Disclaimer: The world of Bridge to Terabithia does not belong to me—I'm merely taking the movie and its characters twisting the plot's path.

A Note on the Rating: Thematic elements/subject matter and mild coarse language.

Shadow

Prologue:

The Bridge Comes Falling Down

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The rain was far too loud as it drummed steadily against the roof the tiny red house. He couldn't bring himself to sit still—it felt like he was in a prison cell, no more than an inmate sitting on his metal bunk, waiting for release, for someone to come and save him.

He couldn't stand the waiting. Especially when it wasn't him who needed to be saved.

"Jess," May Belle's quiet soprano sounded like a NASCAR announcer's booming voice as it rung in his ears. It was as if his very ear drums had shrunk; like there wasn't enough room in his head for all the noises surrounding him. Everything sounded hollow and carried a faint echo; the heater beneath the window had turned into a semi-truck, making his temples throb. Sweat trickled down his neck and soaked his orange sweatshirt, already drenched with rain water. His face felt hot, like he had a fever, while the rest of him was cold and clammy. His hands trembled softly; his mouth was dry, lips so chapped it hurt to speak. His throat was still raw from screaming.

"What, May?" He hissed, though the pain in his throat kept him from infusing the tone with any real emotion.

The blanket curtain separating his bed from the rest of the room wobbled a bit, and then came to a standstill. When the little girl didn't answer after a few moments, guilt stung his heart. She hadn't done anything. She didn't even know what was going on, at least not fully.

Lucky her.

Sighing, he paced around the small space a few more times, kicking arbitrary objects on the floor. He at last stopped by the window, staring out at the mess surrounding his home.

The rain was falling so hard it was almost impossible to see anything. Only the lights, still flashing red and blue, were completely visible, cutting though the gray mist like a knife. If he looked at them long enough, his eyes began to burn. He could barely make out the soggy police officers walking the path between his home and the Burke's again and again, talking to one another and punching in information on the tiny laptops within their cabs. He wondered what they would classify this as, what they were saying about him, about her, as they typed on their dumb computers.

They didn't know anything.

Honestly, did they think some pre-fabricated label and a tiny laptop was going to fix the problem? That some Godforsaken medicine was going to erase everything and ensure it was never going to happen again? Nothing was going to fix this. It was an epidemic, a pattern, a habit she couldn't seem to break. It had happened in Arlington, it had happened here. It had happened in all the places they had lived before, and it would surely reoccur in the place they would take her to. They were just going to keep running away. Didn't they understand that the problem was inside ofher? That every new place, every negative experience served as some sort of sick confirmation that only made it worse. Hadn't they learned to tell when she was having one of her "days"? Couldn't anyone see?

No, they couldn't. That was the problem. No one saw anything; she wouldn't let them. Well, except him. And, based on what he had learned today, that whole thing—their whole friendship—was just a happy accident. She had never meant to let him see that. And when she realized that she had, it only made it worse.

But he had a choice! So many of them. And out of all of them, he picked the most dangerous. He had been selfish, greedy. He had fed her, when the right thing to do was starve her. But…he couldn't help it. He just couldn't. If only they could see…see how her eyes lit up. He thought he was helping her; saving her, even. Everything was going so well. She was happy, nearly all the time. And he was happy too; because of her. For the longest time he had been stupid enough to think that it was him making her happy, like she did for him. How wrong he was. In reality, he was no different than anyone else she had met. He was just another person she couldn't bring herself to hurt, so therefore she felt the need to hurt herself.

Why?! He kicked a sneaker so hard it thudded off the wall and left a scuffmark in its wake. Didn't she know? Hadn't he shown…?

No. He hadn't. That, again, was the problem. As if she didn't have enough of them, he had to go and make another one.

Some friend he was.

Sighing again, he dug his nails into the window frame. In the reflection of the glass, he saw the curtain move again. Maybe she was there, after all.

"May Belle? Are you still there?"

The curtain jiggled some more.

