A/N: Long chapter ahead. It's actually probably one of my favorite ones, and it basically wrote itself. Thoughts and inner contemplation ahoy! I really hope it doesn't sound like a "woe is me" session.

IMPORTANT: I felt really unsatisfied with the last chapter, so I edited it and replaced it. Ames' pissy mood is based off the fact that she couldn't remember anything she studied the night before, and so failed a quiz as a result. And for the confrontation between Crane and her…I removed all mention of her actually say she "was done" with him. So she never really broke it off. She doesn't know what she exactly did, anyway. That is all. Jonathan also had motives behind is cruel words that I've defined a little more, but I've brought them up in this chapter.

I'm being to edit the rest of the story as well. Working on getting those chaps replaced…

Also, Ames is not developing a superpower, nor will she ever. I'm sorry; it doesn't fit into Nolan-verse at all. The dreams were…well, I'm not going to say what the dreams were.

Thanks to deppgirl95, Deeai003, Glister, SilhouetteGypsy, TonightWeDieRomantic, MoonDemon36, linnie kinda spinnie, tribute14, ForgeandGred4Ever, pourquoibella, Decepticon-silverstreak, darkdeadmau5, Wafia Primo, Drake, SladeRavenFan, Arlena4815162342, kaflute14, Miss Magenta Lestrange, Ikari no Ojo, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Fruityloops87, .Affair, Knightrunner, Comidia Del Arte, LittleMissAngel, Thunderscourge, SombodyStandingThere, and England101 for the reviews! Thanks for all the faves/alerts as well. Special thanks to Thunderscourge and SombodyStandingThere for taking the time to put together some well-written criticism. That helps me more than you know.

This chapter is dedicated to TonightWeDieRomantic, because she took the time to create sections of Ames' house on Sims 3. And from what I've seen, they are pretty amazing. I love the imagination you guys have. The link for the screenshots is below (no spaces):
hadweybishh .deviantart gallery/37810590? offset=0

In case you missed it the first time (the link didn't turn out in my last author's note), the link for the fanfiction petition is below (no spaces):
change petitions/fanfiction-net-stop-the-destruction-of-fanfiction-net? utm_campaign=friend_inviter_modal&utm_medium= facebook&utm_source=share_petition

At this point, if you have not seen Prometheus, GO SEE IT.

My blood type is O- . Universal Giver, baby :D

Disclaimer: I do not own yada yada yada yada yada. Cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it. And don't sue. The lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" are not mine. See? I've been reduced to stealing…

Chapter Twenty-Six: Dirt and Roses

She's lost in the darkness, fading away.

I'm still around here, screaming her name.

She's haunting my dreamworld, trying to survive.

My heart is frozen; I'm losing my mind.

Help me, I'm buried alive!

Buried alive.

~Within Temptation, Lost

I go home that day dazed, lost, and confused. My world has been scrambled, and I'm not sure about anything or anyone anymore. How to feel about Naomi's death. Jonathan. Mom. Falcone. Don. Even myself.

You know, maybe I had it all coming to me somehow. As karma. For all my failures and insecurities and vanities. Or maybe it was going to happen anyway. There are so many beliefs and ideas about the world now.

As can be expected, I'm laying on my bed, draped across it like a loathsome rag doll. And all these thoughts swirl through my brain like a hurricane.

I need to find acceptance…forgiveness… What does one feel when one doesn't know how to feel? My guilt is a burden. One that I don't carry proudly.

To everyone else, it's just another student death. But not regular one. Most students aren't murdered, and most don't have their bodies slung all over the parking lot. A new experience for all.

I close my eyes, and the nightmarish images flash behind closed lids. With a shudder, I open them again.

I will get no sleep tonight.

Not knowing how to feel about something doesn't mean that you don't care. I realized this a few hours ago. One step closer to putting my actual thoughts into words. Closer to a solution. Much closer.

I stare at the ceiling above me. Is this how my night will pass? With jumbled thoughts and emotions? With the past days' events running through my head? If so, it's going to be a very long night.

