It was 3am. She'd been pulled from sleep forcefully, the sheets twisting awkwardly as Kaleb put up some kind of a fight. Nightmares had become commonplace in her life, rooted in the little sleep she got and the conscious hours through vivid imagery and her minds god awful inability to ignore anything. It had occurred to her that maybe what she saw when she was awake had an affect on her dreams, she would have been stupid not to think it, but she knew there was something deeper there, too.

In the dark, she saw someone else's face. Another boy, he was a loaded gun of a boy, she felt shivers travel up her spine at the sight of too dark hair- Kaleb's blonde tressels were an inky black of a nighttime, just like his ("Who names their kid Malachai, anyway?").

"Kaleb," she said.

He moaned, face pale and weak.

"Kaleb, look alive," she said, louder.

"Wha-?" He made some kind of noise, looking like a scared rabbit or some beat dog. "No, no, nooo-"

Suddenly the window slammed shut, the screen door rattling noisily.

Beside her the lamp flickered to life, it's light sharp and overexposed and buzzing like the after-ring of live film. The one beside him was the same, like two suns rising in the due east, harsh in the warmth of the glow they gave off.

"Kaleb!" She groused, shaking his chest.

Their overexposed skin was too white, his face screwed up into horror and his hair too blonde. She blinked, it hurt to see, and she swore she could smell the bulbs burning and the heat of them singing the clustered fabric of the lamp shades.

The bulbs burst brightly. They died with a flash of white that blinded her if only for a second, something so familiar she felt fear crawl up to her chest from the pit of her stomach- For some lapse in time, one that came in quick succession only to dissipate as the fear reached her lungs and seemingly trailed up her chest only to never quite escape her throat, she remembered dying.

("It's time to wake up, Da...n...")

The words reeled hastily, made her lightheaded and lighthearted but she felt heavy and clumsy and she couldn't move. Went in one ear and out the other, a lilting accent that was so familiar it felt like she'd been struck, her ribs and her shoulders were smarting and felt like she'd been touched by fire.

(Her grip faltered, his touch faded, the volume phased in and out. Blinding white skin, the colour of a television tuned to a dead channel, white noise.)

It was the boy from her dreams, but without any facial features or hue or anything. He reached an arm out, as if to touch her again, as if he was really there, but just as she felt him he was gone.

("It's time t… go. Wake up.")

"Wake up," she repeated, blinking into the empty motel room as if she were seeing it for the first time. "Wake up."

"Jay?" He cracked open his sleep riddled eyes slowly, squinting into the darkness and the vague figure accompanying him in the bed. "Aw, shit, did I-"

The window was perfectly still, the wind not so much as whistling- it was a still night, the Motel was soundless and its occupants sleeping like the dead. Jay's face was screwed up into terror, holding her breath only for it to shudder in a painful exhale that hurt her chest. She would have been embarrassed to admit she was scared, she felt awfully stupid for it- for not being able to admit it, not feeling it in the first place. It was only normal, to be afraid, but she wasn't afraid of Nik. That summer had done something to her, had made her think more like Nik maybe.

("It's time to wake up, Darl..n...")

I don't know how, she wanted to cry out. I'm dreaming, I must be, and I haven't been awake in months.

Kaleb turned on the lamp on the bedside table, squinting into the sudden lit room and wiping a hand across his sleep riddled face. He was very real, not like the things going on in her head. She watched him turn it on, refraining from crying out, she wanted to tell him not to touch it at all, and when it worked she clutched the blankets that much tighter. With a practised ease she'd wiped any trace of fear that lingered on her face, she was tired was all, perhaps she had made it all up. But she could have sworn she still felt the ghost of heat that had fired up the bulb-

("It's time to wake up, Darling...")

There must have been a strange look on her face, because he said; "Are you okay?"

Looking at him, his own face earnest and his blue eyes muddled with sleep, she softened slightly. She had the strange thought that she'd had some incredible dream, and she recalled with perfect vividity that she used to have these queer dreams with shadowed figures and drowning. It wasn't even evading her, then, as she caught small glimpses of a past she couldn't fully claim as her own. Sometimes, when she caught on to such memories, she wondered if they were fake, they were so vivid at times that she thought she was only tricking herself that she remembered anything at all.

"Yeah," she murmured, a wistfulness coming across as comforting in the early hours of the morning. "You were having a nightmare, that's all." And so was I… I'm living in one.

Vampires, hybrids, dogs and strange voices.

"Yeah, some nightmare."

She got up, perched on an elbow that sank into the mattress, folding her other arm over his chest as he faced away from her. Maybe he was embarrassed to be scared, too. "Don't worry about it, we all have nightmares sometimes."

