I think it was the first time we've ever seriously argued. And it was dumb too, the reason for that whole thing. But it's amazing how people get so worked up over little things.
Now that I recall it again, I don't remember who started it, or even what it was about. Does it even matter now? All I'm sure of is that I said some horrible things—things I didn't mean—to her. She had replied, saying things she probably didn't mean to say. It just got. . .so out-of-hand. . . .

"Shut up you selfish little brat! I hate you! If you die it'd be the best thing that ever happened to me!" I yell, furious at her without really knowing why.
"Fine! See what I care! I can take care of myself!!" She screams back, then, apparently unable to stand the sight of my face, she rushes out, slamming the door behind her.

What were we arguing about?? Why didn't I go after her?? We were supposed to go some place together, weren't we? So why didn't I leave the house, find her, and make up with her?
I have no answers to those questions, really. I keep trying to tell myself that it wasn't my fault. I couldn't have known Healer was immensely hurt by what I said (after all, I was only angry, not hurt), and that she was disoriented because of that. I couldn't have known that some idiotic, powerful monster was going to choose that time to attack her. Could I?
Oh, I don't know. I'm so confused. And worse of all, I don't know how to forgive myself. . . . I don't know if I can ever forgive myself!

Playing football. . .eating. . .watching TV. . .as I'm doing all the things I love to do, I suddenly think about how she'd always just BE there, smiling, laughing, rolling her eyes. Like if I ever pig out, I would hear her voice pop into my head, "Fighter, you're going to get so huge if you keep that up!" And then the food lodges in my throat; I can't seem to swallow past the aching feeling there.

Walking down the aisles in the supermarket, I might pass some canned caviar and think, oh I'll buy some for Healer, before remembering that she's never going to be able to eat it. I would stop then, and stare. . .maybe she'll pop out of the cans or something. . .until a salesperson comes up to me and asks if I need help. I'm never able to answer her, or him.

Maker cries when she thinks I'm not looking. Maybe she feels that she doesn't want to burden me with more guilt at seeing her upset. If I ask her about it, she acts all busy and preoccupied. I'm sure it's because she doesn't want to worry me.
If I leave the house, she would ask me where I was going in about 500 different ways, trying not to be too obvious as she does. She worries about me a lot, as if I'm going to just disappear the next day.
I don't blame her, and I don't deserve any of her concern. . . .

Healer, I miss you. You left us and I couldn't even say goodbye. All I can hope for is that you didn't die thinking I hated you. I *don't*. How could I? The three of us have been through everything together. You and Maker are my best friends! But then, you must have known that. You were always more empathic than anyone else, you probably realized that I didn't hate you. . . .

I wish. . .I wish I could go see you.
But after you left, I've never seen Maker smile a real smile. As much as I want to talk to you again, she's more important, wouldn't you agree? I can't leave her now, I can't let her feel the cancer-like loneliness of being the ‘last one'.
Besides, if I do leave, you'd probably complain about how stupid I am. Yeah, I guess I am pretty stupid sometimes. . .but I wouldn't take that from anyone else but you.
I don't want Maker to mourn for a second person. I don't want her to feel guilty. I don't want her to be unhappy, more than I want to hear you call me "stupid" one more time.
You'd think so too.
So I'll go on, for Maker, for you, watching us in heaven, and for myself.
Yes, I found it— the only way I can forgive myself lies with making the survivors of this tragedy happy.
I miss you tons, Healer, but I'll see you later.

I walk quietly to Maker's room and open her door. She is face down on her bed, so I go over and tap her shoulder softly. Surprised, she bolts up, and I say with a smile, "You're getting really rusty, Maker. I mean, the door opened and you didn't even look up! Healer's going to yell at us if she sees!" It is the first time I mentioned her name to Maker since that accident.
She looks at me in shock, then returns the smile, "Thank you for coming in, Fighter."
I pause before giving her a warm hug, "You're welcome, Maker."
There's a pretty vanity mirror that was facing me as we embraced. For a fleeting moment as I looked at our reflection, I suddenly think I see Healer smile.

Yes, in this story, Healer is dead, and no, I don't have a grudge against Healer.^^ The reason I wrote this story is basically to give my opinion on what Fighter might think if this sort of tragedy ever happened.
However, this doesn't mean that Healer is going to disappear from my other stories, okay? Think of this piece as something that happens in an alternate universe. I would never kill off one of the girls in a "real" story. ^_^