Where did I screw up? I ask myself. Obviously, trying to fight back against the Mob counted against me. Buddying up to Naomi and going out with her friends that night gave Falcone a target to hurt me with. Attempting to solve all my problems on my own with no help from the outside shows that I'm either anti-social or wanting to protect everyone.

I pause my thinking. There's a lot of mess-ups here. Making brash decisions…not being open to advice from others… Taking on the Mob, once again, way up on the list. Not letting Jonathan in.

Oh, shit. Oh, Jonathan…

This isn't a pity session. I don't want sympathy. I'm merely following Jon's example and dissecting myself through the night here while I fail to get sleep. Crap. He's "Jon" in my head again?

And what exactly had our last interaction been about? What even happened? Oh Ames, there is so much wrong with you…

I find this oddly humorous. I never claimed to be perfect, though I may sometimes see myself that way. These thoughts…simply allowing my mind to wander…is an eye-opening experience.

It's a sickening thought, but the death is helping me, in a way. The self-hate is still there. The self-anger is still existent. I doubt that the guilt, no matter what I do, will truly ever go away. It's like attempting to replace nightmares with sweet dreams.

Ames…you can't go through this alone. You need to let others in. But so far, you've hurt anyone who's tried.

Exactly. I'm sure Mom wants to renew our relationship, but I keep shoving her back. Maybe I need to take the initiative for once. Do I truly believe that no one will care or understand what I'm going through? Are my views of the world really that dark and twisted? That I think I'm so worthless?

And Jonathan…look at his problems! How can I expect him to not know how it feels to be without hope? I pushed him away again, refusing his offers of help. And he had been reduced to using force, in his own way, to help me. He got those feelings out.

He got under my skin, made me realize how cruel the world can truly be. By using his himself as an example. An excellent one. He played every doubt in my head, every feeling that lingered close to home. And for the better of my health, he'd made me explode, allowing all that roiling steam to escape.

Jonathan cares for me. Truly does, in his own way.

Would he have tried so hard otherwise?

The idea warms me, true or not, and for the first time in about a week, I genuinely smile. Even now, I can draw small comfort from him.

Brilliant boy. What a psychiatrist he'll make someday.

I should tell him this. Honest and upfront. But first, I need to figure out what I actually did when we spoke. I yelled at him first, whispered last. Admitted I couldn't handle him in my head, or reality shoved in my face. Realized just how skilled he was and how much he knew about the inner workings of my mind already. Most disturbingly, how easily he got in there.

Then, little by little, dropping hints about fear and lowly beings. I'd been scared off, like the coward I am, more than anything.

He's been holding back on me, I think, turning on my side and burying the side of my face into my pillow. If Jonathan truly wanted to, he could turn me inside out and throw everything about me, all of it, back in my face. That I wouldn't be able to handle. Jonathan running a personality profile on me doesn't exactly sound ideal.

But then again, maybe I need that. You can't really know. Sometimes, a healthy dose of reality is all you need. Like a death.

I'm closer to acceptance. But not close enough. And now, I may-or-may-not-have broken off my friendship with Jonathan. How can I ask for a personality profile when we—I—had left off on such a bad note?

Ugh. Apologizing. I need to swallow my pride and let go of the past. I can let go of Jonathan's comments and manipulation and his worming his merry way inside my head without permission. That…maybe I can do.

I snort. Forgiveness…"letting go." Even I have my limits about that. For example, after all that's happened, how can I just "let go" of my family's and my past with Falcone and the Mob? So many unresolved issues, and the fact that the chance that I'll never see Dad again is pretty high. Still believing he's alive as well. There is so much there… Even if I can "let it go", how can Falcone? Lord knows he won't leave me alone.

Unless someone really gets to him. Unless he suddenly has bigger things to worry about. And I have absolutely no control over that stuff.

I roll onto my other side. How and when did life get so complicated? I can't even remember what it was like to be a carefree child. Was I ever? I sigh.

The way I'm seeing things…the only way I'll avoid tremendous problems in the future is if I change. I need to change.

