A/N: I'M BACK. I died for a month (ew. Exams) but my last one was today (ew. Science) and I'M BACK. It also helps that PULL's back up and I have something pushing me to write more. :) So this is something I've wanted to do for a while (as you can see on my profile) and I'm glad I decided to finally do something on my "definitely list." Just note that the chapters might occasionally be shorter than we'd all like, for the mere fact that I am hoping to finish a novel by the end of the summer, as well as do this, which I'm hoping will be at least halfway done by the end of the summer. On the average day, I'd have to write about 8-9 pages for the novel and another page and a half to 2 pages to have decent-sized chapters for this. So this summer will be filled with hours upon hours upon hours of writing.

Oh, summer – how I love you. NOW LET THIS STORY COMMENCE!

Disclaimer: I own like, fifty percent of this (plot, characters, setting… For which I feel pretty awesome) and the rest belongs to the lovely Jenny Nimmo. I don't own Big Time Rush either.

I love my father, I really do.

See, my dad and I have been close for, well… forever. It was always him and me. We always looked out for each other and took care of one another. We stuck together like glue and were definitely best friends. And, being the good daughter I was, I would never do anything to cause him harm, pain, or stress for the mere purpose of my own personal satisfaction.

"I cannot believe you! This is the fifth time this month!"

Try telling him that.

I looked up from my Math book, rested my chin on my left palm, and angled my head to the right about forty-five degrees to look at the doorway from my bed, on which I'd been lying on my stomach while doing homework. "Is something the matter, daddy?" I asked innocently.

"Is something the matter? 'Oh, is something the matter?' she says. Of course something's the matter!" He cried as he entered my room, flinging his hands up in the air in what I was sure was supposed to be a fit of purely overwhelming and violent rage.

I put my hand over my mouth and laughed. My father was oh-so-overly dramatic. I liked to think it was because he used to be a musician, but I highly doubted it. Something told me it was just his nature to be like this.

"Well," I asked, pretending to be curious as to what was wrong. In reality, though, I knew exactly what was causing my dad so much panic. "What's the problem?"

"You stole my manuscript," my father said, glaring. I rolled my eyes at how childish he sounded. I then smirked. I would be able to have to some fun with this.

"And, father dearest, what evidence do you have to support that claim?" I asked, cheekily.

"Past record," he said with a glare, his arms now crossed over his chest in suspicion. He was trying to figure out what I was playing at. I smiled.

"Really; is that so? But I thought people could change. What makes you think you haven't just misplaced it or left it at work?"

"Because I had it yesterday on my desk and I haven't touched it since then. Yet I walked into the office this morning and lo and behold! It's gone. And I know for a fact that in this house, when something randomly disappears like that, it's because one of the occupants decided to move it," he said, walking over and crouching in front of my bed to look at my full in the face.

For a split second, a retort bubbled in my throat and I bit my tongue to keep from saying it aloud. Instead, I replied, "Well, maybe you just absent-mindedly put it somewhere. We know how you get, dad."

"I. Didn't. Touch. It," my dad practically seethed, looking me dead in the eye with his glare. With the way he enunciated each and every word, I was surprised (and thankful) that spit didn't coming flying out of his mouth and onto my face. I sat up cross-legged and leaned over slightly to look at him better.

"Well, do you see it with me?" I said in the same way he did, now initiating a full-on glaring contest.

After a good, long, hard, solid thirty seconds, my dad jumped up and asked me where my backpack was. I crossed my arms, and then, with suspicion, pointed to my computer desk, where my super-mega-awesomely-epically-wicked wheelie chair was.

Did I just call my wheelie chair super-mega-awesomely-epically-wicked? Why yes; yes, I did. Why? Only because my wheelie chair was super-mega-awesomely-epically-wicked.

He went over to the chair and turned it around to take my backpack. He grabbed the zipper and pulled on it too roughly for my liking.

"Eek! Gently, dad! Pull the zipper gently!" I cried. I was very proud of my backpacks. Every time I needed a new one, I'd purposely buy a white one so I could paint all over it with different colours and make it pretty. It was the closest I could get to being artistic, and therefore, I took the greatest care I could of my backpacks.

