Returning to her dorm felt like a walk of shame, minus the shame. Her clothing looked like she'd been in a fight for her life, which wasn't really that far from the truth. There was no expressive horror in her face that should have gone hand in hand with what she'd just experienced - because she knew she'd loved every second of it. That was just who she was. They were monsters living in an island filled with humans, and no matter how much Thaw roared at her to control herself, she was still hungry for more flesh. Tattered, bruised, scarred, and pristine, whether it be theirs or her own. Oblivion was her only sanity, and she found that as quickly and easily as finding a bed partner. It was simple. It was working. And that's what troubled her, as soon as she realized it. Whatever all of this was - it worked. She just hadn't been aware that there was something to work on, in the first place.

She slid down on her own bed, a warm cradle of solitude and safety, and let Thaw take care of her. It gave her time to think, which she'd been doing too much of lately. But this time, she truly considered the realization that she'd just ******** 'em and leave em, baby doll." Charlie said to her, standing in the open doorway of the motel. "You know that's just me. I had a real good time, but."

He was holding a suitcase, but she knew it was empty. He owned nothing - nothing but her - and now, he was giving up even that. He'd left her a twenty and a pack of cigarettes, because he never cared enough to realize she didn't smoke. He told her the motel was paid up until Tuesday. He thought he was being nice.

He was. Comparatively speaking, he was one of the nice ones, and she took it as a compliment that he didn't expect her to be alone long. He was right, of course - she was out by Monday. By then, she was living in the penthouse suite of a 3 star hotel - a step up. His name was Jerry, and he was 54. His hair was grey, his stomach round, and his d**k small. He had a wife and four kids. One of them was her age. Sometimes he called out her name by mistake.

Charlie had been one of the nice ones.

Perfectly manicured nails tapped thoughtfully on her headboard. She always thought it was funny, how she could remember every single name. She even remembered the names of all of Charlie's girlfriends while he'd been ******** her. Monica was the hottest - God, how she used to wish Charlie would bring her around. He couldn't even remember the fact that she didn't smoke.

Monica used to smoke.

Her first few days at Deus had been a lie. She never looked back, so she hadn't even realized it until now. She'd come to the island looking for another place to rest, but something inside of her wanted more of a change than she'd ever hoped for. Something had wished for a world where her body wasn't her greatest weapon. Thaw was.

I am.

He wasn't.

Shiloh, she thought to herself with a disappointed sigh. Shiloh had been her mistake. She'd never met someone so good, so ******** pure, and she let herself place the tiniest hope inside of him. His existence there was a chance for someone different to take her place. A tiny little pastel pink ray of hope.

And then he died.

He came back.

But she hadn't.

Nothing about Maebe had been the same since then. No, that wasn't true - everything about her had just returned. All the baggage she'd left behind on Deus' doorstep came crawling, slithering back, forcing her down on her hands and knees. This was just another den of thieves. There was no room for hope.

And then she was almost killed. A reminder of what really mattered.

So she began again.

She remembered every single name, just like always.

Peyton. Oh, that sweet, perfect little peach. She remembered how she couldn't move her body - she couldn't feel anything, let alone pleasure - and yet she'd still acted like she wanted to tear her teeth into that girl and make her scream in ecstacy. And she believed it. Of course she did.

Another name bubbled up, and she pushed it down forcefully, refusing to think about it.

Quinn. Oh, God, Quinn. She'd been so drunk, she would have probably fallen asleep if he'd let her get away with it. It would have been the worst sex she'd ever managed, but instead he pushed her away. Just the thought of it made her squirm with disgusting craving in places that were still sore from Lawr's brutality. She needed to see Quinn again. Soon.

Mark. He smelled like Frank, the mechanic who never washed his hands before he used them on her. He was disgusting. She would have taken him on his messy, cheetos riddled couch. She felt no craving for him, but she knew she wouldn't say no, either. Her stomach rolled with disgust.

