Everything was numb.

"Miss?"

I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. Any movement seemed to be subconscious.

"Miss...?"

Even here, with the central heating blasting down at me, in my warmest fleece, I was cold. I was freezing cold.

"Miss!" A manicured hand slammed against the counter, the frame shaking slightly from the impact. Unable to block out the hysterical customer anymore, I looked up. "I want to pay for this, please?" She made it a question, as if she wasn't sure she could. I didn't care. It wasn't my business what she did with a power drill.

I shrugged, muttering an almost inaudible, "sure", before fishing around in the desk for the booklet with all the previous purchases. "Can I?" I asked, gesturing to the item in her tiny, little hands. The woman nodded, a little too quickly. If anything, it was suspicious - but it wasn't my business to poke my nose into a potential murder case. A customer was a customer - and, frankly, after everything I had seen, practically everyone within a kilometre radius of Fey Valley had psychopathic tendencies.

I didn't like her watching so eagerly over my shoulder, but we needed the money. It wasn't worth sending her away and regretting it later. Shallow, perhaps, but true all the same.

"Ah... great. That'll be... ninety-eight ninety-five, please."

Most people looked at me in disbelief, like they couldn't believe that D.I.Y tools could cost more than a tenner. This woman didn't. She dumped a hundred on the table, stuffed the drill in her designer bag and ran. As fast as her legs would carry her.

I don't think I'd ever seen anyone run that fast in five inch stilletos. "... You forgot your change..." my voice trailed off, drowned out by tinkling of the bell. It was a lost cause. I wasn't about to chase after her - if she wanted the money, she could come back for it. And, to be perfectly honest, she didn't look like she'd miss the measley 'tip' anyway.

It was seven o'clock at night. February 12th. About three weeks after Fiona's death.

I didn't go out much anymore - they were still sending out search parties. People still deluded into the fact that they might be able to find her... somewhere. I knew they were wrong. I knew, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to be the prime suspect in the murder of my ex-best friend. The motive, in the eyes of the public, was already there.

"You can go now, Erica. I'll take over from here." My granddad was standing in the doorway, watching me. He always had a knack for catching onto my moods, even when I'd rather he minded his own damn business.

I couldn't meet his eyes because, like so many times before, they were obscured by his glasses. "You don't have to. I'm not even half way through my shift."

"But you're not well - and it's putting you in a bad mood. If you're in a bad mood, the customers won't buy."

Begrudgingly, I got to my feet and pulled on the parka that hung off the back of my chair. "If they're desperate, they will." I grumbled under my breath - half hopeful that he wouldn't hear me - handing him the hundred and leaving.

The weather hadn't been getting any warmer, and spring was fast approaching. If the cold front held strong, spring wouldn't be here til late April/early May. It's hard to admit, but slipping on ice and walking around with sodden shoes was starting to lose it's appeal.

It was sleeting today. The walls had turned black where they were still damp, and everything smelt wet and grimy. Humid. The clouds weren't as ominous and dark as they had been... but they were still heavy... obese, dragging across the sky sluggishly - threatening to squash us like bugs.

Even after out countless fall-outs/Martin's one-sided relationship that he never managed to make mutual, he still tried to hold conversations with me. Admittedly, when I wasn't trying to murder him with my eyes. If I said it was nice, I would be lying.

You see, my mood had been gradually spiralling downwards, punctuated by several events that had occurred in the space of time between Lysander's mysterious disappearance and, well... now.

Granddad had to come into my room one night, avec fire extunguisher because I had succeded at setting my room on fire. I now inhabited the couch in the living room, the remainders of my clothes in a suitcase by our small kitchen. The books had gone up in flames with the bedding and I made sure the window was shattered.

Anything he had touched, including my blazer, no longer existed.

And, in case he ever did decide to return, I left a cheery image of him decapitated on my bedroom wall.

But I didn't feel any better. Part of me felt sated, but the anger continued to well up. I liked to think I was angry at Lysander... and a part of me was. There wasn't even a valid reason. He just happened to pop-up in my life at the wrong time.

The park was empty. The little pond that I used to paddle in as a kid was frozen over - and, where the ice had cracked, moss collected. Overhead, the rooks were cawing ominously; the interlude to something bad, dangerous and most definitely dark.

A Threat.

But, what?

I turned, and I saw him.

"You."

