Alrighty, for those of you who had started reading my other fic, I'm sorry! But I'm going to be working on this one for a while. I've worked hard on this one and on putting a strong back story with it, and I feel like it has a much stronger plot than my other story. So I really hope all of you enjoy it! I will try to update once a week. I may be slow at times as I do work full time and go to school, but I will do my best to update regularly. :]

Anyways... on to the fic!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the lost boys or any other characters or places from the movie. :[

Summary: Allison and Hannah shared the same mother, but they never knew the other existed. Now, twenty years after Allison's birth, her younger sister, Hannah, tracks her down in Santa Carla, California - in the state's highest security prison. Naïve and determined to bond with her older sister, Hannah seeks the help of the law, but when that fails, what ends will she go to for Allison? DavidxOC/DwaynexOC? Pairings may change.

Lunacy Fringe

"Allison, would you tell me about your mother and father?"

The voice was that of a rather bulbous man in his late fifties. His voice was calm, but his frustration was evident in his expression. The corners of his thin lips were pursed tightly and his forehead wrinkled when he spoke. There was a twitch too – in his left eye – that she had first noted a week ago, the day she'd stabbed him with her fork in the cafeteria, simply because the twitch had annoyed her. Needless to say, his left hand was out of commission for a while, and she'd been banned from using forks.

"I've told you that isn't my name."

Allison was a small framed girl, the type most people would look at and deem breakable. True enough, physical strength wasn't her forte, but she had other ways of looking after herself. She stood just below five feet, her wavy black hair coming just past her shoulders, and her eyes were a dull, dingy green against pale skin. After all, she hadn't been allowed outside in months.

"You know I can't call you anything else."

Allison's voice came out steady and calm even through her building frustration. Allison. They'd been calling her that wretched name since she was born, and she hated it. "Your policies confuse me, Doctor. I don't see why you won't call me by my name."

The doctor ignored her this time and continued on. "Will you tell me about your mother and father?"

"I've told you before."

"I'd like to hear again. I'll sign you off on sessions for the week if you'll cooperate."

Allison was silent for a long moment, but she did comply. The doctor knew her well; of course, she'd only do something when it benefitted herself.

"My father used to make me sit for hours and listen to him," she started. "He would tell me stories of his younger days, when things were simple, and he didn't have a half-witted little thing like me to take care of. He told me over and over how he met my mother – that she was a whore who'd drugged and seduced him and then run off as soon as I'd been born – and how she'd given birth to me, a devil child, come to bring him misfortune and, ultimately, damnation…."

"Daddy, did I do something wrong?"

Allison's tiny head poked up in the direction of her father; he was angry again. It happened nearly every day, and every day she asked the same question. "It's story time, baby," he would tell her, and she'd be made to take a seat in the floor – she wasn't allowed to sit on the furniture. Once, when she'd asked why, she'd been locked away in the basement for nearly three days with out food or water. He'd rushed her to the hospital after that, telling them he'd been searching for her for days and had found her only that morning traipsing through the city by herself. The doctors had said she was lucky to live. She hadn't ever questioned his methods again; it had been her own fault, after all. So, when told to sit, she obeyed, sitting in the middle of the floor so that she might not accidentally touch any of his possessions. She was lucky enough, he'd told her, that she was allowed to walk on his floors and have his roof over her head.

And when she'd sat, he'd told her the story of her mother's and his meeting for the millionth time. He'd been on his way home from work when he'd seen her. It had been raining, and her slumped form had been walking down the road; he'd stopped to offer her a ride, which she'd happily accepted. They' d talked for some time when she'd admitted to having no place to go, and he'd immediately – being the Christian man he was – offered his home up to her. Again, she accepted, but when he'd asked her to join him in having a drink, she'd slipped something into his glass. He couldn't remember the night after that. She'd had her way with him, of course, and she when she'd found out she was pregnant, she'd decided to stick around for a while. He'd let her out of fear of what his fellow church members and co-workers would think, but she'd taken off and left him with the child as soon as she'd been born.

When he'd finished the tale he'd said, "Do you understand now, Allison?"

And when she'd said no, his hand had come down hard on her cheek.

"That night was the first time father ever beat me."