My father rolled his eyes and pulled the zipper more gently. Once it had been opened, he began to digging through its contents. I watched, confused and giving him a "what are you doing?" look.

Too late I realized what he was looking for. The next second, he pulled out a stack of paper in triumph.

Damn it. Sigh. There's goes the fun I was having.

Note to self; find new, better hiding spots for when you steal dad's manuscripts. Try to go for places he wouldn't think to look for.

My father was smirking at me, now. No doubt he was about to brag about out-smarting me (ha. Yeah, dad; for once, you did). I groaned and fell backwards onto my bed.

"Don't you dare start, dad! I am in no mood to hear your rants of your sudden brilliance and how amazing you are just because I forgot to take your work stuff out of my backpack."

"Are you ever in the mood to hear that?" He asked. I shot back up and glared.

"Don't smart-mouth me, mister," I retorted.

"I forget; who's the child and who's the parent?" My father quipped cheekily. My eyes squinted at him, I crossed my arms over my chest again, and I growled.

Yes, that's right. I growled.

Dad, being used to this, merely walked over and sat beside me.

"So…" he started. I raised my eyebrow, telling him to continue.

"Did you finish reading it?" He asked, gesturing to the stack in his hands. It was probably about thirty pages, maybe forty.

"Yep," I said, smirking, "Why? Do you need a second opinion?"

"That's exactly what I need," he sighed, his mouth twisting into a melancholy smile. I took a deep breath, knowing there'd be little – if any, at all – pause what I was about to say.

"Well, starting off, the writing is fantastic. It's wonderfully descriptive, and it's edgy, and it would definitely want to make the reader carry on with it. The problem, though," I said, deciding to stop for a dramatic pause. My dad leaned forward a bit, clearly interested in what I had to say, "Is that the writing is the only good thing about it. The settings don't contribute to the plot at all, which might be okay, except the plot is already suffering as it is. It's overly dramatic and confusing, and the motivations for the characters' actions aren't justified and oftentimes, they don't make any sense at all.

"Another thing about the characters is that almost all of them are the same. There's no variety in them. They're a pack of good little sheep, honestly; they all follow the same rules and act the same way. The only two people who have some sliver of personality are the main character and the villain-slash-main love-interest. Even then, she's so whiny and annoying that I want to slap her. And she's also unbelievably, as well as irrationally, obsessed with this guy. And he's such a jerk that I don't know why any girl would like him.

"Tell the author that she –" I paused, thinking something over, "Wait, it is a female author, right?" My dad nodded and I continued, "Tell her the truth, and that she's a fantastic writer, but she needs to do a lot of plot development and character work until she can get published."

"Thank you. I mean, I'll admit, the writing is great, which is why I wanted to publish it, but everything else is so… so…" My father struggled to find a word that wasn't (or a direct synonym of) 'bad.'

"Underdeveloped?" I supplied.

"Yes! It's all so underdeveloped that I wasn't sure if the writing was all that redeemable," he said.

"It's not," I added in. I could tell he was relieved. He'd probably already finished the book and was literally tossing and turning at night to decide whether or not he should publish it.

"So… how long should I wait 'til I write the rejection letter?" My father asked after a pause. I thought it over for a second.

"When did you get it?" I asked.

"Tuesday," he answered.

If he got it Tuesday, and today was Thursday… that meant he'd finished it yesterday…

"Wait 'til tomorrow to actually write the letter. Send it out the day after. And also, make sure you stick to the main points. Tell her writing is good, but everything else isn't. Plot and character development are essential if she wants to get published. But also tell her that it's also something she should do as soon as possible, because that level of talent and skill with words needs to be published."

Dad shook his head and stood up. As he left, he said, "When you're old enough, I'm making you my assistant."

I smiled cheekily and called out, "Wouldn't have it any other way, daddy!"

Sure that he had left, I quickly rolled off of my bed. Once I was on my feet, I closed the door, went over to my desk, and moved my super-mega-awesomely-epically-wicked wheelie chair out of the way. Sitting cross-legged on the floor and reaching beneath the desk, I pulled out a single notebook and flipped it open, trying to find the last page I'd written on. I finally found it, a page on the left with the same things I'd put in it as always. Reaching up, I felt around the top my desk blindly until I finally grabbed a pen.

