Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Lumineers own "Angela."

Strangers in this town

They raise you up just to cut you down

Oh Angela it's a long time coming

Oh Angela spent your whole life running

death: the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit. —Psalm 34:18

The air was still, the Summer heat intense and overbearing. The humidity was thick and sticky, the roads cleared of people because it was too hot to be outside. Nature was in full bloom, lightning bugs flickering around the area of the old and deserted park, the grass moist between my toes. The house had been too stuffy, so I took the liberty of leaving—Leon's snores fading into the background along with Ma's impatient sighs as she fanned herself with the morning newspaper.

I needed to get out of there, needed to find something to keep myself occupied, but the neighborhood was barren, the park vacant, and the area silent. I never liked the heat, but I liked the fact that it kept everyone else indoors when I wanted to be alone outside. The damn house always felt warmer somehow, the heat nearly suffocating.

My eyes landed on something in the distance—one lone flower standing tall and proud. It was always surprising how much more colorful and alive everything became during the Summer, but it never seemed to last long—nothing did.

But nothing lasts forever.

It's something that I had come to learn at a young age, something I'd learned to accept. Time changes things, and it takes and takes with so much greed, so much hunger. When I looked around the town I lived in, I noticed how much it had all changed in just three years. The people, the styles, the slang . . . it was all different. It was as if I'd woken up in a new era, a new time altogether, but in reality, there was nothing new—it was simply changed, and with it, time continued to move on, the clock ticking forward, a never-ending cycle that wouldn't falter.

Time seemed like an enemy the more I thought about it, and I wondered what the whole point of life was. Why did we all exist? What was the epitome of life when if offered nothing but cruelty? But I realized that death was inevitable and there would come a time when we would all fade into the darkness—death would consume us all. I used to wish for it as a young child, trying to wrap my head around the concept of life and death, attempting to understand the meaning of time. And then I felt that death had become a close friend, an old friend, but one which would always be lost to me.

As I had gotten older, I finally started to understand that death itself had always been more than just an old and close friend—it had been a part of me. Time moved forward, bringing change along with it, and death took what was left behind—it consumed. It was inescapable, unchangeable, and a bigger part of time than anything. Life would always give to death one way or the other, but they needed each other in the end, one unable to exist without the other.

The only thing that remained immortal was time—it was everlasting.

I wondered when I would fade from this world, when I would become as still as a dead flower, the reminisce of my life becoming nothing but particles in the wind, searching for some place to evanesce for all eternity.

Maybe one day I would find solace.

"Your brothers know you're here?"

"Does it matter? I can do what I want, Dallas, so get lost. I ain't lookin' for your company, playboy, so go hang on another girl."

"Let me take you home, Angel."

I remembered tellin' Winston what happened with Billy Walkins, but I'd always put the conversation outta my head, made like it never happened. What was the point? He was shot dead only two nights later, the only person who had ever known about the incident. Tim had guessed at it, never directly sayin' nothin', but he wasn't stupid. Tim was an insightful guy, really smart, too, but I would never be able to tell him. It had taken me quite some time to figure out why I'd ever opened my mouth to Dallas, why I had ever trusted him in the first place, but when he'd died, I made myself forget—it had always been easier that way, made things more simplified.

But the memories came tumbling back one morning while I walked through the cemetery, a place I hadn't been in a few years. I didn't know why I even bothered to show up, but there was some haunting reminder that two months from that moment would mark three years since Winston and the Cade kid had died. It seemed strange to me to think that it had been nearly that long, that the last time I stood there, I wondered what it would be like when I was Dally's age, and at this point, I was only a few months shy of seventeen.

The ride had been practically silent between us that night, eerie like. Dallas was always a grim person, a hard guy to talk to, but I was out of it, drunk on whiskey and tequila. I'd been so sick the following morning, thought that I was gonna die. We drove back into town, the lights from downtown flashing through the windows at us, the silence being the ghost of comfort. I remembered starin' at Winston, his eyes focused straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I hear you broke it off with Sylvia," I said, my words coming out slow.