"And it happened often after that?"

"Seldom at first and more and more often over the next few years. It was nearly an every day thing by the time I was ten."

"Will you tell me about the night you murdered him?"

"Helped him," Allison corrected and paused. "Father did something to me that night that he'd never done before. He'd let me go out firstly, something unheard of in my home, and spend time with the friends I didn't really have. He'd told me to be back by ten. I got home at 10:03…"

He was sitting on the couch waiting for her when she opened the door. The television was on, the screen showing nothing but fuzz, and she froze when she saw him. He wasn't looking at her; in fact, he hadn't moved since she'd entered the door and so she closed it quietly behind herself and approached him slowly.

"Father?"

He didn't answer her, so she drew closer. Her brows furrowed together in confusion at his state. His face was tear streaked. His eyes hung open wide, and his dark hair stuck out in all directions. She turned her head and looked at the television and then back at him again.

"Father."

She knelt down and reached out towards him, stopping just short of actually making any sort of physical contact. He was shaking, she noticed, and his mouth was moving, murmuring inaudible words. She considered speaking to him again, but decided against it, standing and turning away instead. She'd only taken two steps when it happened.

"Turn your back," he murmured, barely audible. "..t-turn your back.."

"It all happened so fast, he had me by the arm and on the ground before I knew what happened," she said. "'You're late,' he said and he hit me. He kept hitting me, so when I saw an opening, I ran. I ran to the kitchen, and I grabbed a knife and I killed him."

When she'd finished, her balding therapist leaned back in his seat with a defeated sigh. "You're hiding, Allison," he told her. "I know you, and I know when you're lying."

"That's my story," she told him.

"And you're still sticking to it." Their sessions had ended in that same way time after time, and the statement had gone from question to assumption. He didn't wait for her to respond; he knew she wouldn't. Instead, he went on, probing for more information. "Please, Allison. I'm here to help. Tell me the truth. Please let me help you."

Her expression didn't change as she stood, pushing back the rickety wooden chair she'd been sitting in. It was only when she turned away from him that she let her expression fall into hopelessness. "You're here to condemn." She paused for a moment, reconstructing her look of composure before glancing back at him. "I'd like to go back to my cell now."

The morning breeze was light, and Hannah grinned, happy at the good weather, as she raised her hand and pushed her blond hair out of her face. She'd arrived in Santa Carla the night before, and had woken early ready to start the mission she'd set out on.

"Mom?"

"Hm?" The older, blonde-haired woman had answered.

"Have you ever been with anyone other than dad?"

"Of course not, honey," her mother had replied, letting out a small laugh, but her voice had raised when she'd said it. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," she'd responded, knowing from her mother's tone that it wasn't a topic to be pushed. Her mother had opened her mouth as if to respond but had paused and closed it again.

Hannah sat at their kitchen table, her head resting comfortably in her palm. She'd turned eighteen a month before and had graduated high school two weeks before that. She'd been off visiting a college in Oklahoma when she'd been mistaken for someone else. Allison, they'd called her, and the stares she'd received had held a mixture of pity and accusation. It had happened several times throughout the day; someone would greet her and skirt cautiously out of her path. Several would simply glance at her, then at the ground and walk the opposite direction, glancing back only once they reached a fair distance. It had been towards the end of her visit, when things had started to come together.

She was to catch a bus shortly, and she'd gone into a small convenience store across the street from the bus station. A bell jingled when she opened the door and a young man peered out from behind the counter at her. She gave him a small smile, and when his face paled and his eyes grew wide, she quickly averted her gaze. It was the same look she'd been getting from everyone else, but as she walked to the back of the store, she glanced back every few moment to see his gazed still on her. By the time she'd pulled out a bottle of water and walked back up to the register, he'd seemed to have managed to avert his gaze.

He was the first to break the silence. "$1.08."

She didn't respond at first, and the boy followed her gaze to a photo that had been tucked under the register. He grabbed it up quickly, face reddening and had stuffed it back underneath. "A friend," he said quickly.

"That's why you're staring," Hannah had said, more matter-of-factly than caring. "What's her name?"

He'd looked away while answering. "It was Allison." Hannah waited, but he didn't offer any more information. Instead he repeated himself. "$1.08."