"I liked the picure you drew for me." He stepped further out of the shadow, his face iluminated by the glow of artificial light. Funny that he only ever came out to play when the sun went down - maybe I was missing the punch line for some private joke. "It was very... powerful. Moving."

I said nothing. There were so many things I coul have said - words that hung on the tip of my tongue. Where were you? What were you doing? What the crap were you thinking. But the only word that would form was: "jackass."

His expression was lazy, uninterested.

I chucked a large-ish rock at him, but it bounced off him like it had hit solid iron. He didn't even flinch. "Why the hell are you here? What do you want?"

"I think the more appropriate question is: what are you doing outside your house, here, at this hour?" At this hour? It wasn't even that late! "It's not safe for you."

"What? Because you're going to kill me?"

He shrugged, non-comittally, like it was an insignificant detail. To him, it pobably was. "You didn't answer my question." He said.

"Neither did you." I countered, omitting the twice. He stepped closer, reaching out to me. I didn't know whether to run away then, or let him. Part of me didn't want his hand anywhere near me, but the other, purely instinctual half of me yearned for his touch. Almost desperate. I had a funny feeling that this 'purely instinctual' side would lead me, as the crow flies, to my impending doom.

"How about you answer me, and then I answer you?"

"What is it with you and questions?"

His hand faltered, his lips cracking into a wry smile. A smile that didn't meet his eyes. Blood-chilling. "I could say the same about you."

Was he even trying to scare me? I didn't want to know. So, like anyone with common sense, I walked away.

"You're not mad, are you?" It was almost a laugh. Almost, because it held a hint of uncertainty. When I turned to meet his eyes, however, they were devoid of any emotion. Empty. It didn't match his voice at all; and suddenly, I didn't feel like I was communicating with Lysander. It's difficult to pinpoint exactly how I felt - mostly confusion and the ever-growing sense of dread.

"Figure that out for yourself." I said.

I could see his shadow overlapping mine, like some deep and meaningful omen. For what, I don't know. All I knew was that he wasn't going to let me shake him off. Ignoring it, I kept moving.

"Oh." I stopped, not bothering to turn to face him. "You know that picture you liked so much? That was you."

Leaving him on a high note - for me, at least - I crossed the line of trees, past the chainlink fence to the edge of the city. The road was eroded concrete - full of potholes and grit. In the summer it was covered in a layer of red dust. Honestly, I preferred the dust. Looking at half-melted snow was just making me depressed. I mean... if it was going to snow, couldn't it at least stay white and pristine like in the pictures?

By the time I reached the cross-roads I was disappointed, mostly because I had expected him to follow after me. But it had been forever since I had seen him last; who knew what kind of life he was leading. One thing was for certain, and that was that I was no longer part of it.

Well, whatever.

It's not like I cared what he did, right? I hated him, anyway.

The eerie glow of the street lights masked by dense fog was enough to make me feel uncomfortable; or maybe that was the bite of the cold creeping in through my layers upon layers of clothes.

Pulling my coat tighter around myself, rubbing my arms to get rid of some of the numbness, I marched in the general direction of my house.

The main problem was low visibility. I could probably find my way back home, eventually, blind-folded... well... maybe not. But I wasn't lost. I just couldn't see four square metres in front of me.

I could end up walking around for ages before I spotted my door.

"Damn it." I cursed, vision impared even more by the water vapour that escaped my lips. "I can't see."

The sound of footfall behind me rose the hairs on my neck. "Perhaps I could be of service."

SHIT. It was him.

But... how did he find me in this weather? How did he even catch up with me? I would have heard him sooner; noticed something at least. But now... now I could feel his stare like a puckered, agitated wound throbbing in my side.

"You don't need, or want to help me." I said. "I'll find my way home eventually. Do yourself a favour and go back to your evil lair."

"That's no good." There was now a solid lump formed in my throat, worsened dramatically when he grabbed my forearm and pinned me against the nearest, brick wall. "I'm trying to be a good samaritan, and you throw it right back in my face."

"I don't want you to be a bloody good samaritan. I want you to get the frick off me!"

He chose to ignore me, smile widening. "You know, I've decided that I'm upset that you would go to all the trouble to diss me, Erica. Not even upset; I'm disappointed." The sound that left my throat was not dissimilar to a gagging noise. Again, he ignored it. "After all of the things I've done for you..."