Was I dreaming? She thought, mind whirring at a dizzying pace, Did the lamps really-

Kaleb leaned into her, his bare torso hot against her own naked skin. "Sorry. For waking you up, and stuff…"

She spotted a battered book on the bedside table, over the ever expansive skin laid out bare in front of her. "What's that?"

Before he could object she'd taken a hold of it, her naked body flush against his side as she leant precariously across him. Their faces were scant an inch apart, words caught at the end of his tongue as he stared at her, blue eyes hooded and bleary with sleep. She was pretty, too pretty for him to protest, or maybe that was only the sleep that took away all sense of haste- Jay caught on to it, and she planned to make use of it before he came to his wits properly.

"What's this?" She repeated, nodding towards the book in her hands.

The word 'grimoire' had been hastily scratched into the cover, it looked like he'd managed it with a compass point. She flipped open the cover, eyes scanning across the chicken scratch covered pages and the scribbled drawings of flowers and herbs. There were a couple of spells she knew, and not much at that, she'd picked up some stuff through the few witches Nik had brought them to over the summer.

"Wh- that? Nothing," he supplied quickly, the terrible liar that he was.

He had jumped to attention, jostling them on the bed- her with the book on her lap, leafing through pages and looking entirely nonplussed by his objections. Only the first couple of pages had been filled, the rest was painfully blank, some of the ballpoint pen had smudged from where he'd been too impatient to wait. Unless he was left handed, that is.

A sly smile lit up her eyes, she said "I didn't know you were a witch."

Just as she thought, he stiffened.

"Warlock." He corrected hastily, blinking his baby blues as he swore harshly- he'd fell into her trap just like she knew he would. "That's a real shit trick, Jay!"

"Oh, c'mon. I wasn't fooled for a minute." She chuckled.

Turning her head, their lips were practically touching, and she smiled. He went red. How interesting he seemed to her, just then, a lonesome warlock of all things. New to the scene, too, and the real deal if the little lamp trick had been real after all. She wondered if he knew about vampires and hybrids and what witches were really capable of, and for a moment she let herself entertain the idea that she could show him. Except…

She turned away from him. As fun as her time with Kaleb had been, it was coming to an end. She relied on Nik, made herself useful with the expectation that he would reciprocate, and he had done his part well so far. And didn't she like her field of work? Nobody else knew of the secret, the existence of things far beyond mere reasoning, and she wanted more. Hadn't that always been Jamie's downfall- A curiosity that killed the cat?

Satisfaction brought it back, Jay, and didn't you come back? You died. You were dead. Stone cold dead, and here you are… Are you satisfied yet?

"I've got something hidden, too," she admitted, pulling away.

He watched her open the bedside drawer, pulling out two neatly rolled joints.

"So, tell me 'bout this witchy business," she grinned, flicking the lighter to a steady flame.

The torch light swept across the attic.

Jeremy was good at finding things he shouldn't. Drugs, loose change, the easter eggs in that new videogame Jamie would have liked, and he had a knack for finding where his parents hiding places were. It must have been in the Gilbert genes to be piss poor at stashing things away from prying eyes, Elena and Mom had been the worst at it, and even Jeremy couldn't keep his weed away from Jenna for long. His Mom and sister seemed to take 'hidden in plain sight' a little too seriously, and he fell to cliches while doped up much to his own detriment. But Jamie and Dad, if they didn't want you to find something then you wouldn't, that was a fact.

As he toyed with the cracked glass of the picture frame, coated in a fine layer of dust, he supposed it was Mom that had put it away.

It had been shoved between two unlabelled boxes among meticulously labelled storage, it was the lack of labels that drew him in- then he'd moved one with the toe of his sneaker and spotted the frame before it could clatter to the floor. It had reflected the flashlight beam, a little glimmer as if it was winking at him.

She hid plenty of things in the attic, he had noticed that morning that there were no pictures of Jamie around. None on the walls or the mantelpiece, her photo albums were stuffed into the lopsided shelf of the bookcase she had in her room, packed with big novels and series and classics and then at the end some albums of her and Uncle Billy's old photos. But none in the house, he noticed, and he tried to think back as to when that had happened.

He was stooped under the low ceiling, his arms reached the floorboards in his squat position, if he lifted his head it'd bang off the rafters. Jeremy was tall, taller than Jamie now, maybe even Dad.

It was a family picture from some Christmas a long time ago. The kind used for gaudy greeting cards from the Gilberts, the ones grandparents put on display.

He supposed it had been taken in November, because they always left it 'too late' by their Mom's verdict but Dad had work and Jamie was always at extracurriculars and Jeremy liked to follow her. Elena would have been at Matt's or Bonnie's or Caroline's places, or be dropped off at some Mall or complex to hang out. It seemed like their entire lives they'd done the utmost to get out the house, now he wished he'd stayed home. If he'd know, if he'd known they were on a timer and that time was running out, that it was slipping between their fingers and he hadn't so much as fumbled, he would have… Would have what?