I need to be more grounded, more realistic. More accepting of the fact that others can help me. I need to grow up. Mature. Be an adult, be responsible for my actions, and realize that every action, bone-headed or wise, has a motive and a consequence. I need to be balanced and less haphazard. Calmer, thinking things through. Forget childish dreams.

I need to be more like…Jonathan. I smile wryly once more.

I know that these goals I've set for myself and changes won't happen overnight. Maybe not even over multiple nights. It's a slow process. Braiding and taming frayed nerves and confused feelings and inconsistent personality traits into one smooth rope is going to take some time.

On the edge of being content but still plagued by ghosts, I sit up wearily and glance at my old alarm clock on the desk across the room. It's only a minute after midnight. And I haven't even yawned yet.

Now that that's figured out…sorta. I sigh again and plop my upper half back down. Time to stop dwelling on the past and present and focus on the future. Namely, later today…the funeral.

The service is at ten, with the burial after. I've decided that I'm going. I owe Naomi that much. And her poor family. No father, come to find out. Just her mother and younger sister.

Flowers. I should buy them flowers. I need to do something for them. A way to apologize for my failures, if you will. The family doesn't know details, like my involvement, but I have to pay some sort of respect to them. Hopefully, they won't know why.

But this means… This means I'll have to get up earlier. Two and a half hours earlier. And which kind to purchase, on top of it all?

I groan at the fact that I still haven't fallen asleep. I need sleep, but it always seems so unwilling to come… Maybe I'm a born night owl. Or an insomniac. But the feeling of hours ticking away before my eyes is awful. Especially when they are essential to you.

What would Jonathan think? I wonder, wincing. A while later, I look at my clock again. Twelve thirty-seven. Grand. I have to find something appropriate to wear tomorrow as well. Oh dear…

Mom doesn't know Naomi's family that well, so she won't be going to the service with me. But that's all right. Because tomorrow, I know for sure that I will cry. An end. It will all come out again.

Ames, honey, you're confusing yourself again. I scold. You've got the basest things figured out. Let tomorrow come as it may. When you overthink things, you plan ahead. When you plan ahead, you make foolish, rash decisions. Stop now.

Okay. Sleep. Try for sleep. Strive for it. You need this.

I try. I calm myself down internally and externally, and I run old lullabies through my head, from when Mom used to sing to me. The whole time, I keep Jonathan's face in my mind. He helps may stay down to earth, grounded.

I close my eyes, exhale, and hum a familiar melody. There is no pain; you are receding. A distant ship's smoke on the horizon. You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying…

If only Jonathan was with me. In spite of his words, I'd feel better if he was by my side tomorrow. Whether I can make myself believe it or not, I need support.

When I was a child, I had a fever. My hands felt just like two balloons. Now I've got that feeling once again. I can't explain; you would not understand. This is not how I am.

I have become comfortably numb.

I think I do manage to nod off a couple of times, because morning comes faster than I thought it would. Since we're well into fall, there is no light to greet me. Just a faint dusting, I notice as I stagger up and look out the window, of orange about the horizon.

"I left my window open," I muse aloud. And the early chirping of birds is coming through it. Grimacing, I shut the window with a snarl. Only then do I realize that my alarm clock is still going off, an annoying whine in my ear.

Moving stiffly across the room, I slap a hand down on it, and the thing finally shuts up. I also feel drained; it's almost as if all that thinking sucked me dry of energy.

I look down at my clock and rub my eyes. Seven thirty. Exactly. I should go.

I've given it a lot of thought; I'm actually planning on going to a more expensive floral shop. So I need to hack into the savings stash I've got in one of my top drawers. And I shouldn't have a problem pulling something black out of my closet…

Ten minutes later, I emerge downstairs in a black turtleneck sweater, a knee-length skirt matching in color, and my leather boots. Bushy hair back in a scrunchie. I hope this works.

Mom isn't awake yet. Though she knows well enough where I'm going later, I leave with the feeling that I'm sneaking out of the house without permission.