Once more, I looked down at the page I'd written in before turning my eyes over to the empty page beside it. I quickly began to write down the skeleton – the constant thing that had been on every page before it. When I finished, the page read like this;

Book title:

Author:

Date Finished:

Review Date:

Review:

After, I filled it in with the variables. I wrote in the name of the book, the author, and today's date for both 'Date Finished' and 'Review Date.' Generally, though, they weren't the same date, nor were they always the same date as the date I wrote it in. Then, I quickly re-wrote the rant I'd given my dad about the book. Once that was finished, I skipped a line and added in two more sub-headings.

Success?: Yes / No

Comments:

I circled 'Yes' and then pondered if there was anything I wanted to add in conclusion. I smiled when I knew.

This time, Sally sounded a lot like mom would've. Sally's getting better.

I paused and then added in more.

Sally must also stop referring to herself in third person. Even though it is cool to refer to yourself in third person. Sally should know. She is the epitome of cool. Sally's also very modest. Sally is also going to go finish her Math homework and wonder why she's talking about herself in third person to a piece of paper. Sally bids you arrivederci.

With that, I put the notebook back in its hiding spot.

This was torture in its most brutal form. This was terribly cruel and horrifyingly unusual punishment, especially when I hadn't done anything to deserve this. I'd been the innocent victim, not the perpetrator of whatever reason had put me here.

"Alright, class! We've got two more things left for today, and we'll be done! Now please open up to page three of the packages we got yesterday," a perky voice came from the front of the classroom, causing me to feel the need to bang my head against the table in pure agony.

Why, oh why, had I been put in this bloody class? It had to be some sick cosmic joke.

Groaning as quietly as I could, I lazily flipped the package open, not really caring if I was actually on the right page or not. I looked up to the board, where it was written "There's always room SELF-improvement! :)" I almost gagged.

Yes, we had a class called self-improvement. Now, it wouldn't seem so bad, except it was a class the school put you in that was dedicated to fixing kids with attitude problems.

Were you chewing gum in class? You broke the rules and therefore you had an attitude problem. Did you correct a teacher's mistake? You had an attitude problem and belonged in SI. Were you in my situation – AKA were you a (almost) straight-A student with good attendance, good behavior, never once been called down to the office for anything other than picking up something for your teacher, and yet you gave your principal one dirty look because he'd just told you that the library was going to be closed for a week because he felt that there was too much pleasure-reading and not enough studying going on at the school?

You just earned yourself a one-way ticket into Self-Improvement class.

The class was literally a semester-long detention during school hours.

"Alright, then," said our teacher, Miss Kestrel; she was young, blonde, overly-perky, and dressed as if she was ready to go to a sock-hop. I swear she time-traveled here from America in the 1950's. "Could someone please read from the beginning of the page?"

When nobody raised their hand (it made sense that everyone hated this class just as much as I did), Miss Kestrel decided to do what was probably her favourite hobby ever.

Pick on me.

"Salena, dear," she said, much too sweetly for my liking, "Could you please start reading?"

I forced a smile, looked down at the page and told myself to read as enthusiastically as I could.

That idea flew out the window when I realized we were reading about how it was inappropriate to chew gum in class. I read the passage, waiting for class to be over.

"Thank you, Salena; that was wonderful," Miss Kestrel said, "Now, class. I've decided that we're going to do a little assignment."

Everybody groaned. Except for me; instead, I mentally let loose every curse word I knew.

"I want you all to write a journal entry about yourselves. Talk about what you like, what you don't like. Mention experiences, your home life, your friends. Reveal to me what's important to you; your goals, your dreams! Talk about the course, and how it's been benefitting you to all self-improve yourselves! Oh, and you've got three weeks," Miss Kestrel ended off cheerily.

Everyone was silent.

"And you have the rest of the period to yourselves," she sighed.

Everyone immediately began talking to one another. Well, everyone else. I stayed quiet, packed my things in my colourful backpack, and once that was finished, looked peacefully out the window.

