Author's Notes && Disclaimer; I don't own anything but Isabella Marie. Everything else belongs to Jonathon Larson, God rest his soul.

Yes, this is a 'main-character-sister-story'. I'm sorry if you don't like that–the green arrow in the upper left hand corner can assist you in that case. She's Roger's sister. His family's hardly mentioned, so I gave him one.

This chapter's basically a recap of everything that's happened–bare with it, please.

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What do you do when your brother runs off the day he turns eighteen? Do you listen to his promises of 'I'll be back for you', and 'I'll write', or do you assume he's lying from the start? Do you cry and cling to his leg, begging him not to leave? What can you do, when he just pushes you aside; all smiles and laughs? You cope, and that was exactly what Isabella Davis had been forced to do.

Roger had been around six when his baby sister was brought into the world. At first, she had been an unnecessary annoyance, though he grew to love the younger girl. He sheltered her from the outside world that he was growing to know, and kept her close. He protected her from their father's wrath, and tried to convince the man that she couldn't be perfect for forever. He had already been pushing so much onto her; ballet, the flute, the violin, the piano. The poor girl would never be able to have a social life, if all of that kept up. Roger, himself, had taught her guitar once she turned seven or eight–it had always been his outlet, and she enjoyed it just as much as he did.

Their father had never been kind to him–trying to literally beat his style of life out of him, and trying to force the way of 'proper' living into his mind. Needless to say, it hadn't ended well. He started smoking once he hit the young age of twelve, drinking around thirteen or fourteen. However, his sixteenth year was what had brought about the drugs. They had started out simple; pot and the like. However, they grew to be far more severe, and at only seventeen, he had an ever-growing heroin addiction. Sex, drugs, rock and roll–it was how he lived.

Roger left on his eighteenth birthday–April 14, 1984 would be a date permanently embedded into her mind. The day he was gone before dark, and left her crying in her room; all alone.

'I'll come back, Bells,' he'd promised, and she'd later learned it had been a downright lie. 'Don't worry.' He hadn't thought he'd have to worry, as their father loved her so dearly. However, he loved her while she was perfect.

She couldn't stay perfect forever.

Bella did, no doubt, follow in her brother's footsteps. Her father grew to hate the little girl that had once been his princess, and tried to beat sense into her as well. It hadn't worked, and had just driven her to worse and worse things; smoking since once she hit thirteen, some drinking. Nothing too serious, of course--she was still far too young for that!

Love for her father turned to hate, and the young girl wondered why she didn't see this side of him with Roger. However, any thoughts of her big brother hurt, and she tried not to think about him. She had tried to convince herself that she hated him, and she knew she had good reason to. He'd lied to her. He'd left. She didn't need him. Never had she been so deluded.

Back to Roger, who was making his way in the underground music scene. He was a hit, and loved by the crowds–particularly the females. Living in a loft with several of his friends (Mark Cohen and his girlfriend Maureen Johnson, Tom Collins, and Benny Coffin III), he'd never been more free, or more happy. Sex, drugs, rock and roll–still his lifestyle, to the extreme. Out late, sleeping later. He was practically nocturnal, living for the night life.

His heroin addiction was practically out of control–he was high more than he was not, though a functioning addict. The alcohol was next on the list; despite being under the drinking age, he passed easily for twenty-one, and even when he didn't, he always got a drink.

He was eighteen when she came into his life, and little did he know, she'd change it forever.

April had caught his eye, from the huge crowed that had been around him. He'd nearly forgotten the lyrics to the song he'd been singing, but managed to remember and finish it up; eyes on her the entire time, that self-confident smirk present, as it always was when he was around a pretty girl. Why she'd caught his attention, he'd never know, though he now wished he'd never gone to that club that night.

They'd talked until five in the morning, and she'd come home with him that night–well, morning, technically.

He hadn't expected their 'relationship' to last more than that night. Roger didn't do relationships, really–he did one night stands. However, it lasted, and God, did he love her. He had never felt like that before in his life, and now knew he never would. Each day felt like mere seconds with her, and the more time he'd spent with her, the more he wanted to hold her close and never let go.

Two years. Their relationship lasted two years. He'd had a ring (hidden in Mark's bed-side-table, as she stayed in his own room with him) prepared for her and everything, but he'd never been able to use it.

He'd come home from a gig (which April had skipped on, as she said she hadn't felt well) to a freaking-out Mark and a crying Maureen. Mark had tried to prevent him from getting into the bathroom, but Roger, stronger, had pushed him out of the way. He immediately wished that he hadn't. That image would forever be imprinted into his mind; always there, never fading.

There she was, the woman he'd loved; pale and covered in blood, limp and laying over the edge of the tub. Blood was everywhere, staining the white tiles and tub, as well as her skirt and shirt. On the mirror was a message, written in her favorite, crimson lipstick. 'We've got AIDS.'

He had stood there, frozen. He hadn't broken down until a few days passed–when it finally kicked in.

He had AIDS. He lost the woman he loved.

What else was there in life?

His heroin usage got steady worse and worse, and finally, reached a peak. Roger officially gave up–stopped taking his AZT, and replaced every meal with smack. Sooner than he knew it, two years after April's death, he was in the hospital for an over-dose, and for not taking his treatment.

So what do you do when it's three in the morning, and the phone rings–only for the person on the other line to tell you that your brother has AIDS and could die?

You pack what you can, and you run.

And enters Isabella Marie Davis into her brother's life once again–unexpected, and life-changing.