"All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."
--William Shakespeare, "Macbeth", V.i.56.

I'm the healer. That's who I am. Who I've always been. Before Max, before Isabel's brother and the Evans' boy, before the King, I am the healer. Birds with broken wings. Boys with bruises. Beloveds with bullets. I'm the healer.

A few mornings ago, I heard Mom in Isabel's bedroom, holding her and murmuring comforting things...telling her "it's okay." Telling her Alex loved her. Telling her that "this, too, shall pass." All the things somebody needs to hear after someone close to them dies. And there was no one here to tell them to *me*.

Instead, I paced back and forth at the foot of my bed, staring at my hands. The phantom bloodstains. Like Lady Macbeth, I whispered "Out, out, damned spot" and rubbed my palms raw.

But then I healed them.

So nobody would ask questions.

Because I'm the healer and the leader, too.

And I can't let my own blood cover my fingers when Alex's is all ready there. When the memory of being knuckle deep in Alex's chest will never fade.

I wanted to throw up when I stumbled out of the van. I wanted to drop to my knees and retch until my lungs and liver came up and spilled onto the pavement. But I didn't.

Because I'm the healer and the leader, too.

So, I didn't vomit. I didn't cry. I just walked up to them all with my failure in my eyes. And then we went home. And I began to pace. I paced into the sunrise...into Mom holding Is'...into the school day that stretched an into eternity...an eternity only broken when I hid under the bleachers and cried as Tess stroked my hair and whispered, "it's okay." Telling me that Alex knew I cared. Telling me that "this, too, shall pass."

The days before the funeral blur in my mind now. Night into day, day into night. When I heard the knock on my window, I hoped it was Michael. I hoped it was Tess. I hoped it was Alex's ghost coming to take back the parts of himself he'd left behind on my skin. I hoped it was anybody but Liz. No such luck. Because she climbed in asking for friendship...for more than I think I can give right now. She didn't seem to notice my hands shaking when I nuked the macaroni&cheese. She didn't seem to notice the way the pasta lay, cold, in my mouth as we laughed over shared memories.

All she seemed to notice was that I kissed Tess at the Prom and she stared at me with dead eyes...with efficiency in her voice. I barely recognized her. She cut me off when I tried to explain. All I got out was her name. And I realize now what I'd really wanted to say. Not an explanation of memories and first kisses...not that Tess has been the only one who lets me show weakness. Not a defense...but a confession.

"Liz, do you know what it's like to unzip a body bag? To feel your fingers catching on the tread and the plastic? Do you know how Alex looked? Do you know how pale he was? He was *gray*. Do you know how his face was all scratched up and he didn't even look the same because he must've hit the windshield when he wrecked? He didn't look happy or at peace...he looked frozen in fear. And I was terrified. I didn't want to touch him...but I did. Because I owed it to him, to everybody. And he was so cold...he was icy, Liz...and his skin felt like wet rubber...and...and it didn't work! I couldn't fix him. I couldn't bring him back. It was too late and I'm sorry."

I don't think saying any of that would've changed what happened after the funeral. Would've changed how my knees weakened when I read Sheriff Valenti's report...how he politely turned his head when I stumbled to the side of the road and finally threw up.

I don't think it would've made Liz blame me any less.

When I told her what I'd read, it was as if *I* was the stranger, as if *I* was the one crazed with grief and denial. I could feel everyone shifting, Kyle and Maria staring at me like I wasn't quite there. And then the room split. Us against Them. As if I hadn't felt the smooth edges of the coffin beneath my fingers. As if I hadn't fumbled for the rose in my lapel and thrown it onto the pile that would accompany it into the ground. As if I hadn't cared. As if I hadn't tried.

Maybe she's right.

It IS because of me. Because of the day *her* blood marked my hands. I set everything in motion the day I chose to bring *her* back. I brought her into our world, our secret...but, when push came to shove, I left Alex behind. I failed everyone when I, selfishly, saved Liz Parker. I should have let her die so that Alex could've lived.

Does it really matter if it was an accident? If it was suicide? If it was murder? What matters is that he's gone. That he's not coming back. That I couldn't bring him back. That I failed. Again.

And, this time, the stains won't wash away.

Through the walls, I hear Michael and Tess trying to calm Isabel down, assuring her that Alex's death isn't her fault...isn't *our* fault. That Liz is wrong...mad with grief. That everything will be okay.

And I am pacing.

Back and forth.

I rub my palms raw.

"Out, out, damned spot."

I'm the leader.

Ha.

I'm the healer.

Ha.

Some fucking healer.