The vision ends and they feel themself quake from head to toe in a way they never have. They taste blood. They taste it like they've swallowed a fountain of it. Their body burns like it's been flayed, though that's impossible. If the glass had still been in their hands, they would have closed their fingers around it all and held it to their chest, pain or no.

They know pain. No matter how they skirted from it, they knew pain. They didn't know that desire. They've never wanted to be themself. They've never wanted to be this.

So they don't know why they get up. They don't know why they scramble for that far door, the one to get away from whatever's attacking. They could stay behind. It could make them happy. They could make their friend happy. They don't.

They fling that far wooden door open, but pause to look back.