.:A/N: This is my second Stand By Me fic. In case you didn't get it from the summary, it's basically about Chris & this girl Audrey, who used to go out, but things ended pretty badly and then the worst comes to worst, etc. Since my last Stand By Me fic kind of failed in epic proportions (you can still read it, it's called Survivor's Guilt), I'd really appreciate some R&Rs here.

lovelovelove, Julianna:.

Audrey~

I wear a smile like it's armor.

And I know he's faking it, too. He acts nonchalant when we pass each other in the halls, as if we never hunted out those moments between classes together. As if we never held hands in the halls between our classes, but I know that he's trying to avoid the haunted thoughts just like I am.

I know that he, like me, averts his gaze in an exaggerated way and shifts his whole body so that there's no chance that we might touch each other, as if we have never touched.

And most of the time, I'm damn good at pretending. Seems I've had to go through my whole life doing it.

We had a silver gate at the front of our house, excuse me, mansion. We had six sleek black cars in our driveway, next to the underground garage that we never used. We had stables out back and green lawns that stretched for acres.

My mother was a beautiful supermodel, the only redhead that graced the runway of New York Fashion Week, when she was twenty-one years old. My father was a Harvard-educated lawyer who owned his own firm. His parents had been just as rich as we were.

Our eleven-bedroom, fourteen-and-a-half-bath, brick-with-ivy, marble-encrusted mansion stood on a hill in the prestigious Castle View, a community of the wealthy and privileged located between Castle Rock and Portland.

It started in elementary school, when I had to deal with every single girl there telling me how lucky I was because I had a big beautiful house and expensive cars and, most importantly, ponies. I had to pretend that their words meant anything to me. Which they didn't.

Of course, they didn't hardly know me, but I was expected to be grateful. I was expected to keep my poise. I was expected to grow up and fall in love with a man with stature like my father's. It was predicted that I would be his Homecoming, and later Prom Queen, and we would marry each other, have beautiful children, and live happily ever after.

My lip sneers as I even think of this possibility and I realize for the first time that what initially attracted me to Chris Chambers was not his deep blue eyes, or his blonde peaks of hair, or the muscles that flexed under his Hanes t-shirt when he moved. No, these were the things that I noticed after I registered the fact that my parents would never go for him.

So that meant, I had to have him. For me, I had never been "in love" in the perfect way that Scarlett O'Hara misled all the girls of my age on the screen. I had never met anyone that I would die for. I resented anyone who would say such a thing.

After it happened, I kept a cool, marble exterior that never let on to how many battles were raging on inside of me. I couldn't let myself be honest, even for a second, because it would nearly kill me to acknowledge the feelings.

And like I said, I did a damn good job of keeping up that façade. The only time that I let myself slip, not on purpose, was right before sleep, when I had nothing to distract me. I had no choice but to think of him then, because he was always on my mind.

So it was nothing unusual when I woke up on a gusty November day that promised rain, stretched out of bed and put him out of my mind.

School was the same old shit, the same as it was everyday. The halls reeked of chlorine from the pool and cedar from the woodshop classes. My brand-new violet ballet flats squeaked on the linoleum as I surveyed the faces all around me.

People's eyes would dart around my face, taking in my shimmering eyeliner and carefully styled hair. They would quickly scan my body, looking at my outfit, and being sure to take a mental note of it.

That particular morning I wore flared dark-wash blue jeans and a simple, purple button-down shirt to match my shoes. The outfit looked streamlined and simple, yet classy.

I would catch each of their eyes, as if reprimanding them for staring. Though I wouldn't change my facial expression, wrinkle my pug nose or something like that, my eyes would always be hard as ice.

I ran my fingers through my amber-colored hair, enjoying the scrape of my newly-manicured nails along my scalp as I amble up to my locker and begin to fiddle with the lock.

My best friend Colleen danced up to me and slinked a thin arm around my waist. She flicked her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder with a swift flick of the head and kissed me on both cheeks. "Audrey," she says.

I returned the gesture. "Hey, Colleen."

She leaned up against the lockers next to mine while I got my books out and cradled them in my arms. "Have a good weekend?" she asked.

"Pretty good," I responded. "Got my nails done, finally. How was yours?"