"May? Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you feelings. Really. I'm just kinda…messed up right now, okay? It has nothing to do with you."

It has nothing to do with you. The words made him flinch. How wrong she had been when she had told him that…

"I know," Her little voice came at last, causing him to sigh with relief. "Mamma told me."

He froze. What did she know?

"Mamma told you what?" He sounded like he was choking.

"She told me how brave you were,"

Brave. It was the last word he would ever use to describe himself. She was brave, not him.

"And that you're a really wonderful friend, and you were smart to tell her and Daddy when you did. They're both really proud of you, you know."

No, he most certainly did not know. He never thought this situation would be the one to make his parents—his father!—proud of him. Quite honestly, he had expected the opposite. Anger, disappointment, those emotions he had been anticipating. After all, those were the emotions he was experiencing. Courage, intelligence, and loyalty were not words he thought of when he considered the whole mess and his hand in it. Cowardly, deceitful, and selfish were good ones to describe him. His parents probably didn't know the whole story yet, and when they did, the pride would vanish as quickly as it had come. And oddly, that didn't bother him. As of today, he would give anything to go back to the way life had been before this; grouchy, unfeeling Dad and all.

When her brother didn't answer, May Belle continued to speak.

"Mamma also said that you don't have to go to school tomorrow. She and Daddy will be out late doing…well, she didn't tell me. All I know is that they'll be back after we're in bed, and Brenda and Ellie are at a friend's and will be there until after dinner, so there's stuff for grilled cheeses in the fridge…okay?"

"Yeah," His voice was husky. "Okay. Thanks, May."

"You're welcome. Oh, and Jess?"

"Uh huh?"

"Um, you're probably not gonna believe me, but, uh…Janice Avery is downstairs."

This got his attention. He turned away from the window and pulled the blanket back, revealing a slightly damp and wary looking May Belle. She looked up at him in surprise.

"May Belle…" He said slowly, "Who is downstairs?"

Her old sass was beginning to seep the concern and confusion. "I told you," She almost snapped. "Janice Avery."

He was beginning to think this was all a very strange and miserable dream. Everything was backwards. His mother excusing him from school when he wasn't about ready to vomit up his actual stomach. His father, proud of him! And now, the notorious Janice, in his house. What was next? Was Prince Terrian going to waltz in on two legs, wearing a top hat, speaking Spanish?

"Janice Avery…from school?" There was that choking noise again.

"How many Janice Avery's do we know, Jess?"

He knew the answer to that question. One. And said person happened to be a big, aggressive, frizzy-haired eighth grader that terrorized everyone at Lark Creek Elementary School, including a number of the teachers. So now the new question was: what did she want with him?

Sighing deeply, he nodded, moving past his sister slowly, with little enthusiasm. His legs felt even heavier than they had a few moments ago. One thing was for certain, he thought as he began his descent down the stairwell—if he was dreaming, it was absolutely going to be classified as a nightmare.

He ran out of stairs far too quickly, even taking the time to go down one at a time, rather than skipping two or three like he usually did. He loitered on the last step for almost a minute, stomach churning as he imagined the beast that was waiting for him in his front room, with the cold eyes, tattered clothes and natural propensity to snarl.

When he at last summoned the courage to meet what he believed would be his doom, he was pleasantly—and utterly—surprised.

The waterlogged teenage girl on his family's battered sofa was not the one he remembered from eight weeks ago. Janice—if it really was Janice, and not some doppelganger, and he sincerely believed—had been completely transformed. Gone were the shabby clothes and angry grimace. While she was dressed simply, the fabrics were new, not graced with pale, stubborn bloodstains—which, he now realized, were most likely her own—and mismatched patches. She was dressed in blue jeans and a black rain jacket, her trademark black platforms replaced by sneakers of the same color, though probably only because of the awful weather. She was currently not scowling, in fact, her round face seemed almost sorrowful—from what he could see of it—as she stared down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, which twitched every few seconds as she toyed with a chunky silver ring on her left hand middle finger. Now that he looked closer at her, he discovered that she wasn't so chubby anymore—while still big boned and slightly overweight for someone of her tender age, her face was signifigantly more slender than it had been. Her hair, at the moment, was not frizzy; it was now slicked back and straight from the weight of the water, and cut more stylishly. Her short bangs were slightly longer, pinned back from her forehead by a bobby pin.

