Hello!

It's just me. The Author. Popping in. To Say hi!

And to apologise for the ... 185 day wait in between this chapter and the last. That's over six months... Holy crap, am I sorry. You'll err, see my note as to help with this at the bottom. Again, so very very very very very very sorry guys... *forgiveness plea*

And to let you know there's a note on the bottom of this, and review replies and a promise are on the next page.

Thanks for reading folks, and have a nice night!

I'm laying on the floor, facing away from the door. I've given up searching for a blast of cool air from under the door. It's not coming, and I can't be bothered to move.

Suddenly, I feel vibrations from the stairs, and I sigh. They're coming back – maybe Dad since the footsteps are heavier than Mom's. They're stopping outside my door, and I brace myself for the new torture to happen. I'm not going to give them satisfaction of turning around; they're going to have to do it their damn selves to get me to pay attention to them. Passive Aggression at its best.

The door opens slowly, and I relish the cool air across my back. It's pleasant and I just enjoy it while I can. It'll be gone in a few minutes anyway, so why bother reacting?

A hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch. They've never touched me before – is this a new kind of torture?

The hand touches my shoulder again, wraps itself around my arm and pulls me gently closer to the door. I can't fight it – I'm not strong enough and it hurts too much to move. Another hand grabs for my ankle, pulling me closer than ever to the door.

Self preservation kicks in now, and I want to survive this – I'm not just going to let him take me! He's stronger than I am, stronger than me like the elephant is to the ant, that I know for sure, but god help me he's got a fight on his hands if he's going to get me to go with him without a fight!

I twist, writhe, trying to stop Dad taking me out of here – he's going to kill me. I don't know how I know this, but I know it as surely as I know that Mom hates me, and that gravity isn't a force to be played with and that fire makes demons die quickly and painfully.

I kick hard, and suddenly both hands are gone. I scramble into the room, back into a world where I'm not really safe, but a world I know – but Dad follows me, I can feel his vibrations on the floor, the air eddying around me from the movement. I try to kick again, but a hand catches my ankle and my knee protests as it's bent further than it finds acceptable. I feel myself being hauled closer, and I aim another kick with my other leg. It connects with something soft again, and I reach out to put the last crystal back into place – I don't know if it will protect me but something – anything – has to be better than fighting whatever or who is going to kill me bare handed.

It's ironic. I'm so damn tired of life one minute and the next I'm fighting for the ability to live.

The hand makes another grab for my ankle, catches it and grips it hard. My brain goes spacey for a minute – I think I can feel the bones in my foot go crunch like they were never designed to do. My search for crystal ends in me flat on my back in pain – I don't even know where the fucking thing is anymore... A fist to my stomach and I'm winded and down for the count, like a animal to slaughter.

Death is not without a sense of humiliation then...

The hand on my ankle moves to my chest, the body it's connecting to moving to loom over me, one foot on either side of me. I feel it as I reach out to scratch, claw, maul with my one good hand, searching for a weak spot on someone who might as well have been Goliath in all the weak spots I could find. The hand is back again, touching over my heart – then up to my face. Dad's going to smother me, suffocate me in my own bedroom – please, God, don't let me die like this.

Please, God, please! I wanted to die, but not like this. Not like this...

A hand touches my temple, my mouth. I can feel myself sobbing, feel the tears running down my cheeks, but it's all silent as I try to pound on Dad's chest, any part of him I can reach with my one good arm to fend him off. A hand catches my wrists, both of them, batting my hands away from him. A piece of cloth comes up near my face, as I lean my head back, back as far as I can push it, trying to evade it. I push with my feet, claw with my hands, bite with a soundless mouth.

If the Reaper has my name on his list, it's going to be one hell of a fight before I go with him. Well, as much as I can fight.

Dad drops onto my stomach, straddling me and his weight crushes most of the air out of my lungs. I lay stunned, winded and immobile for a few seconds. It's all it takes.

It's enough so that he can rest one knee on my good arm, and I can feel the bones protesting and rubbing bone on bone together as the full weight of a full grown man settles onto weakened flesh and wasted muscle. I arch back, trying to pull my arm out from under his knee but he's too strong, too heavy and my efforts are in vain. Dad's here. Dad's going to kill me. I'm going to die.