"She was two-timing me again while I was in jail," he replied, not even sounding the slightest bit off by dumping his chick.

I licked my lips, pressing my head back into the seat. "You fool around on your girls, too."

"They don't mean nothin'." His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "There ain't any commitment with me and those broads, but Sylvia was different. We was together, ya know, so it wasn't the same thing."

My eyes were drooping, the intoxication speaking. "I wish somebody would love me, but I don't think it's gonna happen, Dally. I don't think I'm the kinda girl boys wanna really love." I could see his nose wrinkle in the darkness, my eyes heavy with sudden drowsiness. "Sometimes, I get so lonely, and there ain't anyone who cares how I feel, but I wish that there was. It don't work like that, though. Nobody cares, and they ain't ever gonna."

"You need to quit thinkin' so much, kid," he said. "Glory, but you're gonna drown in those thoughts if you keep it up."

"I always feel like I'm drowning." My limbs seemed to sag down in the seat, head lolling to one side as I stared out the windshield at the darkened scenery, the traffic lights flashing through every so often. I'd felt like I was in some sort of trance or something—I was gone. "When I close my eyes, I always see him, and there ain't no escape. Nothing really dulls the pain, either." I kept tellin' myself that this was all a dream, and the only reason I was running my mouth to Winston was because he could take it—he could bear it. He could take anything. "You know, I think that I can do a whole lot, do whatever I want and maybe somebody will notice, but nobody does, nobody cares. They just want me to go to hell, but they're too late . . ."

The car rolled to a stop, and then Dallas was lookin' at me hard. "How much did you drink?" Despite the serious tone of his voice, his face remained calm, an expression that reminded me of Tim. "You're talkin' crazy, girl."

"I ain't crazy," I retorted, forcing myself to sit upright. "But I wish I was."

"And any person who wishes they were crazy must be, so just quit talkin' already," he snapped, and lit up a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, his eyes hardening. Dallas was always scary lookin', and he always seemed pissed off about somethin', too. He continued to smoke for a few minutes before he spoke again, the tension thick around us. "Where the hell is shit comin' from anyway?"

I swallowed the building saliva in my mouth, focus distant. "Everywhere. But I can't help it. Nobody's interested in what I have to say, so I keep my trap shut. It's easier like that anyway; ain't nobody that has to listen, but sometimes, I . . . gotta say things, or else I'll . . ." A sigh. "Ya know, sometimes, I just really wanna die, just get it over with so I don't have to think anymore. But that's the thing, I can't, and the thoughts . . . I feel so sick sometimes."

"Yeah," he said after a minute, the cigarette halfway finished. "But you gotta quit feeling sorry for yourself, kid. You gotta think smart and not let shit get to you, understand?" The lines in his face seemed more pronounced as he scowled. "Toughen the hell up, and don't talk like that no more."

"You don't understand," I said, turning straight ahead. "Nobody gets it." And then in my hazy state of anger, I cracked, going on about that fucking party and shooting up with Graham Parker, and then Billy Walkins . . . and what he did, how I didn't want it, how . . . God, the pain, but it was my fucking fault, and I did this to myself. Because nobody could ever hurt me but myself, nobody would ever get the better of me, because I wouldn't let them. It was how things worked in the end—only I could . . . only I could destroy myself.

Winston didn't say anything, only sat there quietly. I'd never seen such a look on his face before—pure and calm vexation—but he remained silent beside me.

My voice croaked in the stillness, low but desperate. "I just want someone to— Everybody leaves in the end." Inhale, exhale. "You will, too."

And he had . . . two nights after that.