Jeremy sniffed, the air was stale and he felt like he was inhaling dust. It kind of stung at his eyes, like the air sucked all the moisture away and left him with nothing.

He would have fumbled. If he had known he would have done something. He didn't know what, but the resolve that he would have done something made him straighten up a little. For a moment he stopped hunching, felt himself square up and a swell of confidence puffing at his chest. Something, yeah.

They were posed by the staircase, with Grayson on the fifth step up, Miranda the step below; Jeremy and Elena the step below on either side of her legs, and then Jamie was seated on the second step with her legs splayed out on the first. His Dad had an intelligent smile, the kind he wore at the practice, they were all dressed smartly in christmas sweaters and shirts, the boys in slacks and dress shoes and the girls wearing skirts except for Jamie. It looked staged, those photos were supposed to look staged, and the crack in the glass piece was a deep ridge down the middle that spiderwebbed across their faces.

When he held it the glass felt loose, like some unrestrained force had come down on it and came down hard.

If he thought about it he could almost remember the argument over her wearing jeans, Mom had been so upset about that nice skirt she'd ironed especially for the photos- she hadn't said a word more after discovering Jamie's red, itchy thighs. It was the laundry detergent, Jamie was allergic to it, she hadn't meant to make Mom angry but her skin was so irritant that she thought she might cry if she wore it any longer.

In fact, while Dad hadn't said so much as a word about it, Mom had felt so bad that she let Jamie take one photo with the Yankee cap she hated so much. Only one, but it had eased her guilt about the detergent. He wondered where they put that photo, if they'd even had it developed in the first place. Maybe it was the copy they sent to their Grandparents.

Miranda and Elena had red sweaters. He smiled when he saw it, because Elena loved matching Mom's clothes, and she thought the penguin on hers was just the cutest thing in the world. His chubby childish face with all rosy cheeks to his sisters preening smile, he was wearing a green sweater with a snowman on it, Jamie was wearing a green knit jumper some great Aunt had gifted her from last year without any ornaments with a lazy kind of grin, looking almost bored. Dad- God, hadn't they been so embarrassed about those ugly Christmas jumpers he always wore?

He'd kill to see his Dad wearing an ugly sweater just once more.

Turning it over in his hand, feeling the loose panelling at the back, he realised there was writing.

Jamie's handwriting, he'd recognise it anywhere from her mixtape CD's to school notes crammed into the college lined notebooks in her drawers, crude sharpie with an arrow pointing to the main clasp saying 'OPEN ME' like some rendition of Alice in Wonderland. When the back was taken off there was another photo, creased and folded, the exact same photoshoot from the photographer their parents had hired out before the holidays. Except, in this picture, they weren't smiling.

Dad had the crease on his forehead and the dimple between furrowed brows, a telltale sign he was mad. Elena's face had crumpled, with Mom's arm resting across her shoulder placatingly, Mom's own face was tired and miserable.

He remembered now. An argument had started before the timer was up, hadn't it? What had it been about?

Then, his eyes paused, and he realised that he was crying in the picture, that Jamie was holding his hand while Mom fussed over Elena, that she didn't speak to Elena until the New Year. Jamie didn't look angry like Dad, she didn't hold the same hopeless look Miranda wore when she looked at her children, or the sheer fright and misery him and Elena had. There was this horrible blank look, except her eyes bore searchingly into the camera lense, and she wasn't sad or angry or scared.

Jamie looked lost.

Then, he remembered that day. The argument.

"Okay, last one, let's wrap this up!" The photographer, whose name Jeremy couldn't remember for the life of him, gave a wheedling grin and a thumbs up. "That's it, altogether now…"

"Move over, fatty," Elena shoved him into the banister, they'd been bickering all morning after he'd accidently knocked her earring off the table and lost the back of it.

She'd wanted to wear those earrings for the picture. These kinds of things sent Mom and Elena into some state of madness, there was a notion of perfection and some unattainable message to convey. Elena wouldn't remember those earrings now, Jeremy sure hadn't, but slowly it was all coming back to him in the damp attic.

It had been an accident, they were only kids. They fought and made up, that was all. He had no reason to remember at all.

She had sharp little elbows, and it had knocked the breath out of him when she caught his side and he'd gone sprawling. Jamie, on the step below, steadied him easily enough, and it kind of hurt but it kind of didn't. The shock of it had been enough to make him cry, but only a flash of tears that spilled over before he knew he was crying at all, just a momentary kind of crying that passed as quickly as it came. Still, he'd been somewhat Jamie's pet, the same way Tyler was her best friend and Elena was her twin, neat little categories that organised her life and set a precedent of cause and effect.

