A/N: I know that I told a lot of you in response to your reviews that this would be up like a week ago and for that I am sorry. I hope the wait was worth it! Enjoy!

"What the hell do you mean your name's not Riley." Damon's voice was hard and angry. Betrayal laced his words.

My mouth wet dry and I was so afraid to tell him the truth. I knew that if I stayed in Mystic Falls it would come to this, but I had never imagined that it would happen so soon.

"Just drive, I'll explain everything on the way."

I finished the final brushstroke over Jenny's small fingers, pulling it away to see the sparkly purple paint covering her nails. She lay on her stomach, pink tutu sticking up in the air, blowing forcefully to dry the nail polish.

"Are they dry yet?" she asked, looking up at me from her position on the floor.

"No silly," I laughed. "I just painted them. It will take a few minutes."

She continued to blow on her fingers, running each one back and forth through the stream of air. It was then that my mother's voice came from the next room.

"Come get your sandwiches, girls. You don't want to be late!"

Jenny went dashing into the kitchen at my mother's words, holding her hands out in front of her as she ran.

"Don't mess up your nails!" I shouted in warning as I cleaned up the nail file and polish from the ground before following her to the table.

Mom quickly plopped our grilled cheese sandwiches onto plates, cutting Jenny's into four perfect squares, just the way she liked it. Stuffing the first piece into her mouth, Jenny turned to mom.

"Is dad coming to my recital?"

A sad look came over my mother's face. She rounded the table, taking Jenny's sandy brown hair in her hands and braiding it into the bun required for her performance.

"I'm not sure, hunny. He's sure going to try, though."

Despite her reassurance, I knew the answer to Jenny's question. Our father always seemed to be too busy for trivial things like his child's ballet recital. Now that he was running for mayor, his business had increased exponentially. I knew Jenny would be hurt as she looked into the audience and saw that he had once again missed her recital, but it was nothing new.

I ate the last bite of my sandwich and rose to grab my keys.

"Ready, Jen?" I asked.

Jenny bounded from her seat and grabbed her small duffle bag my parents had just gotten her. Ballerina's danced across the font of it, their feet leaving a trail that spelled "Jennifer."

Our mom walked us to the door, Jenny talking her ear off.

"Make sure to sit in the front row, mom. And save a seat for grandma and grandpa cause they said they were coming. And call dad to make sure he gets there on time."

Mom smiled and playfully rolled her eyes.

"Yes, yes, yes," she laughed. "I will see you in an hour."

She bent down to embrace Jenny like she always did before we left to go anywhere, whispering good luck in her ear.

She rose and turned to me.

"Are you sure you don't mind taking her early? I know you could be out with your friends instead, it's just—"

"Mom, chill. It's fine," I said with a smile.

"Thanks," she replied, leaning in to kiss me lightly on the forehead. "I'll see you in an hour. I love you."

"Love you too, mom," I said as I headed out the door.

On the way to the recital, Jenny told me all about the new girl in her class, her teacher, and how someday she was going to be a famous ballerina. I listened intently, reacting at all the right times. We fell into a mutual silence and Jenny stared out the window as we got closer to the community center where the performance was going to be held. She was nervous, and it was written all over her face.

"O my gosh! Did you just see that?" I asked in mock surprise.

"No, what was it?" Jen asked, intrigued by my question and sitting up on her knees to peer out the window

"There was a huge pothole back there! It had to have been at least five feet deep!"

Jenny rolled her eyes.

"Yeah right, that's impossible."

"Oh no! There's another one!" I playfully swerved the car to the right just a hair and her eyes lit up, all traces of nervousness gone. "Did you see that?"

I swerved slightly to the left and Jenny started to giggle.

"There's one," she pointed. "Watch out!"

I successfully dogged the imaginary pothole that she found and she laughed again. She continued pointing out the dangers on the road while I safely avoided them, until she was peeling with laughter in the back seat. Tears of laughter filling my eyes, I stopped the game, seeing the community building just ahead about three blocks down.