"Why, hello, Salena."

Goodbye, peace.

I groaned and turned around in my chair. "Ugh, what do you want, Tamra?"

"Just wanted to say 'hi,' dear," said the brunette girl now in front of me. She was sitting on the desk behind me, legs crossed and swinging off the edge. She popped a bubble she'd made with her gum and her little posse of three (whose names I didn't even know) was standing behind the desk, all of them with their arms crossed and each leaning on one of their hips.

I rolled my eyes. What did they think – that they were in a movie or something?

"No, seriously," I addressed Tamra, "What do you want?"

"No, seriously," she said mockingly, "I wanted to say 'hi.' And ask how your father was doing – y'know, with work and stuff?"

I scowled. Bloody little…

Tamra thought little of my dad, his sisters, and their families. She didn't think too greatly of my grandparents either – especially my grandfather. I didn't want to blame her for it, because I knew she was raised thinking lowly of my family, but she made it so hard not to. I mean, yes; I understood that her parents and her grandparents all taught her to think there was something wrong with us because we all chose to follow careers that we wanted and happened to be creative outlets.

Like my dad, for example – he was a musician for a while, before he went into literature. His dad was in literature, too. He was an actual novelist. They decided to be what they wanted and not what people expected them to be.

And she came over just to make fun of them.

Well, alright then. Two could play at that game.

"He's fine. He loves his job. And I love his job, too. It may be stressful, but at least I get to see him. When was the last time you saw yours?"

Tamra's perfectly glossed lips tugged into a frown. I fought the urge to smile in triumph, though I really wanted to. Though I did feel a little guilty – it was a low blow, after all.

"When and how often I see my father is none of your business, Salena," Tamra said, the venom in her voice now seeping through.

"Hey, if you're trying to annoy me by using my full name," I started, but didn't finish what I was thinking. Because I was thinking that it was working. Instead, I quirked my eyebrow and went with, "At least my parents didn't forget a letter on my birth certificate."

Her frown deepened, almost a scowl. Just as she was about to say something that was probably absolutely terrible, the bell rang, effectively cutting her off. Tamra composed herself and forced a smile

"Well, make sure to tell him I said 'hello,'" she said, obviously fed up that she wasn't winning, but trying hard not to show it.

"And why would I do that?" I sighed, already knowing the answer.

"Because he's my uncle, and I'm allowed to pass on messages every once in a while, aren't I?" Tamra said, a stupid smirk on her face as she walked away with her posse.

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention, Tamra was my second cousin. Our grandfathers were brothers.

Yeah. Just kill me now.

I got home around three that day, same time as I usually did. It was Friday, and I really wanted to just pass out on my bed and sleep into Saturday, but something was eating at me – something to do with SI class.

And it actually wasn't Tamra.

It should've been, but after going to school with her for years, I'd learned to ignore her pettiness and just move on with my life after she decided to make a jab at my (side of the) family.

No, I was thinking about the journal entry.

There was a lot I could talk about. But I wasn't sure if I wanted to share it all. Knowing my teacher, she'd probably go and make everyone read other people's entries aloud to the class. I wasn't willing to share a lot of the stuff she said we should talk about.

I thought it over a minute more and sighed.

Oh, what the hell. Why not? I decided that I'd just edit out what I didn't want Miss Kestrel or anyone else reading later (which would probably be most of it).

With that thought in mind, I went and sat down at my computer.

Dear Journal,

Let's start with the basics.

My name is Salena Silk.

You are to call me Sally.

I'm fifteen and my birthday is May thirty-first. My aunt always goes crazy every time someone mentions that. I was born in a small town in Italy, and I moved here to England when I was five. I have mouse-brown hair, which I got from my dad. I think my eyes are my best feature, which are perfectly half blue and half grey. My mom's eyes were naturally blue-grey, but were bluer, and my dad's eyes are grey. My mom, whose mother had grey eyes and father had blue eyes, got the same mix I did, except the blue in her eyes were more prominent than the grey – unlike mine, where both colours were perfectly even.