I followed my mother downtown one night. I'd gotten pretty used to her schedule, kept an eye on her when she thought I wasn't paying any attention. But I was always paying attention—to everything and to everyone—though she'd been too out of it to know what was going on. It made me awfully sick to really consider that Sylvia had been right, but I knew, I did. The fact that I had to admit it to myself was the hardest part, because even though Ma had done some fucked up shit before, I never imagined her as the type to be sellin'. Daddy had been a right sleaze, too, so I got a mixture of both of their fucked up habits in my blood, but I was turnin' out to be more like Ma every day.

It was silly to think that I was following Ma around to confirm for myself that the rumors were true, that she was sellin' the hard shit, when I was practically stoned every night. I needed the high to keep myself alive, to keep myself sane, to forget—it was the only way. Without Tim or Curly around to keep me some company, and Dean never comin' around, I was on my own. I barely spoke to anyone, except at school, but things were different, real different. The interaction and the way everyone went about things had changed, or maybe I had. But it don't matter none anyway.

I'd found my mother alright—she was standing on the corner of where Graham Parker lived, and I almost laughed at the thought of it. How amusing was it that my own mother could've been sellin' to the same kid who had gotten me started on shooting up three years back? It was twisted, so fucking twisted, but I was smiling, a glint of humor reflected in my eyes.

"Angela?"

I jerked around at the voice, my grin dropping as Graham Parker approached me. He looked different than what I remembered, a little taller, a little broader, and a stern countenance that made him look tired. His hands were tucked in his denim pockets, a cigarette behind his ear. He was lookin' at me the same way I was studying him, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why I just wanted to laugh.

Hell, maybe I really was going crazy after all. Wouldn't that be something?

I tried to act casual, tossing my hair back and raising my chin. "I didn't expect to see you, Graham."

"You didn't, huh?" he said, and lit up. "See, that's funny, considering I live right down the street."

And at that, I forced a surprised expression across my face. "You do? Well, then, I guess it's just fate havin' us meet up, ain't it?" I eyed him up and down. "I thought you would've left this town by now, or are ya just stickin' around to get more kids hooked on shit?"

"Keep yer damn voice down," he bit out, taking a step forward. "This area is crawling with the fuzz."

"So you're still—"

"No," he answered before I could finish. "But I don't want no trouble, and you'd best get on outta here if you don't, either, kid. This ain't the place for you."

My lips pressed together as I stared at him. "Was it the place for me three years ago when you wanted me to try shooting up?"

"We were kids then," he replied, brows furrowing. "We ain't now, Angela, and things are different in these parts. You oughtta know that."

We stood there staring at each other for a minute, neither one of us sayin' nothin'. Graham's expression was a mix of desperation, annoyance, and confusion, but I figured that I'd come far enough to find out the truth about Ma, and the least Graham could do was play a role in my plan. I watched Ma from where I stood, watched as a carload of people pulled up, watched as she gave them some shit, and I watched as she stuffed a wad of bills into her pocket.

I smiled at Graham, and nodding in the direction of Ma, told him what I wanted him to do. He listened carefully while I laid my plans out for him, even gave him the dough to purchase whatever Ma was sellin'. They didn't know each other any better than I knew Ma at that particular minute, but I figured that, this time, I was going to get what I wanted—no beating around the bush. So when Graham came sauntering back to me a few minutes later with a bag of acid tabs, I thanked him with a sweet smile and went on my merry way.

Strangely, I couldn't watch Ma sell it to him, knowing that I was the one she was sellin' to. There was an uncertainty about going through with it, though, and I wondered how she would feel if she knew she had indirectly made me a customer. I could've laughed at the thought alone.

In the end of all things, only death was certain.

Summer coming to an end always brought new memories to life, but for me, I was wilting away inside, the blossoming for anything else impossible to occur. The only good that had come out of it all was that Leon finally split, makin' like he was never there in the first place. Strange, but I could still hear the echo of his presence in the house, and instead of bein' happy like I should've been, like I'd always get whenever one of Ma's lousy men left, I felt . . . nothing—absolutely nothing.