I throw my twenty in the passenger's seat. I've actually never bought flowers for anyone before, so I'm praying that I have enough. I'd hate to be disappointed.

Just don't think about all of last night's stuff while you're driving. It's a distraction. Or maybe I don't want to have to face it all again. My grip on Black Jack's steering wheel tightens.

I don't think I've ever been deep in Gotham this early in the morning before. And is it always so busy? Or maybe it's because I feel sluggish from a lack of sleep.

Blinking at the lines of cars in front of me, I rub my eyes with a hand and yawn for the hundredth time. The light of dawn is just about ready to peep through the skyline, but at the same time, I can tell it'll be another gray day. And chillier than usual.

Great for a funeral.

This upper part of Gotham is a lot nicer… I've never been up here before. But if I want a good flower shop, I need to be in the good part of the city. High-class.

There are more stoplights here, and it's cleaner. More shops as well. But the crappy parking and limited number of spaces hasn't changed.

I happen upon a street that has the shop I'm looking for, but am forced to park down the street. Walking again.

The sweet aromas assault my nose as soon as I open the door. Before I go in, I swear I see a movement behind me out of the corner of my eyes, but convince myself that it's just my imagination.

The clean-cut lady at the counter looks up at me over her horn-rimmed glasses at my entrances. She has big makeup and big hair. She seems about ready to speak, but sees my all-black garb, and nods.

Be social, I tell myself. I give her a tiny, grateful smile, and busy myself in looking at the different flower arrangements on display. But I have no idea what I'm looking for. I even venture into one of the coolers and come out shivering through my sweater.

Not for the first time in my life, I find myself rather at a loss of what to do. So I take the logical option and scan through everything again.

Finally, I go into the cooler once more and pick out six, long-stemmed roses. Red. They always seem to be appropriate for any occasion. Being careful of the thorns, I step out of the coldness and bring my selection up to the counter.

The woman (Sally, I read from her nametag) looks them over. "Would you like them wrapped? Want to fill out a card?"

I glance above her to the clock on the wall. Eight thirty. Who knew floral stores were open this early? "Yes, please," I tell her vacantly. "And, no thank you." She brings out a shiny sheet of plastic and then a sheet of bright pink tissue paper. I blink at it. "Um, it's for a funeral," I say softly.

Sally freezes. "I'm sorry, hun," she apologizes. Under my guidance, she wraps the roses in black and white tissue paper instead and staples the top shut for good measure. Cradling the bouquet of roses, greens, and baby's breath in one arm like a precious, fragile parcel, I fork over the bill in my hand and tell her to keep the scarce change.

"Have a nice day, sweetie," Sally wishes me as I leave the shop.

The door swings shut behind me, and in that moment, the roses hugged to my chest, I decide to step aside and rest against the wall space next to the door. I just need a…pause. To gather myself. These emotions are starting to well up again. With the purchase of the roses. I'm sure that's what's causing this upset.

I lean back, tilt my head up, and close my eyes. The only sounds are the cars whizzing by.

"That's a little eerie, seeing you here," a familiar voice tells me out of the blue.

I jump a foot in the air. And look to my right. "You!" I exclaim upon sighting the bright green wind jacket.

The riddling boy grins. "Me. Funny, when we met last, it was at a different time and place in the city." He's matched my relaxed stance against the wall, arms folded. Copying me.

I'm still gaping in astonishment at seeing this strange guy again. Who knew? "Yeah, this is weird. As long as you didn't follow me or anything."

He shakes his head. "Nope." I don't know anything about him. Like, if he's homeless. He might be, seeing that he's wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw him. He could be a runaway as well. I decide it's none of my business to pry.

I'm strangely elated at seeing him again. The memory flashes. "So, um, how'd the protest turn out?" I ask lamely, forgetting what's ahead of me.

The riddling boy shrugs. "We made our point." I'm not sure what that had been about to begin with.

"Oh." Unknowingly, I clutch the bouquet of roses closer to my chest. The plastic wrapping crinkles loudly.

