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Sight for Sore Eyes

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She's used to it. At least, she's pretty sure she's well versed in it. Cheating that is. Cheating death, cheating life. After making it to her 20s with a relatively full set of bones, she figured everything that would come after was a miracle. A blessing.

She didn't have some deity or cursed fucker or sacred stick or some shit. She had her temper, her fear, and her fist. A deep breath to focus it all. These tools she had honed her whole life.

But she's having trouble with that now.

Beau can't fill her chest with air but it was getting heavier and heavier. Filling and sinking. Everything feels heavy for her. Sinking into the earth.

Damn. I gotta. Wait. Hold the fuck. Fuck. Alright. This is fine. It's fine. It's not great but.

Beau casts her eyes around, but she can't really get a clear picture. There's loud yelling. But it's getting farther and farther away.

It's a quiet acceptance.

There was never a time in her life where she wasn't fighting for something. For a meal, for a round of booze, for her friends, for what's right.

It's harder to fight for yourself though. And where she would feel that panic, that initial fear, that rage, usually rage because she would and could take on anyone, anything, because how fucking dare they.

This is different. She woke up and the fight was already over. Before she had a say in it. Mother fucker.

The only thing she could feel now was loneliness. Dying is pretty fuckin lonely. No bells, no shinning beams and choirs. Just that sinking feeling that kept pulling to the Earth's core.

A voice.

A touch.

Her eyes.

Beau can see a little more. Things coming into view. Familiar. A sweet smell close to her face. And she can't help but smile a little. Beau should know better by now, she's running with guys tougher than her. More stubborn than her. How dare she forget that.

Maybe not alone. Not anymore. Not again.

Because I have them.

Because I have her.