"Janice?" His voice was still slightly fearful and scratchy.

She looked up at him, and he knew that being away from her father's cruelty had changed her inside and out. The eyes, while still a dull gray blue, were no longer lifeless and icy. The customary malice had been replaced by true life, and at this particular time, sadness. A flicker of light passed though the queer colored irises as she laid eyes on him, before becoming more melancholy.

"Hi Jess," She said, smiling softly.

"It's, uh, good to, you know, see you." Lie number one. He didn't want to see anyone right now, except for the one person who refused to be seen, especially by him.

"Yeah, it really is," She was so much more enthusiastic. He realized as he listened to her voice how dead his own sounded. He was the lifeless one now. "I feel bad I haven't gotten a chance to see you now that I've been with Mr. and Mrs. Larson so much," Her foster parents, he assumed. "I've been missing school a lot—well, parts of it, anyway—especially seeing you and…" She noticed the pained look on his face stopped abruptly.

"That's why I'm here," She continued after a moment. "After I heard, I just had to come see…but then they told me…"

"That you couldn't." He finished for her.

"Yeah,"

"It's useless, trying." He sounded so bitter while still seeming so dead, even to himself. "They won't let anybody in. I've been waiting all afternoon to be told I can, and nothing's come."

"They won't let you in?" She asked incredulously.

"Nope."

"Wow. I would think that you of all people could…"

"I thought a lot of things were true, Janice." His voice was gaining emotion: anger. "I thought a lot of things like that were true. Turns out, they're all lies. Every last one of them."

"That's not true, Jess."

He glared at her.

"Yes, it is. I was told exactly that, straight from the source."

"You can't even say her name, can you?" She breathed in astonishment, slowly rising from the couch and inching toward him. Rather than answering, he merely let his jaw jet upward in defiance.

"Good God Jess! Just look at you!" Old Janice was starting to come back. "You're soaked, and shaking! What happened?!"

"Lots of things," He answered. "Things that are the business of myself, her parents, and those damned doctors and police officers that butted in when they're not needed."

"You're being just awful, you know that?" Old Janice was definitely back.

"I am well aware how awful I am, Janice Avery. Today pretty much sealed the deal."

Her face softened again. "Wait a minute. Please tell me…Jess; do you honestly think that whatever happened today was your fault?"

"No sense in lying," He shrugged.

"Look, Aarons." The steel in her tone sent a small wave of fear through him. "I'm completely in the dark here. People won't tell me crap. I practically had to murder Mrs. Meyers today at school when I went to pick up my independent study work, just to get her to tell me where the heck you two were. I came over here to see what was going on, only to be surrounded by squad cars and ambulances. I had to crawl through the hedge leading into your backyard just to get in here, and then spend about fifteen minutes convincing May Belle that my soggy self wasn't here to kill her, or you. I have leaves in my pants, and I'm freezing. But you know what? I really don't care. Because ever since the incident in the bathroom involving the news about my Dad a few months ago, I've counted you two among my friends. The only two I have left, actually."

"But…" He stuttered, shocked. "I didn't really…do anything."

"No," She admitted honestly. "Not in that situation you didn't. But you did something for her. I was able you hear you over my rabid sobs. I know it was you who finally convinced her to come talk to me, Aarons. She never would've done that if it weren't for you. You do things for her, Jess. And because you do things for her, I do things for you."

"Uh, well, thanks. But you're wrong, you know. I don't do anything for her. That's what this whole…issue is."

"Really?"

He looked long and hard at her curious, non-threatening face. After several moments, he sighed in defeat.