At the noise, he glances at the parcel in my hands. And smiles again. "What're those for?" he asks mischievously. "Your boyfriend?" He waggles his eyebrows up and down.

I resist the urge to snort and instead choose to respond flatly. "A friend's funeral. Murder victim." Strangled, I want to add.

The impish grin slides right off his friendly face, and his lips form a distinct "o."

I cast my gaze to the ground.

He clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. I shrug, not sure of what to say or feel at this particular moment. What can you say to that?

I stare at my parcel. Red, black, and white. "It's my fault," I add as an afterthought. "She's dead because of me." And I've managed to say it out loud to a complete stranger. An improvement.

His mouth falls open even more. "Oh," he says, copying my earlier response. He doesn't inquire any further. Something tells me this fellow is a bit of a sweetheart on the inside, despite his outward wittiness.

I raise an eyebrow. "But I guess things are getting better." I brighten, forcing myself to do so. This boy…a sad expression doesn't look right on his face. He shouldn't be forced to carry my mood. My lips quirk upward.

To my surprise, he moves from his position on the other side of the door to stand next to me. And rakes his eyes over my facial expression. "There. There you go. Much better."

I tilt my head in confusion at his words and at his sudden proximity. "What?"

He raises his hands, palms up. "I don't know. Both times I've seen you, you've always been glum." A sigh. "A happy expression looks good on you. You need to cheer up. Smile more."

I can't help it—I do just that. And chuckle. "That sounds nice. I think I will."

"Maybe I can help with that." The riddling boy smiles at me again, the cheerful gleam back in his eyes.

Already knowing the answer, I wrinkle my nose at him. "How?" I've got a feeling…

"Wanna hear a riddle?" There it is.

This time, I flat out say it. "Yes."

"They're new ones, I swear…" He rubs his hands together. "All right. Riddle me this: I'm where yesterday follows today, and tomorrow's in the middle."

That's all he gives me. A statement, not a question. Grateful for the distraction, I think. Hard. I'm actually trying to solve it now…I want to laugh at myself. These random encounters are good for me.

"Give up?" he asks.

Shoot. I nod.

"A dictionary!"

I shake my head at him, suppressing an eye roll.

"One more?" he practically pleads, all but getting down on his knees. "It's easier; I promise you."

How can I say no to that? Keeping a hold on my flowers, I throw one hand up in surrender. "Sure. What the hell?" I'm partly amused, partly exasperated by his insistence. I wonder…I hope he knows the difference between jokes and riddles. And here we go…

"Riddle me this: What do you fill with empty hands?" He stares at me expectantly.

This is going to be another one of those obvious ones, isn't it? I want to ask. I probably look like an idiot to him. Oh, well. I close my eyes, try my best, and give up after thirty seconds. "You got me," I sigh. "What is it?"

He claps his hands in delight. "If the answer doesn't fit, you must not quit!" he crows. Great, he rhymes too. And waits for me again. Not appreciating looking like a fool, I narrow my eyes. He backs off and gives the answer. "It's gloves."

I facepalm.

He laughs loudly. "Don't worry. It's okay."

I unwillingly smile. "Will I ever be able to solve them?"

Snickering, he responds with triumph, "No one has."

So I'm not the first. "Hm."

"It's a talent."

I "hm" again, and then I get a heavy feeling around one of my wrists. Dad's watch. The time! It's been at the back of my awareness. Holding the roses tightly, I lift my wrist to eyelevel and stare at the black watch face. Five after nine. Crap.

The riddling boy looks on in confusion. "What is it?" he asks, seeing my alarmed face.

I drop my arm. "The funeral," I explain. "I'm sorry, but I have to go." Even if I want to stay… I almost add.

He looks disappointed. "That's too bad. I'll miss you."

We just met! Squashing my surprise at that, I pat his green-jacketed shoulder. "It'll be fine; I'm sure I'll run into you again. I really gotta go…"

His expression is similar to one of a kicked puppy. Tearing my eyes away, I start walking down the sidewalk. " 'Bye!"