Speaking of my parents, my dad's name is Gabriel Silk, and my mom's was Emma Silk, nee Tolly. They're both endowed, which makes me a shoo-in to be. I just felt the need to express that, you know since, I'm supposed to be talking about me right now and stuff… wow, that sounded conceited. Anyway, moving on, my dad can feel emotions through clothes and stuff, and my mom could turn into any bird she wanted and fly.

Now, you've probably noticed I keep using present tense for my dad and past tense for my mom… Or you haven't. But I have. I shall explain that.

That's because my mom died when I was four. It was a car accident. She was on her way home from an arts and crafts store. (She was an artist, and an amazing one at that. It's sad that I never inherited her art skills. I try though… Not that great, but I try.) Suddenly, a drunken truck driver came out of nowhere and my mom, attempting to get out of the way, ended up driving into a ditch. She was declared dead on impact.

I remembered that there was this star right beside the moon that she used to show me every night when we lived in Italy. It was always there, even when we moved here. She always told me that it was a special star and that if I ever felt lost, I should look at that star and remember that there is always someone thinking about me. When she died, I made it her star. So that if I ever felt lost, I would look at it and know she's thinking about me. I look at it every night and talk to it, pretending that I'm talking to her.

I don't like talking about my mom much, so I'm going to talk about my dad now.

My dad is a book agent. Yeah, that's right. Be jealous. He brings home manuscripts and I get to read them and offer my father advice on them when he mysteriously can't find them around the house. As you can probably tell, I'm an avid reader, but I'm pretty slow at it. We can blame school for that. School's a pain. School should magically disappear and then I could go to my dad's work every day and just sit in his office and read. That's my dream life. Oh, and Logan Mitchell (no, not Logan Henderson. Logan Mitchell) would be there, catering to my every need because he loves me oh-so-much and he would make me his queen after we plan a giant corporate takeover of every bookstore in the world and then keep the books to ourselves…

And this is the part where I go back to reality. Sigh.

In reality, I go to a local high school and live in a part of the town called the Heights. I live close to my cousin Paige, and my grandparents. There are only a handful of kids in the Heights that are my age. Actually, there's only one. His name is Travis… something-or-other. (I can't remember his last name… my bad!) There's also this one other family. They have three kids, but one is thirteen, one is sixteen, and the oldest is seventeen. Anyway, I don't really get a chance to talk to any of them anyway. Travis, the other kids, and Paige all go a school called Bloor's Academy. It's for geniuses and endowed kids. I'm probably going to end up going there sooner or later (the whole 'I'm sure I'm going to be endowed' thing), but it doesn't exactly matter to me. I'm just going to live in the world of the normal as long as I possibly can.

What does matter to me? Well, that's easy – my grades, my friends, and my family. I have eighties and nineties in almost all my classes, except Science and Self-Improvement, which are literally the banes of my existence.

I have some interesting friends. My super-cool buddies happen to be Macy, Catherine, Chris, Brady, and Hunter.

Macy Capron is grouchy, and usually has this bored look on her face that said "I have better things to do with my life." But I know she cares, and without her slightly mean and disinterested attitude, she wouldn't be Macy.

Braden (or as we all call him, Brady), I happen to love dearly because his last name is Mitchell. As in, I like to pretend he's related to Logan Mitchell and will one day introduce me to him. Anyway, Brady's very social, but isn't very good with expressing his feelings, which is why he always needs our help whenever he tries to ask a girl out.

Catherine Lalier's studious, and often mistaken for being bipolar because of her mood-swings. It's best to never get on her bad side. But we love her all the same.

Christopher Gremmie likes to experiment with practically everything, and is constantly in detention because of said experiments. I'm surprised he hasn't been put in SI yet… or he has and he just refuses to tell us. I find that scenario pretty likely.

Hunter Caste is my boyfriend. We've been dating ten months. He's really sweet. He's a little over-protective sometimes, yes – but really sweet.