Hannah pushed her money across the counter and pushed on. "Was? Did she die or something?" The boy had sent her a horrified look.

"N-no," he'd stuttered. "She just... had to leave."

"She did something horrible," Hannah concluded.

"Of course not!"

"Then someone did something horrible to her."

The boy let out a snort, quickly cashed out her purchase and shoved her change across the counter. "It's none of your business," he chortled before turning away and stalking through an oversized door frame and out of sight.

Hannah didn't thing twice about her reaction. She had her arm across the counter, pulling the photo out from its hiding spot. She let out an over-exaggerated gasp when she saw the face on it clearly. She was over the counter and in the back room seconds later. She stopped dead in front of the boys face and held the photo up next to her head so that he'd have to see them side by side.

"She looks just like me," she stated. "And people have been calling me by her name all day! Just tell me who she is! People are scared of her; their acting like they're scared of me. Just what did she do that was so horrible?"

He let out another snort. "She's prettier than you," he spat but he let out a sigh, and spoke calmer. "Look, I'm sure it's frustrating.. all these people you don't know mistaking you for someone else. You just look a lot like her."

"My hair is a different color." Hannah had withdrawn the photo, and she was looking at it again. "My eyes too." She looked back up at him. "She looks more like my mother, now that I think about it.

The boy laughed this time, though it was more condescending than actually amused. "Are you really making the assumption that you're related to Allison?"

"I am," Hannah responded, and her tone turned to pleading. "Please tell me who she is."

"A friend, alright?"

"You don't really expect that response to satisfy me, do you?" She raised an expectant eyebrow.

He let out another sigh and backed away from her, placing himself in a chair a few feet away from where she stood. "I met her in first grade," he started. "I never really knew anything bad was going on. I mean, I saw her every day, but I had no idea until it was too late." Hannah had perched herself on a desk on the opposite side of the small room, her eyes now intent on the boy in front of her. "I don't know exactly what happened; no one does, but they found her downtown sleeping by the cross in the Grand Cathedral. She was all covered in blood and mumbling I guess, so the preacher called an ambulance, and they rushed her to the hospital. They tried calling her dad to let him know, but he never did answer or show up at the hospital. It was in the newspaper, of course. That's how I found out, so I went to see her as soon as I saw it."

"And?"

"And she wouldn't respond to anything I said to her, just kept mumbling something I couldn't understand. I just got the word 'father,' so I figured something bad had happened. I thought her dad and her might've gotten in to some trouble, so I went over to her house to see if I could find him."

He got quiet then, and she urged him on. "And you found him?"

He nodded. "Dead."

"Dead?"

"Dead," he repeated. "Stabbed to death." He was looking down at his lap, wiping his now sweating palms against his trousers. "The police ruled it a homicide, and Allison got convicted for the crime."

"She was a murderer?" Hannah's expression had turned horrified and she averted her gaze from the boy. She chanced a glance back at him and immediately regretted it. He looked pissed. In fact, she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a more intent glare in her life.

"She was a victim." He placed a great amount of emphasis on the word victim. "Her and her father were both good Christian people. They went to church every Sunday; they whole community knew them."

"Then why did the community convict her?"

He looked at his lap again. "They didn't know her like I did. She didn't really talk to a lot of people, just went to school and church and went home. She was pretty shy."

"So people are mistaking her for me because they never really saw much of her."

"And because she'd been gone for four years."

"In jail?"

"In and out of different jails and wards. Her father's murder was hard on her."

"Who do you think killed him?"

He shrugged and turned his grim face back up so that his brown eyes met hers. "No idea, but Allison isn't a killer. Whatever happened, it killed her a little too. All that on top of being blamed for it, and I can't imagine anyone would stay entirely sane."

She'd asked where to find Allison after that, but the boy had refused, so she'd given the photo back and left after that. She'd stopped at the police station next, but had been refused there too. It was back at home that she'd gotten her answers. A friend of hers, the adorable little nerd that he was, had hacked his way into the small town's police records and had somehow managed to track down the information Hannah had wanted.

Her name was Allison Marie Hamilton, she was currently located in a high security prison in Santa Carla, California, and they did indeed share the same mother.