She was gone, and it hurt. It still hurt. Even after he cried until the tears long since dried on pallid cheeks and a dull ache lingered; even after he expended all his anger on a stuffed copy of the man responsible for his pain, the regrettable outburst burning in the back of his mind; even after he squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to erase any memory of her he had left. Nothing worked to relieve the anguishing misery, and so, the boy continued to hurt in the solitude of his shadowed home, too tired to lick the grief-stricken wounds that plagued his still heart.

    He knew he couldn't reverse the hands of time. He knew he couldn't work miracles, dragging her spirit through the one-way veil without any fear of the consequences for disobeying the fundamental laws of nature. No, if he could, his heart would not be scarred by fractures, fraying band-aids clinging to the bruising memories of every kind face that couldn't stay with him. All Beck wanted was to have said goodbye before her body rejected her and she succumbed to the alluring fatigue he remembered so well. But fate proved itself to be oh-so cruel towards him, extinguishing any delusional hope for resolution.

    Unlike his peers who turned to the bottle or even the inhaled rush of nicotine for coping, the poltergeist couldn't rely on homebrewed whiskey to ease his troubles. To add insult to injury, Selby confiscated his alkaline comforts, sharpened knives and anything else he could improvise -- now he couldn't even overwhelm himself with distracting pain. And so the little ghost lolled sideways on his tattered excuse for an armchair, his bad leg dangling off the cushion as he idly swung it back and forth, the scuffed toe of his shoe an inch from brushing the floor. The old gauze that bound and concealed his forearms lay discarded on the dust-blanketed floor; he only wore the bandages to hide the grievous damage inflicted by his death from the public anyway. Bruises and scratches and scrapes would only garner more attention, maybe concern or even pity -- all three sickened him. Scarred hands fidgeted with a rock pocketed a year or so ago, absently rubbing the smoothed surface with a thumb. Two tacky eyes with wobbly pupils remained fastened haphazardly on the rock. Arrow's rock; the physical remnant of her place in his well-worn memory and another grim souvenir that would be treasured in his collection of abandoned belongings... mementos of those late friends to keep with him, so he wouldn't forget about them entirely. Just in case. But as he turned the innocent rock over in his hands, a pang of sadness threatened to tighten around his throat, forming a strangling wad as he fought to keep his face set in cold indifference.

    Inevitable curiosity wormed its way into his thoughts. Had she already crossed over into the afterlife? Was she scared like he once was? Or had she lost herself on the journey, condemning herself to roam on accident? No, he would have sensed her if she tarried. A wheeze slipped from blue-tinged lips. His hazel gaze drifted to the opposite wall of the room, vision landing on a neglected structure hidden beneath a moth-eaten sheet. What if he... no, he shouldn't. Beck returned his focus to the rock again, shallow breath faltering with a wet rattle once more. His expression darkened, a decision settled behind glassy eyes. The boy stumbled from the armchair, dizzily wobbling for a moment until he steadied himself against the wall. In a limp or two, he was in front of the tarp, hesitating before he gripped the sheet and yanked it down. A floor mirror stood revealed, its glass face chipped from prior abuse. Nonetheless, it would still function as a gateway to the land of the dead, to where he truly belonged. Beck grimaced at the sight of the mirror, a blatant flaw evident as he stared at the reflected world behind him. A world excluding a reflected version of his apparition. Pushing aside the unease of not being able to view himself, the poltergeist gingerly reached outwards, pressing his burnt palm against the chilled surface, causing the glass to ripple from his touch as though he were upsetting stagnant water. He swiped his hand through the mirror's veil, but the rest of him refused to follow, other hand clenched tightly around the decorated rock.

    He was cold. And it was dark. His senses, once stripped away as the last of his blood rolled off frigid skin and soaked the dirt below, inexplicably returned to him. Had it all been a nightmare? But it all seemed so real. Dully aware of his surroundings, Beck forced heavy eyelids sealed with blood partly open, only to gaze upon pitch black. He was on his back, sprawling with stiff limbs crooked and bent at awkward angles -- he last remembered being suspended upside-down before his vision was consumed by the darkness he now found himself in. It took considerable effort to move, his mind veneered in fatigue as he drew his arms closer to him and dug sore palms into the surface beneath in vain attempt to prop himself back up on rasped elbows. Untangling his legs, he folded one knee under him, biting his tongue as he glimpsed the ragged gash splitting his kneecap, and then the other. The scrawny child could only tremble in shock, realizing the hellish nightmare had been a reality after all. Oh God, he was dead, he died. He died. Beck shook his head in denial, refusing to believe the blood painting his face, back, and chest was his. He couldn't be dead; he was alive only a minute ago! He wasn't supposed to die, he was supposed to grow up! The boy buried his blood-stained face in equally slick hands, a sob wracking his broken frame as he gripped at matted hair.

    By the time his shuddering cries lapsed into sniffling hiccups, he peered from folded arms at a hand above him. He flinched backward, uncurling from his sorrowful heap to stare at the hand's owner like a spooked animal. Through the shadowed mist, the figure could barely be distinguished, but the hand wasn't moving to grab him by the shirt collar as he expected. It remained in place, palm upturned -- did it want something from him? Realizing the hand meant no harm, Beck recognized the gesture as an offer to help. Wiping his nose with the back of his arm, the boy cautiously reached for it, allowing the firm grip to pull him back to his feet -- or rather, the only foot he dared put weight on. The figure seemed to glance him over with sympathy in its obscured gaze, and Beck could faintly make out similar silhouettes around them, randomly dotting the empty landscape yet still forming a semi-cohesive line. A line for what? Before Beck could regain his voice to question, the figure already retreated back into the darkness. The boy glanced over his shoulder, finding no forms in sight behind him. Fearing what might happen if he stayed, he turned to face the opposite direction and limped without an idea of where he wandered to, fractured ankle trailing uselessly behind. All while remaining painfully unaware to the hollowed eyes boring into him --

      Effectively torn between the hope of finally conversing with Arrow one last time and his own memories, Beck was paralyzed in uncertainty. The rustle of plastic snapped him from his reverie and he wrenched his hand away from the mirror, bringing it close to his damaged chest as he wheeled around in panic. A voice, one of familiar yet gruff intonation, disturbed his thoughts. Snacks? His attention perked, and he tilted his head inquisitively. Casting the mirror a skittish glance, Beck staggered to the door, warily prying it open to peek before allowing it to swing ajar once he spotted the towering crimson figure in his yard. He squinted, in both suspicion and reaction to the direct sunlight, but he stepped past the threshold nevertheless. Red was checking in on him? "Why?" the poltergeist croaked, posture tense as though he would flee at any sudden movement. He felt pointedly vulnerable; the threadbare cloak so frequently draped over hunched shoulders was missing along with the bandaging wrapping his arms, leaving his poorly condition plain for anyone to see. Yet his expression softened upon sight of the grocery bags, and his words regained their usual childish tone as he asked, "D'ya have twinkies?"