Disclaimer; Je ne possède pas le Total Drama série et je ne vais jamais le faire. (No matter what language you say it in doesn't make it any less true.) Oh, I also don't own Paperthin Hymn. Anberlin does.

A/N; Sorry to all my fans of my Twilight stories, but I've recently started to LOATHE Twilight, so it'll be a REALLY long time 'til I update any of those stories. Sorry :'( But I'm making a TDI story ;) It's called TDLG (Total Drama LoveGame), it's a DxC story, of what would've happened if TDI was a dating show. Check it out!

This is a oneshot, sort of angst-y. Never mind, I take that back after I just re-read it; it's VERY angst-y.

The couple's a surprise, but there are hints thrown in every here and there. No offense, but you'd have to be very obtuse if you didn't know who they were until the last lines, when the say each other's names.

You know the drill, read and review, constructive criticism welcome but not flames

She was in the graveyard, as per usual. She couldn't leave, for her body was there. The rotted remains of what was once a body, at least. Her soul was roaming in the cemetery, twirling in the white dress she had worn on the day of her murder. A light always sparkled on the diamond ring on her fourth finger, regardless of the lack of light. It always twinkled for no apparent reason. Just as a reminder of what could have been.

She sang to herself, a song she had heard many times before. It was a song she could relate to.

"When your only friends are hotel rooms
Hands are distant lullabies
If I could turn around I would tonight
These roads never seemed so long
Since your paper heart stopped beating leaving me suddenly alone
Will daybreak ever come?" Her voice was rather hoarse from lack of use, but she paid no mind to it as she continued singing Paperthin Hymn by a band called Anberlin.

He was in a band, too. Played guitar and sang, had written a few songs about her. Some had been number-one hits. All because of that stupid show where they met.

The veil that slightly obscured her view was brushed away from her face as she sat own on her tombstone. Her nails were still coated in teal polish, designed to match the streaks in her hair. Albeit it has been almost a decade since her murder, and she had yet to be visited by any of her alive friends, she still looked the exact same. Then again, all spirits do. There wasn't a chip on her nail polish, the only thing that could be broken was your clothes. It could get ripped, the reason why her once beautiful dress was now in ruins.

The woman, about twenty years of age, stood up again and crouched in front of her grave. She's been more... fidgety, for lack of better word, ever since her death, and could hardly stay still.

As she looked to the grave right beside hers, she felt sorrow overcome herself when she was reminded of the fact that you couldn't see other spirits. Almost instinctively, she raised her right hand and traced the rigid scar on her throat. The murderer's grip on his knife had been precise, strong, not at all resistant. She had not been hesitant in the least, for she did what she believed she should. Because she was jealous.

Tears streamed down the woman's cold, dead cheeks, though they didn't smudge the make-up that had been carefully applied that evening. Nothing could be removed from her body, nothing that she had been with on the day it had happened. On many occasions had she attempted to remove the ring from her finger, to forget about that day. But it was impossible.

Right then she heard teenagers passing the graveyard, giggling and talking about what they were going to be for halloween the next day and speaking of this huge party that was going to happen, held by the Party Boy himself. She had been friend with him and his girlfriend, now wife, when she was alive. Her eyes once again flicked involuntarily to the tombstone beside her own. Only on halloween could she be reunited with him, her lover, the only person to never betray her. Spirits could meet on that day, and that day only.

I feel kind of like Cinderella, she thought sarcastically, though my glass slipper is a diamond ring.

She had never been too fond of fairy tales.

It was eleven-fifty nine p.m. on October thirtieth. In one minute she would see her world again.

But she knew that he wouldn't speak much. He hadn't in their past nine meetings, but then again, nine was his lucky number. The guilt of what had happened was what had lead to his death. He thought himself to be the blame. She let out an empty laugh, for the thought itself was ridiculous. It wasn't his fault in the least.

The clock struck midnight, suddenly the normally barren cemetery was filled with ghouls. The hurt woman's heart would've skipped a beat if it was still pumping as soon as she saw the man she loved sitting on his grave, right next to hers. His skin was pale as hers always was, for that's one of the few things that changes once you pass away. Because her skin was always sickly pale, there wasn't a big change of hue or anything.

Just like his lover's, the broken man's neck was also scarred, but in an entirely different way. His scar was only a day or two younger than hers, and it was one of rope burn rather than cut skin and dried blood. The female spirit couldn't help but be thankful that her necklace covered her own scar when she moved it an inch or two up her neck.

Just like every other year, she took a tentative step towards him. Her normal black combat boots had been replaced by white heels, so her step was more wobbly than it was during her lifetime. His striking emerald eyes met her boring onyx ones, and pierced her heart. She knew that if it could beat, her heart would be going one-hundred miles per hour. His suit was ragged and torn, for he had worn it when he took his own life.

White wasn't a particularly flattering color on her, but now it was more red than anything else, from the blood that had seeped through it. The dress had torn in the ten years she had been wearing it, and she had to admit that it was more her style when it was wrecked than when it was pristine and perfect.

"I missed you," she whispered, taking another step towards him.

He cleared his rough throat. "Me too," he managed to say, his voice even more gravelly than hers. He had used it even less than his lover had used hers.

She traced the scar on his neck. It pained her whenever she thought of him taking his life because hers had been by an envious woman. It wasn't her fault, either, she knew. It was the murderer's own fault.

She couldn't help but feel the slight irony. When she was alive, the dead had always interested her. It was part of her gothic lifestyle, a huge contrast to his lovable, cool-guy life. Then again, opposites attract. Their friends were living—no pun intended—proof of that, her being a prep and him being a punk. But this isn't their story.

The would-be bride removed her hand from his neck and instead placed it in his hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze and she sat on his grave, right next to him. It slightly disturbed her that his decomposing body was somewhere underneath her very spot, but she was with his spirit. And nothing could prevent that, for it was halloween. They only had one day, but they only needed one day.

"I love you, Trent Matthews," Gwen whispered, eyes locked with his.

For the first time in over a decade, Trent smiled. It was just a ghost (no pun intended) of his old one, but it was still a smile. "And I love you, Gwen Robertson-Matthews."

And that's all that mattered.

Gwen Robertson-Matthews
1990-2010
A loyal friend who will always be missed

Trent Matthews
1990-2010
A caring man with a heart of gold