My seventeenth birthday had little impact on me. The only thing I thought about that day was that I was officially Winston's age—the age I fucking dreaded. There was only one positive outlook that came with it, though, and that was the fact that there was only one year left until I was eighteen—twelve fucking months. Unfortunately, eighteen for me didn't hold any sort of significance, as there was no place for me to go—hell, maybe I would up and leave Dean's ass behind. He seemed to be doing a pretty decent job of being a lousy husband—bastard.

I'd never given my future much thought. Every time I tried to envision a futuristic scenario for myself, I was met with an empty void—there was nothing. I had believed for the longest time that there would never be an escape for me, and the older I got, the more absolute that thought became. I felt numb, I felt gone. I was tired of everything, and most of all, I was so tired of thinking. I just wanted it all to stop, wanted it all to go away.

Ma's face came to mind, her light eyes and piercing expressions starin' back at me. There was a time when she loved me, I think, or I'd like to believe she did anyway. There was a time when we would go to church together, when things were more simple, but I had come to accept that things were no longer like that, and nothing ever would come close to it—maybe my relationship with my mother had been nothing short of a fairy tale.

I watched as the leaves changed color through Autumn, the air becoming cooler and the once vibrant scenery darkening. If ever a representation of me an' Ma, that was it—the life of Summer fading away, prepping for the callous Winter at the end. It was a brutal season, one I had been so fond of, because like everything in my life, it took.

A bitter smile stretched across my lips as an empty whiskey bottle slid from my fingers, the shattering glass falling deaf on my ears, the sky darkening overhead.

"At least I ain't gonna turn out like my Mama, not like you, darling."

When Curly's draft letter arrived, the world seemed to tilt on its axis before coming to an abrupt and complete stop.

Nobody moved.

Nobody said a word.

I stared at my older brother for a second and no longer saw him as a tough street kid, but as a hollow and desperate boy—one who was scared stiff.

The only sound following the deadened silence was the flick of Tim's lighter as he lit a cigarette.

One night, I dreamed something terribly disturbing. It seemed bizarre to dream of such a thing, but my conscious mind had always found peace with death. The church bells were ringing in the distance, the brisk air of Winter lapping away at my flesh as I stood in the center of an old and abandoned cemetery. Shadows moved across the graves, the glimmer of light making it hard to see much. I could hear the sound of multiple people humming, creating an eerie melody of sorts.

And then a figure appeared to me, one that I recognized all too well.

His eyes met mine for only a moment before I jolted awake in bed, eyes broad with utter terror. My skin was littered with goosebumps, hands shaking as I recalled that horrific dream. My eyes squeezed closed, lips pressing together as I tried to forget, to remove the entire thing from my mind. But it was no use, and I was left to wonder what it all meant.

"Everybody leaves in the end. You will, too."

. . . please make it stop.

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. —Matthew 11:28

I'd made the ultimate decision to drop out of school. I remembered considering it when I was fourteen or somethin', not really caring what happened to me or where I ended up. But I didn't care about anything anymore—I just needed to get away. The days seemed longer somehow, and with each one that past, a part of me felt swallowed away with it, the void inside growing all the more. I'd been feeling quite sick, more sick than I ever had, and more than that, I felt like I was left behind.

There was nothing for me.

It sounded fucking stupid, but all I wanted to do was sleep—just sleep and forget. It seemed to be the only way that I could find some sort of peace. But even when my mind was resting, it was never fully silent, and the thoughts would sometimes intensify.

"I'm surprised to see you around here so much." My focus snapped in the direction of Ma's voice, and I stared back at her from in front of the house. Her gaze was piercing as she looked me over, elbows resting on the arms of her rocking chair. "What's the matter? Ain't you got anywhere to be no more?"

"What's it to ya?"

The smoke billowed out of her mouth. "It ain't." And then she sneered. "Jus' look at you. Every time I see you . . ." She chuckled. "Lordy, but you've got yer daddy's looks, alright—you an' your brothers got'em. But you inside? You're all me." Her laughter was throaty and raw. "I should've known, though, should've seen it comin', but what's it matter now?"