I tried to protest, but his hand covered my mouth, forcing my head backwards until it collided with the hard surface behind us.

"But, because I'm nice, I'll let it slide."

Oh, I beg to differ. He frowned, like he had read my thoughts - not that they probably weren't plastered all over my face; I guess it wasn't the reaction he wanted, either, because he let go of my face. I don't think I missed him digging his fingers into my cheeks all that much, or banging my head against a wall.

"You don't believe me."

"No." I said defiantly, snatching my hand away when his grip on my wrist loosened. "I don't believe you. Why should I? You've never given me any reason to."

He looked at me like he didn't really understand, only adding fuel to the raging furnace of hatred and wrath. "I haven't, have I?" As if he only just got that now of all times. And there was me, thinking he was cleverer than that. Just goes to show how wrong I was.

When he didn't stop me, I ducked out from our little wall sandwich; feeling angry and stupid. Stupid, because no matter how many times I walked away, I was always secretly happy to see him again - like some idiotic puppy.

"Why so cold, Erica?" He called out to me.

"Because you're a soulless jerk." I said.

"Do you really believe that?"

And, looking back at him, through the thick mist that encircled us, I really thought about it. I thought about why I hated him. I thought about all of the pent up feelings I'd had; the desperation for release, the hurt, the blame and the suffering. None of it was his fault but, at the same time, I wanted to point the finger at him. Just like Martin. "Yeah. I do."

And then I walked away, homeward bound, without looking over my shoulder.

When I got home and replayed the past day's events in my head, I sighed. Had I been to harsh? Didn't he deserve it? Originally, I never thought anything that I could have said to him would ever affect him. And, on a scale of one to ten (ten being obsessive and one being indifferent), his nonchalance probably left us not much higher than two, if we even got past zero.

After all, I was probably just a convenient thing to pass the time with.

In his eyes, we probably weren't even on equal ground. Heck, in my eyes, we weren't on equal ground. He was like... this untouchable apparition that suckers vaguely normal people, like myself.

Why did I even bother with him?

You know what, I don't even think I had it in me to care anymore.

There was a photo on the mantelpiece above the fireplace - the village fête three years ago, when Fiona and I had still been friends; before all the ambiguity of familial pressures, my lack of self-esteem... before she died. And now she was gone, and I didn't even get to say sorry. I didn't even get to say good bye.

I didn't realise I was crying until tears were streaming down my face.

And then I couldn't stop. They just kept coming, wave after wave off emotional rock bottom, before there was literally no tears left to cry. My head hurt, my eyes were puffy and swollen... and I couldn't sleep.

Life. Officially. Sucks.

For a while, I even considered going outside to clear my head again. However, the likeliness of bumping into him was dangerously high... and I valued my life. I hadn't suddenly become suicidal just because my only friend kicked the bucket.

But no matter how many times I dealt myself the same, langurous pep-talk - I still felt guilty; and I didn't know how to cope with guilt.

When I looked out the window, the sun was already rising over the horizon, tinting the sky a pinkish colour. I stared bleakly at it; like I couldn't think of anything I hated more. Oh wait! That would be myself.

With that, I sank onto the sofa, and pulled the covers up over my ears.

It was going to be a long, painful week.

A/N: I actually started writing this last sunday, then got writer's block. sorry I took down the sequel.

Put down your firearms, people!

It was all for the greater good - and if I ever do finish this (again) - then I might put up another sequel and not kill off the character. Twice. Yeah, sorry for those of you who just started reading - but that doesn't technically count as a spoiler because the plot has undergone some dramatic changes. But I'm not telling you what has chaged! Muahahahaha! So technically, it's not even a spoiler at all! It's a red-herring!

Please, if you have a heart, don't ask me what a red-herring is.

So yeah...

... this also took a while because I am ill with the flu!

Yuck. It's been going around our school and some idiot gave it to me - so now, just my luck, I can't breathe when I eat - I have a permanent blocked nose induced head ache, my throat itches, my temperature fluctuates and I should probably be in bed... but I can't breathe when I lie down! It's a lose-lose sitch. D':

THANK YOU FOR READING! - and if you take the time to read the little notes at the bottom I'd just like to say that you're probably wasting your time! But thank you anyway, fellow time-wasters!

WATCH THIS SPACE! L.O.L smileyface

(You won't believe how long I've wanted to say that for. It's actually sad how boring my life is.)