Alistaire. He would never understand, but she'd already tasted all of him in that twisted New Years shared dream. She knew how good they could have been together. It was enough. And yet. It would never be enough. She wanted him dead. She wanted him.

Otto.

Maebe let out a long, thoughtful sigh. He'd hated her so much, but God help him, she was wearing him down. He would be the sweetest of conquests, when he gave in. That soft, angry little pouty face. She wanted to know what it would look like twisted in desire, mouth hanging open for sharp, ragged gasps.

Such a pretty little thing.

Dylon had been such an easy, frivolous affair. She remembered his name, and how good he was - and spared him absolutely no other thought.

Noah. So sweet. So innocent. She wanted him right now, more than anything else. She wanted him to fall in love. She wanted to break his beautiful little heart. She remembered telling him that it was someone elses job, and she would be waiting - but her patience had run out. She was ready to be that person, now. He was so sweet. He would cry for her.

America. Maebe finally smiled, and let those memories take her somewhere a little less darker. She demanded to be out in the sun, when they met. Maebe was thankful, because nothing was more beautiful than that. America reminded her that sex didn't always have to be dirty. Sometimes it was like a dream.

Lucky -

And here she stopped reminiscing, and felt a great welling of anger take her. She realized this was exactly why she'd gone to Lawr, in the first place. Lawr had been her last attempt to return to whatever cold and detached sense of self had led her to the list of names that rattled off in her head. Lawr was supposed to bring her back down to where she belonged. Right in the gutter.

And he'd tried. Oh, how hard he'd tried. He was so good, and so bad, and she'd screamed and asked for mercy and he never once gave it to her. She'd been right, to come to him.

It just hadn't worked.

She pushed herself up from her bed, and paced her room. On the wall were all the posters from America's party. All her little paper boys, posing for her pleasure. The ones that she really liked were pasted on her ceiling, Boys she hadn't even met yet. They waited, piling up in a whole new list, waiting to be branded. Because that was all she was doing, now that she thought of it. She was cleansing Deus of the light of hope that it had once falsely promised her, in the hopes that one day, there would be nothing left to claim.

And then she would be free.

But the lingering fear that there would always be Luckys, and there would always be - again, she refused to think of his name, she refused to put him on the list - they would always keep her from being free. There would always be someone willing to see her for what she truly was, and reject it.

She danced, twirling round and round in her room, her fingers brushing against all of the posters, touching each and every one - but Lucky's would never be on her wall. He would never be on her list. He would never be hers. And it had nothing to do with that nasty creature who claimed him for herself - Maebe loved a claimed man. Mimsy's possessiveness was irrelevant to her when it came to Lucky. He was the one she feared. She wouldn't make the same mistake that she'd made with Shiloh. She would never let someone who had any power over her, in.

She would be free.

Her fingers stopped on one poster, and her twirling came to an abrupt end. Nails embedded into the paper in a sudden flush of anger, and she pulled her hand back as if it had been stung. The poster was covered in stickers and glittery marker drawn hearts and penises. Lipstick marks were everywhere. She'd defiled it as thickly as she could without making it impossible to see that underneath all of that was Taym. He looked like an emaciated, beloved pop star, with how she'd decorated it.

He still hadn't seen it. He probably never would. He would never be in her room. Never check up on her again. Never care.

Her eyes welled up with wetness, and she growled as she wiped it away. Just looking at his smug, narrow face crumbled everything she'd worked so hard to build up. She hated him. Her nails clawed down the poster, ripping shreds into it until he looked like a man mauled by a tiger. The tips of her nails were pink and glittery from scratching the paint.

She moved back to her little table, pulled out a new set of nail polish, and sat down on her chair. Her back was to the shredded poster, even as it continued to flutter down and fall to the floor. She shook her nail polish bottle, staring thoughtlessly up at the ceiling and all the pretty, nameless men waiting to be met. Then she opened up the bottle, and began to carefully, meticulously cover up the mess.

Just like new.