If I had known my life was about to end, maybe I would have been a little less submissive to Billie Dean Howard. She was a bitter woman, with her blond hair always in place and her makeup always flawless as if to say 'fuck you' to the ghosts that plagued her life. Billie Dean was a medium, which by definition is 'somebody believed to transmit messages between living people and the spirits of the dead'. She was teaching me the part about transmitting messages to the living. I got all the post-mortem's and saw what she saw but she had this way with understanding the dead and transmitting that to the right party. That was not my forte and thus I was not yet a medium. I was just aware.

"That's the house." She told me as we rolled by a house in LA. I sat quietly in the passenger seat as she smoked. Billie Dean had explained it to me before, the fact that I was to prove myself to her by going into that house. If I was lying about being aware, that house would show her my true capabilities. However, first she was taking me to every sad sack of bones in town to see the devastation the dead left behind.

Which is exactly how I ended up running.

LA is full of nice areas but it's built on broken dreams and unfulfilled promises. Like every city, it's not safe, just more dangerous than most. So when the crook who had lost his dear granny decided he didn't want us to stay any longer, he chased us out the house, and concentrated his sights on me.

Not that it's important now but the guy was a fucking bear. He was fast too and I was just naturally slim – there was no athleticism about me. But when you're running for your life you don't stop.

I saw the house, the one I was to prove myself to in. I saw someone move inside and although I knew not one living person resided in there, it inspired hope.

Stupid hope.

I ran towards it and I didn't even make it to the door. That crazy bastard knocked me onto my face and stabbed my back with a nine-inch kitchen knife until I was dead. He was still at it after I finally died. From where I now stood on the steps of the house, looking down at my corpse and murderer, I saw Billie Jean pull up to the house in her car, meet my eyes through the window, place her hand to her chest in sorrow, and pull away.

"Shit." A girl breathed next to me. She was smoking, tilting her head back to keep the curtains of blond hair from her eyes.

"I agree." I replied, regardless of whether she was speaking to me or not.

"Are you okay?" she turned to face me –not my dead body, but my spirit form. I didn't really notice much more about her, I was transfixed on my murder as it unfolded before me, both mortified and fascinated by the sight.

"I'm being stabbed," I managed to drone, "what do you think?"

She leaned back to look at my back for me, "At least your shirt isn't stained forever."

I laughed, it wasn't funny but I automatically laughed, "Thanks." Maybe if I didn't laugh I would cry.

"What's your name?"

"Amber." I sighed, never taking my eyes of the psycho as he sat by me now and cried.

"I'm Violet."

"Want to kill him?" a new voice asked from behind us. I didn't turn as it came nearer, a clearly male if somewhat youthful voice. "Might as well: you're dead now."

"Fuck off, Tate." Another new voice appeared, this one female.

"Mom, this is Amber."

A caring hand rubbed my arm as though I looked cold, "Why don't you come inside Amber?"

"I'd rather stay here." I answered, still staring. Sirens were approaching. I liked to think Billie Dean had called them to me. Too late, but the gesture would have been nice. The guy either hadn't noticed or didn't want to run. Either way, I was happy to witness it.

The dead speakers stood with me for a few minutes before they left but I was there for hours; until my body was taken away in a black bag. That's when it hit me. As it hit me, I cried. I stayed like that for a week.