Jamie, who'd always been tall, reached up and slugged her twin in the arm. "Don't pick on him, you're being a brat," she'd said, so cool she almost sounded grown up.

He was her pet, that was cause enough; Elena had made him cry, so the action was set to make her cry too. She had been the kind of child that would ask how much her friend had on a school trip, and if she had more she'd split the difference, because Jamie was fair even if she didn't know it. Even if she didn't believe in it herself.

"Jamie!" Mom snapped in a shrill, too loud voice. Only at Jamie, though, always Jamie. She was still upset about the skirt, maybe. "You apologise to your sister-"

And then Dad had barked at them, hadn't he? Mom was getting ready to chew out Jamie, it didn't matter that Elena started it, and Dad had said something he couldn't recall and that's what had scared him. Dr. Grayson Gilbert's face had been shadowed, there was something dark about him in the moment he raised his voice to them, almost as if he wanted to raise something else. His fists-

No.

Jeremy let out a shuddering breath, he almost choked on his spit and he felt the dampness creeping on him. Damp wasn't good for the lungs, that was right.

His Dad wouldn't have hit anyone, he told himself steadily. He wouldn't raise his fist to them, nothing like that. Never.

Except, maybe he'd wanted to.

Now, he didn't feel so much like he wanted to see those ugly Christmas sweaters he wore. The guy who snapped that day hadn't seemed like his Dad at all, he seemed entirely a stranger, and that had frightened him so bad that he hadn't said another word around him for the rest of the day.

Why did they have this photo? Why the hell was it hidden behind the other with Jamie's writing on the frame?

Elena had picked up the argument after the photographer packed up. She was brave when Mom stuck up for her, too ready to put the blame on Jamie, and maybe it was because she was scared too. So she'd said- what? What was it again?- it was Jamie's fault and that Jamie ruined everything.

Why weren't there any pictures of Jamie in the house?

Then, despite trying his utmost best not to, he remembered the argument.

"Maybe we should have sent her to her Uncles for this holiday too," Dad had looked sternly down the staircase at them, Mom had gone silent.

Elena stopped her tyrade, looking sick. When her cheeks got slick with tears again it was because she knew it was her fault too, not that Mom or Dad would ever say so, they seemed hell bent on picking on the eldest. At one point in his life he'd thought it completely normal, that the eldest got the roughest time of it and when the little ones came along they had it easy. Now, however, he looked back on it and wondered how the hell Jamie could bare looking at them most days.

"Maybe you should of," Jamie said, "but there's always next year."

She'd taken him by the hand, taken him upstairs- away from the yelling.

He thought that if he had been her he would have hated him and Elena both, would have despised them for having it easy. But Jamie didn't. She didn't talk to Elena until New Years, she wasn't angry or anything, but she knew Elena was embarrassed about it all. Knew that she needed time to forget.

Jamie was good like that. Now she was dead, and there were no pictures on the wall.

(AN: I wrote the second half for Christmas. Happy Holidays (it's depressing, I know, but Christmas is the time of year when most families fight).

Last update before christmas, probably (certainly).

Sometimes I wish I had never started this story.

I used to enjoy it, it's what really got me into writing, but now the thought of writing much of anything makes me feel sick. Never been one for numbers, I've got to admit, but seeing how many people have actually read this story scares the shit out of me- that's a lot of people waiting for an ending. And it has got an ending, I promise you.

I read a review that said to just get to the point already. What is the point? It's a crappy fanfic I started in 2016, it has no point or purpose. It's not about Kol or vampires or much of anything really, look at the summary and try telling me I promised something I didn't deliver. Jamie Gilbert isn't real, sometimes the point of stories is that there is no point, it is possible to derive pleasure from reading without having any point to it. And writing, too, or at least that's why I wrote it. Maybe I was wrong, I'm getting that nowadays.

A lot of this story was selfish. Write what you know, that's what I got told at school, yeah? I grew up writing this story, the years rolled around quick and I wrote what I saw. Sometimes re-reading it scares the shit out of me because I know why I wrote every little piece.

Jamie didn't get paired with Kol so I could write some epic, sappy romance. I liked his character because it was unfair. He was unwanted and angry and got himself killed despite not warranting it, I wrote a character that could relate to that. I came up with some story about a child too smart for her own good, because growing up I hated the fact that I noticed shit nobody else did- Jamie noticed everything in this story, it was the whole premise of the thing. If there's a point, it's that, surely. It's not fucking twilight, it's under 'Genres 1: Adventure Genres 2: Supernatural'.

If you want a love story, nothing's stopping you from reading one. But not here.

I'll finish this story, one day. I started it, after all. But nobody's asking you to stick around to read it, most certainly not me. I never expected so many people to read and respond to it, or even relate- Sometimes I wish they hadn't at all. Maybe then I could write.

Until next time.)