But the most important thing to me is my family. It's always been me and my dad. Then there's my cousin Paige (who's more like my sister), and her parents, my Uncle Billy and Aunt Mai (she's the one who goes crazy over my birthday). Then there's my Aunt April and husband Owen, and their daughter Kelsy. She's ten and probably the sweetest thing in the world. And there's also my Aunt June and Uncle Martin, and their son, Micah. He's nineteen and Paige and I are always calling him "oldie." Oh, and don't forget my grandparents and my great-aunt. My grandparents live around here, so I see them semi-often. My Great-Aunt Julia lives in a bookshop (SHE LIVES IN A BOOKSHOP! I'm so jealous) near the cathedral, so I don't see her as much as I'd like. But it's fun when I do, because she'd tell me stories of my mom every time I take a break from staring at the shop in complete and utter awe.

Then, there's also the other side of the family. This consists of my cousins Tamra, Becca, Quill, Laverne, and Norman. Even their names sound evil. Oh, and their parents. I'm not too fond of them either. The same goes for their grandparents – their grandfather especially. He started this whole "Silk-family-rivalry" thing.

Anyway, let's move on.

Um, so… what I like is easy – reading; music; attempting to be artistic and failing; my super-mega-awesomely-epically-wicked wheelie chair and awesome, colourful backpacks; acting (it's kind of strange to me too); my phone; hanging out with my friends and family… Oh, and of course Logan Mitchell. But who doesn't like Logan Mitchell?

(I shall personally, as well as brutally, mutilate anyone who answers that they don't and/or knows someone who doesn't. LOGAN MITCHELL IS AMAZING. As is Big Time Rush in general, but LOGAN ESPECIALLY!)

What I don't like… also easy. My cousin Tamra tops the list; next goes annoying snobs like Tamra in general; Science; Self-Improvement class; my school when it decided to shut down the library for a week (like really? What was the point of that?); and… I don't know what else. There are a lot of things that I can't think of right now. It's oddly difficult to think of things you don't like.

Dreams… goals… I have no clue. I guess I'll just go into something that makes me happy in the end. I'll figure it out eventually, I'm sure.

How has this Self-Improvement course helped me? It hasn't. It sucks and I hate it and it should go die. Can courses die? I think this one should.

And well, I guess that's all I can say about me. Gosh, I'm going to have a ridiculous amount of editing to do to this.

- Sally

"Hey, dad," I said, poking my head into the living room, "I'm going to go over to Catherine's soon. Want me to pick up anything?" The grocery store was on my way to and from Catherine's house, who I was meeting up with along with Macy for a project. I figured I could grab something on the way home.

"Um…" he thought about it for a second, "No, I think we're good right now. Have fun, and actually try to do some work."

"Psh, we always get our work done. We're wonderful students like that," I called back as I walked to my room. Once there, I began to rummage around, trying to find the materials I needed. I opened my closet and looked. The first thing I saw was a sweater I never, ever wore. It was a nice sweater, a simple, over-sized black hoodie. But something about it always gave me the creeps. Yes, I found a sweater creepy. Sue me.

Anyway, I saw it and instantly had the urge to put it on. Like something inside of me was pulling me toward it. I swear, I thought I was going insane in that moment. I mean, I felt as if I was being magnetically pulled toward a sweater. But I ignored that thought (and, if I'm completely honest, any rational thought I was having), and pulled it on over my yellow t-shirt anyway.

That was a big mistake.

I pulled the sweater over my head, realizing it was actually quite comfortable and thinking it was silly that I was scared of it.

That's when the flashes started.

I saw myself on the floor with my dad's arms around me. I was looking into the mirror, frozen, tears spilling from my cheeks, and looking like I had been trying to take off the sweater that I currently had on. I was desperate to get out. There was something… something haunting going on and I wanted to run into a corner and stay there forever.

Flash.

I was looking in a mirror, but I didn't see myself. I saw my cousin Paige, who was trying to tie her long brown hair in a ponytail. Her violet eyes alight with laughter. I could feel my arms piling up my hair in my hands and pulling a hair-tie over them.

I felt myself doing it in sync with Paige, and I thought, 'Wow, Sally. Just… wow.'

Flash.

I saw a girl with black hair, a serious look on her face. She looked like she was trying to say something, and she seemed almost desperate to let it out, from the look in her dark eyes.