"Wait!" he calls out with a light voice. I turn around to find him running up to me with yet another smile. "Sorry, but I've just realized…I don't even know your name." He winks boyishly.

Oh, is that all? I think. Regardless, I offer him my hand. "I'm Ames."

He shakes it happily, vigorously. "Edward."

I manage to find the church toward the edge of city. One of the smaller ones Gotham has. Standing before it, I'm amazed at how such a grand structure can make me feel so minuscule and insignificant in its shadow.

I gaze up at it, swallow, and use my roses to steel myself. At the same time, I take note of the yellow school bus parked against the curb. I'm assuming it's for the students who show, to ride to the burial.

Ten minutes 'til the service starts. I enter and take seat in one of the pews toward the back. Not with my class. Simply by myself. I feel so out of place…

I wasn't raised to be religious; that's all I'm going to say on the matter. However, I admire the stained glass windows, the architecture, the statues…amazing. So foreign, their meanings to me.

A sea of black in front of me. Myself, a small speck in the back.

I place my roses beside me, not sure when to give them away.

Notes of an organ (from somewhere I can't see) bid us rise. I watch the procession of the casket, the religious, and the family go by. Tears, already, from some. But not from me. Everyone's heads turn in unison to follow the line down the center aisle.

The service goes by pretty much as I'd expected it to. "Amazing Grace" is sung at one point, family members rise to the podium, as well as a few friends, to talk about Naomi. However, this is a service and not a funeral mass, so there is no Communion. I'm grateful.

It seems to go by so quickly. The priest talks some more and gives a blessing. And then it's over. More music, and the recessional.

After the parade goes past, I gather my bouquet and escape through one of the side doors to avoid classmates and family members. Being in the back, they would've awkwardly been following me out. And I would've been awkwardly leading.

The sky is gray but lit.

I make my way around the side of the marvelous building and find myself trailing the group.

Tears and silence. Girls, with their smeared mascara and blotchy skin. Boys, strong and quiet, sorrow etched onto every line of every face. Suddenly, it seems as though we have all aged twenty years. Grown up some.

It's chilly.

Judging by the size of our group, I'd be willing to say that at least half (a hundred) of us have showed up. But then I see that another half are leaving on their own or with parents. Seems only about fifty of us are going to the burial.

Jonathan didn't show, either. As expected and presumed.

I watch a discarded Kleenex ghost along the ground beside me. The starched white contrasts with dried grass.

A few teachers are here as well, and they are now ushering our smaller group toward the bus that'll take us out to the cemetery.

As I board, and as I pick a seat in the middle and sit down alone, I'm still not sure what to feel. My classmates are comforting each other, but I'm solitary. By myself. As it should be. As I deserve. It also seems like no one has noticed my presence. And I find that I don't mind.

It's only about a bumpy, fifteen minute trip (good thing too, because buses make me queasy). I stand up, relieved, and wait for my turn to jump into the steady line winding out of the bus.

Kelly catches my eyes with her green ones and smiles at the roses in my arms when she goes by. I get in line behind her curvy figure. I feel like I've been welcomed in. So I stand by her during the burial, because I sense that's where my place is today.

We all gather around the freshly dug grave and watch as the casket is lowered in. I shiver.

The preacher speaks. Family and friends say a few things. I remain silent, standing over the grave, looking down on the black casket in that deep, deep hole. And think. It's hitting me hard.

This is the consequence of my actions. This happened because of me. Face this, Ames. Look down upon it. Take it in. Remember.

Yes, I most definitely need to change.

And it's right then and there, for some unexplainable reason, that a miracle happens.

I begin to cry. To grieve. To properly mourn.

I press a hand to my mouth as the tears of sorrow roll down my cheeks and as my body is wracked with silent sobs. This one time…I hope.

I suppose I'll just have to find out.

Beside me, Kelly wraps an arm around my shoulders, comforting and supporting me like the nice girl she is. Unable to help myself, I lean into the comfy side of my classmate. This one time… I shouldn't have judged her. Not an airhead…just all heart.

