to hell and back.

My eyes shudder open slowly, adjusting to the calm light of the room. I am laying in my bed, tucked in comfortably beneath the covers. I take a deep breath, allowing the perfect-temperature air to float into my lungs. The walls look milky in the hopeful light.

My vision is still fuzzy with sleep. Rubbing it away, I roll over and snuggle into the blankets further. The room is so peaceful that it's almost dreamlike.

"Dani? Are you awake?" Vaggie whispers from behind me. I turn back over to see her laying in the other bed, her smooth, grayish face watching me with a tired gaze.

I smile at her. "Yes," I reply. This moment, with the reddish sunlight leaking in through the window, the covers protecting me from the scary things outside, Vaggie near by, keeping me company, is the moment that I want to stay in until I wake up from this terrible nightmare called death.

"How are you?" she questions me.

I rub my legs together like a cricket under the blanket. "I should be asking you that. You were the one who was stabbed in the gut."

"You were stabbed too."

"It's not the same."

Vaggie rolls her eyes. "Answer me. How is your arm?"

I become conscious of the bandages on my arm. The medics gave me a new wrap yesterday when I burst into Vaggie's session. They also kindly gave me a fresh white tee shirt to cover myself with. "It's okay. Hurts when I move it. Plus, my whole body's kind of sore."

She nods. "And how are you?"

I direct a face of confusion at her. "I just answered that."

"No, I mean you you. Like, how are you coping? With all of this?"

I shrug, but it hurts my arm, causing me to cringe. Vaggie watches me silently, almost as if she's reading my mind.

In reality, I'm not coping well. It feels like the sad, gaping hole that formed in my chest when I first awoke in Hell has been filled with anger and fear. I don't feel like the nice, silly, talkative girl that I used to be. Renewed. That's how I feel. Like I was put through a machine that took my whole body apart, then put it back together in all sorts of funky ways.

I can't stop thinking about the look on the exterminator's face after it threw the spear at me. About the dead bodies littered around the street, about the feeling of Alastor's smooth gloves caressing my skin. About the way Vaggie lurched forward after the spear hit her gut, or about the way she looked at me, sweaty and helpless and tired when I pulled it out of her. I can't stop thinking about the words Angel told me: You'll get used to it soon. I was wondering when you'd get the insanity. And the way I felt when the second exterminator approached me. Sad, alone, and ready to give up.

Yep. I'm not coping very well.

"How are you?" I ask Vaggie. "Physically and mentally."

Vaggie sighs loudly and looks at the ceiling. I follow her gaze, brushing a bit of hair out of my eyes. "Physically, not great. I can barely move without wanting to cry. Plus, I have to use that damned wheelchair." It's true. She was given a creaky black and grey wheelchair in the medical office and was told to use it at all times. Wheelchairs are for handicapped people, so I guess she just feels bad about using one. "Mentally, I feel the same as usual. Dead inside."

I blink. "Do you remember when you took me to that club to get me that black dress?"

"Yes," Vaggie says.

"I told you that you looked pretty. You told me that you were talking to someone."

She doesn't say anything.