"Are you ready?" I asked. "Got everything that you need?"

"Yep," Jenny replied excitedly. "I can't wait to show Ms. Palmer my new bag! She's going to—"

Jenny's voice was cut short by the blunt force that hit the left side of my car, sending us spinning across the intersection. Immense pain shot through my left leg as the door collapsed into my left side and the airbag from my steering wheel burst out at my chest. Glass showered around me like rain, and I heard screaming in the air. When the car had stopped the screaming continued, until I realized it was my own.

"Jenny!" I screamed immediately.

I turned in my seat, craning my neck to look behind me. My leg screamed as the clearly broken bones ground together from the miniscule movement.

"Oh God Jenny! Are you ok?"

I stopped shouting when I saw her. Her chin lay against her chest, blood running down her forehead and over her closed eyes. The entire left side of the car was crushed down on her small body. The sparkly purple of her nails mixed with her crimson blood.

I looked around me, yelling for help. Someone had to help Jenny. Someone had to call 911. The other car from the accident was crumpled and smoking beside mine, but the man seemed all right. People were gathering around the scene. A few ballerinas were pushed back by their parents. As a siren screamed in the distance, I tried to push myself out of the crumpled mess around me to get to the backseat to Jenny. Pain seared through my body at the movement and my world went dark.

Three weeks later, I sat in a courtroom. Jenny's funeral had already happened. But I hadn't been there. My parent's had seen to that. They now sat two benches over, watching as the trial of their child's killer was under way. My mother looked at me out of the corner of her eyes and my father took her hand. She had tried to approach me earlier with sorrow in her eyes, but my father had stopped her. Convinced her I was the monster that they should push their blame onto. In a way I didn't blame them, but I despised them all the same.

"Your honor, I would like to call Ms. Thompson to the stand."

At his words I rose, crutches in tow. My left knee had been shattered and physical therapy was still a work in progress. Refusing the help of those around me, I slowly made it to the stand. Sitting there, I knew what I had to do. The prosecutor had decided to use me to get the sympathies of the jury on our side.

"Ms. Thompson, on May the 26th of this year, you were involved in a car accident where you were struck from the left side by a drunk driver. Where were you headed that day?"

"To Jenny's ballet recital. She had been practicing for months." A faint smile laced my lips as I remembered her excitement, bursting into my room to tell me that she had got the part. "She was going to be Glinda to Good Witch. They were doing a ballet of The Wizard of Oz."

"Can you please recall for the jury exactly what happened three blocks from the rec center where the ballet was to be held."

I took a deep breath and did as he asked. My voice was slow and steady. I needed to get through this without having a complete breakdown. It was almost over. He would ask me a few more questions about Jenny like we had practiced. He wanted to make the jury understand just how sweet and innocent she had been so they could see the magnitude of Freeman's crime. What came next was unexpected.

The lawyer pulled out an enlarged photo from a portfolio on the evidence table. I immediately guessed what would be on it before he turned it towards me. My palms started to sweat.

"Ms. Thompson, can you identify this as your sister Jenny Thompson."

My world spun as he turned the photo towards me. I hated him in that instant. He had tricked me. I knew why he hadn't told me he would do this. It was obvious. He wanted pure, raw emotion. Emotion that would turn the jury to our side instantly. It worked.

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I saw the bruised and broken body of my innocent baby sister. Her purple nails glared at me, reminding me of our last precious hours together. Her face was caked with blood. I buried my face in my hands to block out the courtroom as I wept. Somewhere over the rustle of the jury I could hear the defending lawyer.

"Objection!" he screamed.

"Make your point, Crawson," the judge warned.

"Ms. Thompson, if you could say anything to your sister now in her final moments of life what would they be?"

We had rehearsed this question over and over. I knew what my answer was supposed to be, but he had changed the rules. He had brought that picture into this.