I am growing. Learning.

We turn away as the dirt begins to rain down in clods into the grave and onto the casket. Should be done with a little more respect. I sniff. My tears haven't stopped, but I'm not sobbing anymore. At least it isn't raining; that's a bonus I shall take.

Kelly and I are almost to the bus when I realize one thing.

I'm still holding the roses. And Naomi's family is still around the grave, watching their daughter, cousin, and niece be buried fully. "Go ahead," I tell Kelly, before heading back in the other direction.

This is going to be the hardest thing I'll ever do. I wear all my sympathy, pity, and sadness on my face in one emotional mask.

I approach them hesitantly, one step at a time, with my brain moving at top speed to figure out what to do and what to say.

The shovels are still going. The dirt is still falling.

Biting my lip, I walk up to the woman whom I think is Naomi's mother. It has to be; she looks just like her daughter did. And the little girl, no more than ten years old, gripping her hand. No father. This is a huge indicator that I have the right woman.

Her mother watches me approach with enormous dark eyes and tearstained cheeks.

The grass crunches underfoot before I stop in front of her. And offer my roses. "I'm so sorry for your loss," I finally say. So quietly, it's barely above a whisper.

Naomi's mother reaches out her brown hands and takes the bouquet. "Thank you, Ames," she says hoarsely. Turning to the little girl, she pats her small back to get her attention. "Whitney, look at the beautiful flowers."

Naomi's sister pulls her dry face out of her mother's coat, stares at the roses, and then stares at me. Hard. Penetrating like. I don't want to look at her, to see her face. Because I know what I will find. And when I finally do, it's what I've expected to see.

She is Naomi's twin. Even more so than her mother. The resemblance is striking. Scary. Eerie. Deeply unsettling.

And the way she's looking at me! As if she knows all… I swallow the lump in my throat, filled with the impulse to let everything spill. To tell Whitney and her mother why this happened, how this happened, and who caused this.

Me! I want to yell, because they deserve to know. Because of me, me, me, me!

But instead, I hold my peace and stare at the ground. "I'm sorry," I choke out. Then I turn and leave them behind me, walking for the bus.

I feel…relieved. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. I needed that. It helped me.

When I get onboard the bus, I've lost my original spot, and every other one is full. Then there's Kelly, who's by herself. She gives me a white, encouraging smile.

I weakly smile back and go to take my seat next to her.

Dead tired, I enter my house at approximately one-thirty. Once again, I've been drained of all my energy juices. My brain has fizzled out. Mom isn't home, but that doesn't appeal to me as it has before. Simply because I need to presence of another human being now.

Until then, I need a nap.

I drag myself up the stairs and through the hallway, stumbling into my room a few seconds later. I'm more tired than I thought. I peel off my funeral garb and pull on a large t-shirt before collapsing onto my bed.

Put your thoughts away. I struggle but manage to do it, and force myself to relax each part of my body. All of last night's contemplation is hitting me hard; I can barely keep my head up.

Mom…when you get home…I'll try. Try to see your side. Try to put my grudge behind me. And try to reconnect.

My reasons? You only live once, and life is short. Naomi's death brought that to my attention.

I can still see her face. In her little sister .Whitney. I hope I never see her again.

To my shock, I wake up almost five hours later to the slamming of our front door. I'd fallen asleep without realizing it. Astounding, how much time can go by when you're not conscious to comprehend it.

My door is open. I hear movement below. Mom's home, and from the sound of it, going into the living room to take up residence on the couch. Usually signifies a stressful appointment and picky clients.

I lay in bed for fifteen more minutes (procrastinating, really), but now I'm wide awake.

It's just…I'm not sure how to go about repairing a damaged relationship. Certainly not one like ours, wracked with lies and distrust and hurt feelings. And a dark past.

I'll admit, I'm not usually one to swallow my pride and apologize, admitting I'm wrong, especially if I feel like I'm the one who's been wronged. Maybe—I'm sure of it—this is the case that will call for exactly that.

