking and organization would not serve her then; it was the natural violence that pulsated under her skin that kept her alive, or at least still conscious.

She thought of her bedroom, the place that had been her sanctuary before it became her tomb. Her room – a palace built brick by painstaking brick – was burned to embers with the rest of the dormitory. Fallon had gone to see it, just to know that it was real. The environment that Fallon created for herself had always been a key part of the girl's identity. Over the years, her murals and organization became more intricate and planned out. In Fallon's evaluative eyes, it was another step toward perfection. Her Tupperware containers were stacked in such a way that they were at peak accessibility and easy to remove and replace. It was a beautiful system. Couldn't everyone see that? When Fallon felt stressed, sometimes she would simply open her closet and sit cross-legged on the floor, tracing her eyes over every cataloged birthday card, each stacked spool of thread, each precisely folded sweater stored according to color and fabric in flat bins of equal size. Without her sanctuary, Fallon did not know how to calm herself. It was like she was starting at ground zero. It was preschool all over again. It was letters home. It was talking to counselors. It was medication. Fallon squeezed her eyes shut. Was any of that even real? If this was an existence where she could become a monster, then who was to say she had ever lived at all?

When Fallon opened her eyes again, she did not see herself. In her mind, every single person attached to her humanity was dead too: Andeon, Leonette, Serenade, Pierrette, Abeline... She was a whisper of a girl who once had a conscience, who once understood the importance of controlling herself. Everyone had demons. Fallon simply felt hers bubble closer to the surface. She walked a carefully drawn line every day, one that kept her from teetering over the edge into mayhem. The girl was already plagued with a severe case of OCD – did she really need to add another terrible craving to her list of compulsions? Even now, she longed for more carnage, and not just for sustenance. When Fallon unleashed her anger, her mind cleared to a single point of focus: destroy. She didn't have to think about counting buttons, or organizing her tea, or assembling puzzles. She only had to punch and bite and tear. It was an unhappy compromise, but it diffused her anxiety, sent it ricocheting out through her fingertips like an errant charge. She needed the release. There was no other option.

Staring at herself, Fallon shifted her opinion, forced down her uncertainty like a lump in her throat. She was a monster now. There could be no denying it. Crying over it would do nothing for the situation. It would not bring back her dead friends. It would not remove the musty tang of blood from her mouth. No – that she could not change, but there were other things that she could. Slowly, Fallon slipped out of her bloodied uniform, throwing it in a corner. She crossed to a locker and pulled up a towel, a few left behind shower supplies, and a fresh uniform. Fallon had no idea why the bathroom in the main building had showers, but she was not arguing. The water hissed to life, and in a few moments, steam wafted up from the falling stream in waves. She slipped inside, letting the water peel the grime off of her muddied skin. The blood on her chin thickened under the water, and Fallon darted out her tongue to catch it. Each droplet was a tiny balm to her pain.

All her life, Fallon believed that she had the power to choose how she allowed herself to behave. Many times, she had imagined all the ways she might punish a person for stepping outside of her lines, for violating the rules that made her little world go round, but she had never given in, not how she truly wanted to give in. People needed to not hurt each other, right? Wasn't that what kept the balance? Nature destroyed; culture preserved. Fallon believed that, she believed it down to her bones. But that was when she was human. Whatever she was now, she was not human. She imagined her mother's face, holding her hand, telling her, “Fallon, do not do that. You are above that. You are a good girl.” Fallon wanted to believe it. Under the steady stream of water, Fallon leaned forward toward the tile, resting her forehead against the cool surface. The water was steady, the water did not vary, the water created a rhythm. Lifting two fingers, Fallon began to tap – tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

When she emerged from the shower an hour later, Fallon looked like her old self, albeit a little green around the edges. The signs of cannibalism were gone, and once she dressed and fixed her hair, it looked as though the girl might be preparing for class, or to cook dinner for her floor mates. She had no makeup, but a stray eyeliner pencil was caught between the sink and the mirror. With no other option, Fallon made use of it, tracing neat lines over the arc of her eyelid. Her fingernails were still chipped, but the blood under them had been scrubbed away. Fallon dug thin fingers through her combed hair, straightening every kink and smoothing each flyaway strand. Staring hard at herself in the mirror, Fallon drew in a slow breath, adjusting the collar of her new uniform. Stepping back, she spun once, appraising each angle for unknown details. Fallon nodded. She took a seat on a nearby bench, strapping up her heels with a sharp click. Resting her hands lightly on her knees, the young teen leaned her head back against the smooth wall.

One, two, three.

When she opened her eyes, Fallon reeked of determination. Fallon seethed control. Fallon echoed order. Fallon had been cleansed. Fallon had been made anew. Fallon would not longer swim against the current. Fallon would adapt, like she always did. Fallon would be better. Fallon would be stronger. Fallon would win.

The humans wouldn't trust a girl covered in blood.
But they could trust a face they knew.
They could trust Fallon.