"Janice?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you like a grilled cheese?"

In the end, it was just the two of them—the attempts to convince May Belle that Janice was no longer the vicious bully she remembered her to be were futile. Jess felt conflicted about the whole arrangement. On the one hand, it would be nice to not have to keep up a somewhat happy façade for his little sister all throughout the meal. And on the other, the lack of May Belle's presence meant that Janice would begin peppering him with painful questions that much sooner.

Thankfully for him, preparation was relatively quiet. Janice had been given a towel for her hair as well as a dry T-shirt and pair of sweats belonging to his mother—which surprisingly fit her, other than being a little bit too close to small rather than large—and her clothes, socks and sneakers were drying in front of the pellet stove in the den. At her almost violent insistence, Jess changed into dry clothes as well, though they did little to soothe his physical and mental discomfort. He was now flipping the browned sandwiches in a frying pan while she sat in a dining chair, ringing out her hair, which was beginning to attain some frizz as it dried.

He couldn't put it off any longer. The sandwiches were nearly burnt, and he could tell Janice was getting anxious. Sighing for what felt like the millionth time, he dumped their meals onto paper plates and turned off the stove, not bothering to move the skillet.

He sat one plate in front of Janice and the other directly across from her without saying a word, snagging two paper napkins from their basket on the counter and tossing them carelessly onto the tabletop. He walked over to the fridge, opening it and staring at the contents blankly for a moment, only registering the feeling of the cold air blowing across his face. At last he spoke.

"Water, chocolate milk, or apple juice? Sorry we don't have any soda."

"Oh, that's okay. Trying to cut back on the sugar anyways. Milk would be great, thanks."

Nodding, he grabbed two juice glasses from the cupboard over the sink, filling both of them with the pre-made Nesquick that was nearing the end of its lifetime. Still desperate for something to do, he rummaged aimlessly through the cabinets and drawers, trying to make it look like he actually knew what he was searching for. At last he found his saving grace, stuffed in a drawer behind a box of Twinkies and reusable water bottles. He guessed his mother was trying to hide them from Brenda and Ellie, who normally devoured that sort of thing before he even knew it was in the house.

"Potato chips?" He asked.

"Sure,"

Trying to steady himself, he picked up the milk and chips from the counter and walked slowly to the table, setting one glass down by his plate before passing the other to his guest and plunking the crumpled bag of Lay's between them.

They continued to be silent for a while, dumping the chips so that there were more of them than the sandwiches, sipping the milk and nibbling the crusts the bordered on blackened. By the time half of the grilled cheeses were gone, Janice got up the nerve to speak.

"So…"

"So…" He agreed.

"What happened?" She managed; the horror and amazement leaking into her tone. "I mean, two months ago she was perfectly fine. Happy and brilliant. She made everything better for me that day. Nowhere near okay, but better. She listened better than anyone I've ever met, and after I had used up all the toilet paper in one stall she went and got me some more so I could keep blotting my eyes and blowing my nose. When I had blubbered out my sad story she gave me a hug, a stick of gum, and some really good advice. And now she's just…gone? I heard Mrs. Meyers talking to Ms. Edmunds and Principal Turner today while I was waiting for Mr. Sanchez. They were using words like depressed, repressed. Even catatonic, delusional! I heard them say her name a few times…and yours. Mrs. Meyers was trying to get you two excused from homework for a while, but Mr. Turner wanted a reason. As soon as Ms. Edmunds and Principal Turner left, I went up to old Monster Mouth, but she wouldn't spill. I finally got her to blab that you two were at home due to 'personal tragedies'."

Personal Tragedies. How perfect that was.

"So I came over," Janice continued. "And saw the crime scene outside. I honestly thought it was you at first. I don't know why, but I did."

"You're completely wrong about that part," He chuckled without humor.

"I know that now. You do seem a little depressed, but not delusional or catatonic. So the only other logical candidate is…"

"Her."