I could only glare at her in return. "I ain't like you."

"Maybe not all the way," she replied, stubbing out her cigarette. "But life ain't for everyone, is it?"

And though her words were the cruelest of all, Ma had taught me a valuable lesson that day. But she was right, I supposed, wicked though she was—maybe life was for everyone, but everyone wasn't for life.

I'd flushed her dope down the toilet.

I woke one night to the sound of hushed voices. My room was dark, the one streetlight busted out some time ago by a group of kids causing some mischief during the night. I crept along to the door, opening it as quietly as I could to see what all the commotion was about, and when I couldn't make out what anyone was sayin', I tip-toed into the hall, before locating the source. I peered inside Tim's room to see both him and Curly, their backs to me, as Tim cut Curly's hair.

Their voices were low and quick, and in my sleepy state, I was only able to gather so much of what they were talkin' about. But the message of it all was quite clear, and lookin' down at the lone bag filled with some clothes and other assorted items, I knew.

". . . don't worry about it."

"What about . . ."

". . . patrol . . ."

". . . at dusk."

"Tim, are you scared?"

Silence.

I didn't bother to watch anymore, instead making my way back to my room. Once in bed, I stared up at the ceiling, barely able to see it's cracked surface in the dark. I thought about Curly, wondering what was gonna happen to him, and then I remembered my last conversation with him. I knew that Tim was sneaking him outta here, and I knew that he wouldn't want me to know anything about it, I knew that, and I was okay with it.

An hour later, I heard the engine of Tim's car, and I glanced out the window, a blank expression on my face. Tim was smart enough to keep the headlights off so he didn't attract attention, but oddly enough, our eyes caught, and then Curly was starin' back at me, too. Nobody waved, none of us makin' the move to do anything, but it was all okay. It only lasted seconds, though somehow it felt longer, but in those passing moments, I think we all understood.

I watched the car until I couldn't see it no more.

The old tracks were vacant, a newfound feeling in the air. There was a slight breeze that brushed my skin as I sat down in my usual spot under the bridge. In the distance, I could hear the sound of children laughing, could smell the earth as it surrounded me. I couldn't understand why, but though everything felt the same, it felt different at the same time. So much had changed in such a short amount of time, and it was too quick for me to fully comprehend.

My hand was shaking as I lit a cigarette, my hair brushing against my cheek. It had grown out some, though not a whole lot—it barely touched my shoulders. I had always kept my hair long, until Mark and Bryon had cut it all off, but I had grown used to it being short, and I liked it. My bangs were falling in my eyes, but I liked the shaggy look—it allowed me to conceal my face easier. I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The air was thin and cool, but there was some form of security in it that enveloped me like a blanket. I wondered about Curly some, and then I thought about Dean—the louse of a husband that I might have seen a total of four times in the course of six months—and then Tim, and Ma, and Dallas.

They felt like shadows in my mind, both alive and nonexistent.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolted me from my thoughts, and a surprised look blanketed my features as I stared up into the face of Marielle Thompson, or Walkins. I cringed at the sight of her, a dark and tired look in her eyes, her hair chopped short and her appearance ragged. I wondered why in the hell she would be around these parts, but simply raised an eyebrow instead.

"It's been a while," she eventually said, nibbling her bottom lip. "You look different."

"So do you."

Marielle sighed, looking more and more nervous as the seconds past. "You gotta cigarette or somethin'? I could use one."

I debated on telling her to fuck off. Me an' her hadn't seen each other in nearly a year, since she found out that I'd almost killed her husband. There were times when I wished I had, too, believe me, wished nothing more that he'd just bled out and died right there on the kitchen floor. But even thinkin' of that didn't stop how I felt, didn't stop the nagging pain that was eating away at me. Ironically, I was the one killing myself.

"I'm sure you didn't approach me to have a casual chit-chat, did ya?" I said, tossing her my pack. "Can't imagine that you would anyway."