She rolled her eyes back in her head. "Boring. Still grounded. But I'll probably sneak out this Friday night for the party."

I smiled naughtily. "Excited?"

"Yes!" she squeaked. "Everyone's gonna be there. It'll be boss."

Chris Chambers walked by and Colleen gave him a nasty stare, but he didn't even look our way. I re-focused my gaze by becoming intensely interested in the magnetic mirror on my locker door.

"Umm, Audrey? You listening?" asked Colleen tentatively.

"Yep," I chirped. "You were talking about Ace."

She sighed dreamily. "Yeah. Isn't he just gorgeous?"

I gave her a look. "Sure he is," I say. "For a thug."

Colleen exhaled, exasperated. "You're just jealous of his beautiful light blond hair, and sky blue eyes, and bulging muscles."

I snorted. "You sound like a bad soap opera."

I shut my locker door with a pang and we walked together to our homeroom. When we get there, the teacher is sitting at her desk, legs crossed, reading a paperback novel. We slunk into the back row and continued to talk.

I reclined in my chair, resting my arms behind my head. "God, I can't wait for Thanksgiving break."

"Same," says Colleen.

Slowly people filter into the classroom, each of them looking at me diagnostically when they walk in. I seemed to have that affect on people; their eyes would go to me automatically, as if they were storing up images of me for later on, when they would allow themselves to dream of the life they wished they led.

Or so I thought back then, before I knew that I was no one that deserved anybody's envy.

I remember the night it happened, even after all these years. Even though it's been so long, and at some point I fooled myself into believing that the effects of what happened back then couldn't bother me anymore, couldn't cause me to ache in my bones, the sting of it all hasn't died down and the bruise hasn't turned yellow and faded.

Time heals all wounds? That isn't true. Time adds to the fire.

It was cold and January. I was in detention and in my fingers I clutched the raggedy lined paper that he'd slipped into my hands before pulling me into an embrace and kissing my cheek.

I'd smiled at him and kissed him back. It wasn't until later that I remembered the shifting of his gaze, and the way that there had been some sort of real blockage in his eyes.

As I trudged into the classroom where detention was held, and plopped down in a chair, I made sure nobody was reading over my shoulder before unfolding the paper in my hands.

There weren't a lot of words written there.

It's over, it said. And, I'm sorry. Chris.

I stared at it for a very long time before it actually sank in, before I realized it was real. I couldn't feel anything at first. Couldn't feel my heart's slow descent into my stomach as I looked at the page again.

I have to get out of here, I thought. I stuck a hand into the air, senselessly.

"May I go to the bathroom?" I asked the teacher. I flashed him a quick and shining smile.

He nodded reluctantly and I picked up my bag. He eyed me suspiciously, but I gave him another, trustworthy smile and walked out slowly, so as not to be suspect.

When I got to the hallway I sprinted quickly down the length of it before reaching the glass doors. I push them open with force and look around wildly for any sign of Chris's white t-shirt or faded jeans.

I spotted him, becoming smaller and smaller in the distance on his way home. Since my house was in the opposite room, I dropped my bag, planning on coming back for it.

Then I ran, with all my strength, the air stinging my eyes until I reached him.

That night when I got home, I trudged up to my bedroom and closed the door. I padded across the plushy shag carpet over to the bedside table with my cream-colored princess phone on it and picked it up.

I listened to the dial tone for a minute, contemplating calling Colleen or Sophie or Emma or any of my other friends and letting myself break down. I let the phone drop back onto the receiver. In less than three minutes, my entire life, my whole world had crashed all around me.

At first, luckily, I felt nothing at all. I walked into the bathroom, felt the cold tile against my feet, peeled of my clothes and sank into the porcelain tub filled with scalding hot water.

As with any trauma, you don't feel anything immediately after because you are in shock. And that is how it was then, and how it will always be. I don't remember crying that day. I don't remember feeling the razorblade pain in my chest after it happened.

I was, for whatever reason, withheld from feeling the worst of it, buoyed by the sheer fact that I couldn't believe it had even happened in the first place. And that is, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts we are given.

Except, of course, for the next few days when everything becomes real, the Novocain wears off, and you must feel every subtle little burn and acidic pulse as you realize that you aren't having a nightmare. That you won't wake up.