. . .a hundred thousand times over.

I can't remember what my mother's name is. I can't remember if my first love was blond or brunet. I can't remember the name of eight months out of twelve. No, thirteen? It must be thirteen, right?

What I can remember?

Waking up. Being the last to do so. Seeing the empty space beside me that means Liandale's already up. The rings under my eyes getting darker, and darker, and darker. Watching more and more hair come out in the bristles when I comb it. Eating the exact same breakfast every morning.

And witnessing my entire team slaughtered, right before I die too.

When my eyes open again, I stare at the ceiling for a long time before getting up.

I skip brushing my hair. I skip getting dressed. I've put on the same outfit more times than any person should, goddammit, I've earned the right to pajamas.

When I join the rest of them in the hall, they look at me. Harra's about to speak up.

"Damn, Gaudriel, you look like shit." I beat him to the punch. Then, before Alair can speak up-- "Hey, Dentur, pass the salt."

The whole table falls silent and turns their full attention to me.

"Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred twenty-six."

I answer before any of them has the chance to ask. Then, just for the sake of covering my bases-- "It'll rain until four thirty-two and seventeen seconds past. The power's gonna go out at two eighteen and forty-seven seconds past. Dentur's finally gonna confess to Alair, right before he gets stabbed in the lungs--yes, both lungs--and dies within five minutes. Liandale dies protecting Harra. Harra dies of overdraw. Alair shoots herself. And I get thrown off a cliff."

I look at their horrified expressions and helplessly ask, "Hey guys, how many months are in a year?"