Why am I still surprised?

One hand comes behind my head, and Dad's other one slips over my face, holding the cloth against my mouth. I scream, soundless and writhe to try to get him off, but he's too strong and the darkness in my mind begins to over take me. If I had my powers right now, I'd orb out, but all I can say is how pathetic I am, arching my back and writhing in the darkness, blind, deaf, and dumb as I die by my own father. His hands are made of flesh, but mine are ghost hands already for all the good they do.

Fuck it all. Fuck this life. And fuck this death as well. Maybe death isn't so bad, after all. At least I can't die again.

It's small comfort in this very dark, lonely place right now.

I fall into the abyss, my chest still heaving as I try to find oxygen. My arm goes slack and my head lolls back into the surprisingly gentle grip of my father. I feel my body relaxing, releasing any energy it might have had. I feel warm and cold at the same time as the gentle hand from behind my head lowers it to the floor and begins to stroke my cheek.

Who knew I could find comfort from him now, of all times?

He's never done this before, never held me and helped me and cared for me. My dad. The tender killer angel. God, how I hate thee, and all thy fucking angels. He wipes away my tears, as I feel everything go faint and distant. I can feel him lifting me up now, and the cold air from outside the room is barely felt. My head is cradled against Dad's chest and I feel soft cotton against my skin.

A voice in the back of my head says Wait... And I follow the instruction. Dad always preferred to wear rough cotton – nothing as soft as this.

I smell the scent of some expensive male cologne and some designer shampoo. Dad never brought cologne, and he had shampoo made from herbs not chemicals. Suddenly it makes sense.

As I drift into the abyss for the last time, I put it all together.

It's not Dad.

It's Wyatt.

Okay, let's recap on the news. We have some author's notes and review replies which I'll get to in a minute, and then a verdict on the white lighter situation which we'll do first.

At the moment, the white lighter situation is thus:

1) A white lighter (not named/ an OC)

2) Prue

3) Penny

4) Grams

5) No white lighter at all.

Feel free to submit your opinion on this in your review for this chapter but this is your last chance – Chapter Eleven will hold not only a long chapter, but the results as well! If you want to vote again, you can, if you want to change your vote, you can, Hell - if you want to withdraw your previous vote you can. Every time someone suggests a character for the role, I will take note. Also, please give reasons – for example, someone said they thought Chris and Prue were very similar and listed all the reasons why. This helps me to write the story for you – gives me some idea of how I'm going to fit this whole new person in there. Remember, the more unusual your choice, such as Andy, or another, little known character, then the more I will think on it.

Every suggestion is noted and every suggestion counts towards your choice. If you don't vote, it's not going to win, people!

Next item on my agenda; review replies. Some people have mentioned that since the story has progressed review replies have been slowly increasing until they are longer than the chapter itself! Since I am incapable of having short reviews (I'm lonely in my normal life~), and I don't like to do review reply all by itself (reading responses to other people's reviews can be helpful), I propose a this as a solution: I will reply in the long way to everyone every third chapter – so Chapter Ten, Thirteen, Sixteen, Nineteen etc, and just reply to people with big questions if needed to via the chapter. It'll save on space, as they say. Next lot though are on the next 'chapter.' It's all author's notes and review replies, so please don't kill me!

And last but not least; a beta. Well, I say beta, I'm not looking for someone to be helping me with plot line on a really deep level, really, just someone to give me a kick up the backside via email, and to tell me I'm being a complete numbskull for missing something obvious like inventing extra rooms in the house, or saying Phoebe has blonde hair when I've written her brunette. I'd preferably like someone who knows the fandom quite well, as well the show, but someone who is also willing to give me a bit of help with it at times too – what's believable and what isn't. I'm experienced with the show, but the later seasons – after about mid way through season seven, it escapes me a bit – never did like Billie and her sister.

Review replies are over the page, along with a sneak preview of what is to come, and an extra incentive.

Chapter Ten