Okay, I know I made a bunch of you peoples mad when I discontinued what I'm now referring to as my first draft of my sequel. Well, I straightened out my ideas, and now I'm ready to start it. Trust me, this time, it will be the most exciting thing you've ever read. I hope…

Just so the story is covered…DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Max Ride, Fang, or any other thing that is not mine. Yadda, yadda, blah blah blah. You get the point.

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I looked down, ashamed that I couldn't remember. I knew I should, but I couldn't. He cupped my chin and lifted my face to his.

"Try. Please. For me. For them." He whispered. The pain in his voice broke my heart. I wanted to remember, but I couldn't.

One single tear fell rolled down my cheek, shimmering in the moonlight.

His eyes were full of anger. At them. At me.

And then he pulled me close to him, hard, and his lips met mine. His anger was in the kiss, and the way his lips moved was familiar and welcoming. He pulled away and looked at me, holding his breath.

"I—I….I remember."

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-Fang's POV-

Life without Max could have never been more different than life with her. When she was here, with us, it was always happy, even if something bad had just happened. She could always find a way to make us all feel at least a little better. She made us feel at home, because we knew that she always had a plan, even if it didn't seem like it.

And life without her is…empty. Alone. Depressing. There is no plan. There isn't any joy, or laughter anymore.

There is no Max anymore.

For the past two weeks, life has sucked.

After we got back, and the house was fixed, nothing happened. Nudge stopped talking. Iggy needed help finding things, and he burnt things more often than not. Gazzy never smiled. Angels curls deflated, lost their happiness, and she didn't bother playing with anyone, or really even talking. Dr. Martinez and Ella cried a lot. Total acted like a normal dog. He seemed to have lost the will to talk or eat at the table.

Jeb left. He moved away. Abandoned us again.

And me? I locked myself in my room. I ate meals at midnight or later, when nobody was around. They tried to talk to me, but I locked my door and ignored them.

They told me that everyone was hurting, that they all felt like I did.

But they don't. They can't possibly understand. I loved her, and she died. For me. For the flock, her mom, and her sister.

I talked even less than I had at our house in Colorado. Which was basically being mute.

I cried myself silently to sleep every night, when I could sleep, that is. And when I slept, I had nightmares about how she died.

It always began the same way. In the room with the glass wall separating us. I shouted and banged on the glass, screaming at her to stop, to come back, to let me go instead. Then various things would happen. Either they would shoot her in front of us, blood everywhere, or they would lead her away through that door, and her screams of terror and anguish would carry back to me.

Or they would make me kill her. That nightmare was always the worst. I was a robot it seemed. They would hand me the knife, and I would stab her, in the stomach. She never died right away. She would cry and beg and ask me why I was doing this to her.

And then I would wake up, screaming into my pillow, sweating all over, and sobbing my eyes out.

Two weeks later, after she died, that night was the worst ever. I woke up, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets on my bed, and I felt alone. I didn't understand why I should be living while she wasn't.

I hopped off the bed, anger overtaking me, and I ran out of my room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

I yanked open the drawer and pulled it out.

I was breathing heavily, even though the short run hadn't winded me at all. I put the blade to my left wrist, gritting my teeth.

It would start like this, with my arms, until I slowly bled out. I didn't want to die quickly, because I knew that they kept her alive as long as possible.

I pulled it down, right over my vein.

I let out a strangled cry. The pain made black dots dance in my vision, but I shook my head, clearing my mind.

Another yank, more pain, but I was silent this time.

And then a yell that wasn't mine.

"Fang! What the hell are you doing?!" Iggy's voice from somewhere behind me. I snapped out of it.

"Didn't wan' to…be here… she's gone…can't…." I babbled mostly to myself.

Iggy snatched the knife away from me.

"How did you…." I started to ask a question, but the words wouldn't come.

"This kitchen is completely white for one thing. And I could smell the blood." He explained, sitting me in a chair, pressing a towel to my arms.

Everything was fuzzy. I couldn't really see anything.

"Fang, stay here, and don't move while I go get Dr. M." Iggy said, and I listened to his retreating footsteps.

But I was out before he even got up the stairs.

Maybe death would come to me, though quickly. I hoped I would see her if I died…

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I know that was depressing, but these things needed to happen. It was rushed, but the second chapter will be better!

Hope you enjoyed, and maybe even cried a little! (kidding!)

R&R!