Her face twisted. "It ain't that, Angel. I come here sometimes to think." And then her eyes met mine, an almost silent urge for me to understand something. I'd seen that look, though, more times than none, as it had been reflected back at me in the mirror. "Billy's doin' time, won't be out for quite a while, but I reckon you heard that already, huh?"

"Nope," I replied. "I don't hardly talk to no one around here—not anymore at least." I took a drag of my own cigarette. "What'd he do?"

Marielle expressed hesitation, her gaze lifting away from my face. "He assaulted some girl at a bar downtown or somethin', touched her . . ." She trailed on for a moment, unable to meet my eyes. "He's gotten handsy with me a few times . . . done things. I couldn't . . . I couldn't take it no more, and the baby . . . I needed to keep him safe."

I ain't sure why, but I couldn't stand to talk to her right then, and a part of me didn't know if I would ever be able to. She continued on with her story for another few minutes or so, before I decided to split, unable to listen any longer. She'd asked me if we would be seein' each other around, of if I would stop in and visit her some time, so I shrugged and told her maybe.

But we both knew that it wasn't going to happen, that we wouldn't be seein' each other or nothin' like that. Marielle, like the rest of them, had become a part of my past long ago, and there wasn't anything between us that could rekindle our friendship. She had been another lesson that I'd learned, one that I was able to let go of and move on from.

When I walked away from the tracks that day, I neither felt good or bad, but I felt relieved, like another chapter of my story had reached its conclusion, and I was okay with that.

"She's gone."

I glanced up at Tim, brows pulling together. "What?"

"Ma's gone," he clarified. "She split some time during the night I guess." He nodded toward the house, a contemptuous look on his face. "She took whatever was left of the emergency cash and some other shit, too." He shook his head, muttering a string of profanities under his breath. "Didn't think she'd actually do it, but I ain't surprised."

And I sat there, digesting his words. Ma was gone, leaving us behind with nothing but a piece of shit house, no money, and nothing to go on. Tim had been keeping up on the bills and all, but he'd only been makin' it by the skin of his teeth. But Ma was gone, and everything about the actual occurrence felt like a dream.

So I laughed.

I laughed so hard, harder than I ever had, because what the fuck did it matter? What the fuck did any of it matter now? Ma was gone, Ma was gone . . . she was gone, and she wasn't comin' back. I was bent over holding my stomach as humorless laughter fell from my lips, my cigarette long forgotten.

"I almost cursed God for givin' me a girl. Heaven knows I wasn't ever able to take care of you right."

The side of Tim's lips were curved up.

January was a bitter month.

Tim had gotten himself locked up, I found out that Dean had been shacking up with some other chick (surprise, surprise), and to make matters worse, we were losing the fucking house. The utilities had been shut off already, and everything was going to waste anyway. I was unable to get a job anywhere, employers practically spittin' at me 'cause of my name, and I ain't just talkin' about my married one, either. I was fucked either way I went—both Shepard and Mathis were useless names.

Tim's hearing was more awful than all of that. He'd been sentenced fifteen years, and without him, I was left with nothing—I had no one. There was nothing left for me, then, nothing at all, and I felt my grip on my sanity slipping more and more.

I had visited Tim one day at the prison, though.

We stared at each other for a while, before he answered my silent question.

"Take care of yourself, Angel," were his final words to me.

I packed a few things in a bag, necessities an' all. The house was dead inside, a hollowness filling up the interior, the echo of small children, Ma and Daddy arguin', Ma's screamin' and bitchin', the silent tears that wouldn't fall, and the inside pain that wouldn't escape the walls. It clung to everything, an almost suffocating reminder of everything that had taken place there—it was consuming.

We never really had much, but I'd made sure to clear out my brothers' shit, too. I searched the house for any leftover money or anything that could be considered valuable, but came across nothing. I took Tim's leather jacket for good measure, even though it was too big for me, and Curly's old blade. Neither one of them really had anything that was useful, but I wanted something to remind me, to hold one piece of them close to me.