I felt desperate. I felt my mouth moving, trying to get out the words I needed to, but they wouldn't come out. I was stuttering, rambling as fast as I could, trying to tell… tell someone that something was very, very wrong.

But the voice that came out wasn't my own.

Flash.

I saw a different girl, this time with brown-coloured hair and eyes to match. She was trying to look inconspicuous against a dark wall, as if be noticed was dangerous.

I was straining to hear something, but I tried to stay as quiet as possible. I felt scared and adrenaline was coursing through me. I was dizzy and my face felt warm and I wanted to run as fast as I could, but I stayed where I was. It was as if my silence was the only thing keeping me alive at that moment. I could hear my heart thumping deafeningly in my ears, and I was surprised that the people I was listening in on couldn't hear me.

I felt myself step back and the floor beneath me creaked. I froze.

I knew right then that I was a goner.

Flash.

I saw myself again, this time standing at the gateway into a cemetery. I was sad… no, wistful. I wanted something that I knew I could never have. I also felt… twisted, and I wanted to laugh at some bitter humour that was right there.

I realized it was because there was only one place I could get whatever I wanted. And I knew that it didn't have it.

And yet, I was there, torturing myself, anyway.

Flash.

I couldn't take it after that. I screamed.

I sank down to floor, struggling to take the sweater off, with tears spilling from my eyes, the whole time aware of my dad calling out my name and the sound of footsteps, rushed and getting closer with each second. My door slammed open as my dad took one look at the scene. He was instantly beside me. He hugged me, trying to reassure me everything was alright. I just kept struggling with the sweater, thinking that the images would go away if it came off. I couldn't see my bedroom, or my father beside me. All I saw was scene after scene, white blinding lights in between each of them.

I saw people I didn't know, places I'd never been before, felt feelings that weren't mine. I could see these people from the outside, and yet from the inside as well. I could feel these people's emotions. I could feel their pain, their longing, anguish, sorrow, anger, fear…

But, for one moment in time, everything was clear. I could see everything around me. I still tugged at the sweater, thrashing about and ended up turning around, seeing myself in the mirror. I froze. I opened my mouth to let out a gasp when the scenes suddenly started flashing again.

I screamed instead.

Finally, my father helped me get the sweater off, and I couldn't move. The flashes had stopped. My heart was racing, my head hurt and I was sure I was sweating. My face was warm and I was light-headed. I felt numb and weak and could hear blood pounding in my ears. All I could do was keep crying. So that's exactly what I did.

"Sally?" My dad asked tentatively.

I couldn't speak. Somehow, during the flashing scenes, I'd turned myself around again, now facing where I had been originally. Staring at the closet door in front of me, I nodded my head painfully slow, the pain I felt still coursing through me.

"Can you speak?" He asked, sounding slightly scared.

I shook my head slowly, still staring at the door. I turned my head to my father, and he looked panicked and afraid. My father, who – even with his dramatic ways and childish attitude – was so organized and ready for anything; was ready for any surprises that came his way. He had been this way ever since my mother had died. He wasn't going to let anything scare him.

To see him so scared – I couldn't tell what I felt. What I did know was I was almost positive I felt my throbbing heart break a little at the sight. To see him, my always calm and put-together father, so scared of me, his daughter…

What was happening to me?

I did the only thing I could do in that moment.

I cried harder.

Suddenly, my voice came rushing back to me.

"Daddy…" I whispered; my voice was hoarse, as if I hadn't spoken for weeks. My throat hurt as I forced myself to utter out words, but I didn't care, so long as I got my answer. "What happened?"

"I don't know, Sally, but I have an idea." I looked up at his words. My head was in pain as I did this, but I was trying to block the excruciating ache so I could hear what he would say next. His scared face became grave at whatever theory he had.

"I think you got your endowment."

A/N: AND SCENE. :D What did you think? This is my first attempt at an actual, proper multi-chapter story in two or three years, so feedback is definitely appreciated. Review please? :) Also, any minor errors, typos, etc, I will fix tomorrow.

Word Count: 6,000

Time Posted: Sometime between 11:40 – 11:59 PM

- May :)