"I would tell her that I'll kill the bastard."

"Objection!"

"Sustained," the judge bellowed and then turning to the bailiff spoke again. "Please escort Ms. Thompson from the court room."

Arms grabbed at me, helping me to my feet gently. I shrugged them away and hobbled with my crutches out the door.

From the moment I left that courtroom, my outburst haunted me. I moved out of my parents' house as soon as I was discharged from the hospital, using the majority of my savings for the initial deposit. Night after night, I tossed and turned as dreams of making my words into a reality both comforted and haunted me.

Three years later not much had changed. I hadn't spoken to my parents since the trial, I was still working a dead-end job to try and support myself, and Jenny was still in the ground. The only things that were different were that Freeman was locked away, serving a short three to five year sentence, and the Glock that was resting heavily in my dresser drawer, hidden beneath my clothes. Occasionally, I would move aside the mess of socks concealing the weapon, looking at it with trepidation. I hardly ever reached out to touch it. It represented the destruction of life, and it scared me.

That was until one dark, silent night when sleep would not come. Flipping through the fuzzy channels of my cheap TV, I passed late night infomercials until I paused on a channel with a familiar face. A still shot of Justin Freeman starred out at me as the reporter droned on.

"A judge ruled early this afternoon to release Freeman from the South Carolina state prison after a short three years of incarceration for the vehicular manslaughter of nine-year-old Jenny Thompson. Mayor Thompson and his wife spoke out against the judges decision at the hearing today. …."

The sound of the static as I shut the TV off was the only sound in the room then. A feeling of death spread through my chest as I walked towards my dresser, slowly taking out the heavy metal weapon. I sat back on the foot of my bed and turned the Glock over in my hands feeling the destruction that resided within it. I knew what I had to do. I fell asleep that night with silent tears running down my checks and a gun waiting impatiently on my nightstand.

Ten days later I was in the next county over, following the hand-written directions I had made for myself the day before. It was dark by the time I pulled up to the faded gray house. The outside was in disrepair, the shutters looked feeble on their hinges.

I put the car in park and pulled the Glock from the glove compartment, connecting the two and running my fingers over the barrel of the gun gingerly. Taking a deep breath and muttering Jenny's name quietly to myself, I stepped from the car and headed toward the house. My feet on the sidewalk was the only sound in the night besides the pounding of my heart that resonated though my ears. The gun weighted down the right side of my jacket as I held it tightly in my pocket. I knocked harshly on the door, looking around, paranoid of someone seeing me. There was rustling from within the house and quick footsteps on a hard wood floor.

When the door opened the man starring back at me was the same that had haunted my dreams for three long years. His hair was shaggier and his eyes looked haggard.

"Can I help you?" he questioned, impatiently looking down at his watch.

There was no trace of recognition in his face. He didn't remember me and it was infuriating.

"Yea, you can bring my sister back, asshole," I seethed.

I pulled the gun out of my pocket and pointed it at him. He started to back peddle and put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. Pure fear shone in his eyes.

"Please," he begged, recognition flooding him. "I'm sorry."

I aimed at his leg and pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the air. He screamed and fell to the ground blubbering, holding his shattered knee.

Tears clouded my eyes as I stood over him pointing the barrel of the gun directly at his heart.

"Sorry doesn't cut it."

My finger tightened, and I blew him away.

My hand shook then as I looked down at the dead man lying in the threshold of his own home, and I had to use all of my nerve to keep ahold of the gun. I shook my head in confusion. The weight in my chest remained. There was no redeeming feeling, no relief that he was dead. There was just this gapping hole in my heart that mirrored the one that was now in Freeman's.

Defeated and scared, I turned to run. No one had seen me and I had to get away. It was then that I heard a sound from within the house.

"Hun? Who's at the door?"

The voice was followed by the clack of heels approaching. My eyes darted from the body on the ground to the young woman who had just appeared, a toddler straddling her right hip, his thumb in his mouth.