In my own room, I gathered only the light things, going through drawers and cleaning them out. When I opened the night table drawer, I felt my heart plummet straight into my gut, my chest tightening as I stared at my old bible. All the memories of going to church with Ma came flooding back, the image of her an' me in her car, the thoughts of how I wished that I could die . . . and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to feel something other than just pain. My fingers flipped through the pages, a picture falling out onto my lap.

Dallas's face stared back at me, and suddenly, my throat tightened up. I quickly tucked the picture back inside, closing the bible and placing it in my bag. Before I closed the drawer, I found my old brush, and a smile stretched across my lips as I thought about Tim. I knew then that nothing was going to be okay, and it never would be, but right then, I could pretend that it was—only for a moment.

The cemetery was cool and biting, but Tim's jacket kept the air from piercing my skin. The sky was darkening, the sun setting on the horizon. My feet carried me to my final place in that shithole town, the one place that I somehow felt secure at. I felt dead inside, the only thing letting me know that I was still alive being the consistent beating on my heart.

I came to a stop in front of his headstone, a blank look on my face. "Hi, Dally . . ."

There wasn't nothin' too sentimental about my visit to his grave, but I felt . . . a ton of emotions lift from my shoulders, even if only for a few minutes. Thing was, I was scared, scared for what I was about to do. I had always been more alone than anything else, but now I was truly and completely alone, terrified and unsure of myself. Something moved a little ways up, and my jaw nearly dropped at the sight of that ragged white cat coming toward me, its blue eyes starin' at me, sharp and piercing. I wanted to run away, but I felt like I couldn't move, and the damn thing only inched closer to me, stopping just in front of my feet, almost daring me to do something. I was shaking, and it wasn't from the cold, either.

"You again," I said, sounding breathless. "Where did you come from?"

But it didn't move. Only stared.

"Fine," I snapped after a minute, reaching down to pet it. I figured that it would take off or somethin', like last time, but when I'd gone to leave, it followed right behind me, only coming to a stop once I reached Tim's car. I turned to face it, debating on what I should do, and then, as if the answer had been there all along, I beckoned it forward as I opened the door. "C'mon if you're comin'."

And then it hopped in behind me, moving to the passenger side. My lips were pressed in a thin line, my eyes narrowed as I stared straight ahead. All of my thoughts were resurfacing, and only when I felt that ugly cat nip at my hand did I jerk around to face it. And those eyes were boring into my own, the shadows of dusk turning them human for only a second, and I cracked, the outer shells breaking as I recalled everything . . . every fucking terrible thing in my life that had brought me to this point.

And I sobbed, sobbed harder than I ever had, and somehow in the throes of my sorrow, the damn cat had wound up in my arms, my face buried in its white coat, fingers curling to keep my hands from shaking. But I cried until I couldn't no more . . . cried because it was over—it was finally over.

Things would really change this time, starting with my name. I didn't know where the hell I was goin', or where I would end up, or what was going to happen, but I was ready for whatever it was. In the end, death had consumed Angela Shepard and Angela Mathis. I think I knew what I was going to change my last name to, the one that held the most significant meaning to me.

I had done what I never thought I would do, and as I drove out of that shithole town, leaving behind those people, those memories, and the events that shaped my life, I thought about Pastor Rollins and his words to me from years ago.

"You know, Angela, God's house is always open to those who have faith."

A lot of people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say. Then again, I wouldn't want them to see what I've seen, or hear what I've heard, because I'm more than certain that it would be their undoing.

. . . as it was my own.

A one-shot called "Little Girl" which features Tim's perspective during chapter five of this story is in the works, so keep an eye out!

A tremendous Thank You for all of the feedback on this story! You guys have kept me inspired and motivated, and I couldn't have done it without you! Thank you for being a part of Angela's story! :3

—Cat