"Yeah,"

"She's neither delusional nor catatonic, I can tell you." He whispered, staring down at his plate. "She's…depressed and confused, I guess. She sees herself differently than we do. While we see strength, wit and intelligence, she sees weakness, stupidity and someone unable to make a friend."

The words started pouring out. "They found her in the woods late this afternoon, maybe three or four hours ago. She was a mess—bleeding, crying, screaming. Apparently, she just lost it. She started running…and she fell. That's where the blood came from, obviously. Only…she didn't notice. The feeling of the blood, the wound…it was like a baby blanket for her. It reminded her that she was still alive." He looked up at Janice, curious to see her reaction. Her face was perfectly still and blank.

"I didn't know it was so bad," His voice dropped several octaves. "I mean, I knew, I guess. That something was wrong. She showed me, a few times."

"Showed you?"

"She…cried once. Hard. Hysterically. I found her…in the same place they found her today."

"In the woods?"

"Yeah. She wasn't crying when I found her, not yet. She was tearing up a notebook full of stories she had written, throwing the scraps around and looking like she wanted to kill something. I went up to her and asked her what was wrong. She…" He stopped, voice cracking.

"She what?" Janice murmured.

"She just…stopped. Everything. She became still as a statue. The tearing stopped—she dropped everything on the ground. She didn't seem angry anymore…she wasn't anything. She stared at me like that for a few seconds and then said, very calmly…" He stopped yet again, drawing a shaky breath.

"She looked at me and said, 'They didn't come,'. And she just…started crying. Harder than I thought was humanly possible."

"Did she…do that, a lot?"

"No, that was the only time I ever saw her cry. But there were other things. Things she would say, expressions…sometimes, she would stare at something or someone until she started to tremble, and tears would start to form in her eyes. Then, all of a sudden, she would be fine. She would snap out of it and go on her way like nothing had ever happened, smiling at me."

They sat there for a few moments, saying nothing, picking arbitrary stains on the ceiling or floor to stare at.

"It never occurred to me," He whispered. "That day when I found her crying, that she had gone there alone. I was too worried, too scared. I never thought she would go…without me. It was supposed to be our place. That's what she said!" Anger was coming again. He rose from his chair, pacing angrily around the room. He wasn't talking to Janice anymore—she hardly understood what he was saying. But she understood who he was yelling at: himself.

"How many times did she go?!" He half shouted. "God knows what she did! Why would she…how could she…what was she…what was she dealing with, anyway? What was so horrible that she had to hide? What problem did she have to sort through that she couldn't tell me about? Was it me?! Am I no worse than all those other things we would talk about, try to fight off? Am I just another demon in her mind?"

"No," Janice whispered, pulling him briefly from his angry rampage. "You couldn't be. Because if you were, I doubt she would've gone to all that trouble to hide it. She wanted you to think better of her. She wanted you to believe that she was stronger than she thought she was. Because if you believed in her—even a half-fake her—she could prove to herself that one person cared, and that was all she really wanted."

He blinked in astonishment. "How do you know that?"

She shrugged and smiled sadly. "Personal experience."

He breathed deeply, sitting back down in his chair. "I knew something was wrong before the others even thought to guess. I didn't know what exactly it was—and I still don't—but I knew it was there. And I didn't do anything."

"How can you fix a problem when you don't know what it is? Jess, do not beat yourself up for this."

He pressed his face against this palms, shaking his head vigorously.

"It's eating you alive. You have to tell someone."

"I'm not telling anybody anything," He growled, face still in his hands. "Because whoever I tell is just going to tell the doctors, who will tell her parents, who will probably tell her, and then it'll just be a bigger mess."

"Tell me," She announced suddenly. "I'm not going to tell anyone. I'll just sit here and listen."

He looked up at her warily. She was just sitting there, face calm and expectant.

"You really wanna know?"

"Absolutely."

He sighed again. He seemed to be doing nothing but that today. "Okay, well, uh…it started, I guess, about five months ago, when school started…"