If there's one thing I've inherited from my mother, it's her pride. She won't be the first to admit her wrongs, and neither will I.

Except this one time. I will try. As much as I have previously claimed to have not wanted to fix this…I do. And hopefully, I'll learn some new things along the way.

It takes all my drive to haul myself out of bed and down the stairs, so slowly, taking one at a time. In the dining room now, it's completely dark, except for a faint glow of light coming from the living room. I casually glance out a window.

Black, except for the light in our yard. I tend to forget that at this time of year, the days become shorter, and the nights become longer. There is something a little unsettling about it. I turn my head away.

Mom is sitting on the couch when I enter. She doesn't hear me come in, being so engrossed in a Mary Higgins Clark novel, legs pulled up on the couch beside her, still in her suit from today. Her normal, beautiful self. It's hard to believe she's in her early forties.

I forget all my doubts and pause a bit uncomfortably, only to consider and think through my next move.

With a firm resolve, I approach the couch. Mom ignores me. That is, until I sit down and curl up against her side. She automatically stiffens.

I don't blame her; I haven't done it since I was a child. But she doesn't pull away, even though my behavior must be very strange to her now, after our distance. I feel smaller, pressed up to her like this.

I stay still and pray she won't get up and leave the room after my intrusion. Maybe I can try to convey what I'm thinking and feeling… I allow myself to rest my heavy head on her shoulder.

And then I get my second miracle of the day. Mom softens, sets her book aside, and takes me into her arms. I could say she's reading my mind. Or maybe, all along, she's wanted to reconnect with me as well.

This is odd. Odd but nice.

Well, you have a heart, Ames. Quit trying to hide it.

A death does funny things. Uniting people, if but temporarily, is one of them.

I feel warm and decide to speak first. "Mom, I…" I exhale. "I'm sorry. For everything. For everything I've said, and any, um, grudges I've held against you." I fidget, trying to think. This apology sounds terrifically lame; I can't even remember all I've done to hurt her. It is hard to shove your pride back down your throat. "I'm sorry that I didn't try to understand your side or see things your way. It was wrong to be so angry with you. I'm sorry for being a brat."

Mom breaks the ensuing silence. "No, I'm sorry. You had every right to be. You were threatened by Falcone, and you didn't know the full story enough to know why." One of her hands plays with my disheveled ponytail. "I shouldn't have kept my past from you. I should've known that you were mature enough to handle it. And for that, I apologize. Back then, I don't even remember why I got involved in all that. Other than that I was desperate."

But obviously, I wasn't mature enough to handle it.

Silence, broken by the ticking of the clock on the wall. A beat. "I forgive you," we both say at the same time. And laugh softly.

I snuggle deeper into her. "I'll try to be different."

Her fingers move from my hair to my arm, and they drum a rhythm there. "And no more holding things back or keeping secrets."

Inwardly, I grimace at that. "I'll try." No promises there.

"Good," Mom says, before sighing. "Then I'll begin by telling you a little more about me back then. So, what exactly did Carm—I mean Falcone—tell you about me?"

I explain the romance and soon-to-be engagement and the possibility of children.

She has a good laugh at that, wiping her eyes after the fit subsides. "Oh, good lord, what a liar. I was nothing more to him than another one of his whores. He never actually loved me, and he certainly doesn't now."

Makes sense… I frown. But then… "So why'd you stay with him for so long, if he didn't treat you special?"

At that question, Mom removes herself from me, leaning forward and swinging her legs off the couch to put her face in her hands. It alarms me. "Ames, honey, I've never claimed to be perfect; I went to dark places when I was younger. Falcone provided me with a home, money, and…a-and drugs." She lifts her head up. "I couldn't leave him, because I needed, depended on, craved those damn things. And he gave them easily, if I stayed."

My mom was a druggie, I think in bewilderment. Um, I'm not sure how to feel about this…

She sees my expression, and, looking horrified, rushes to explain herself. "But then Damian, your father, came along, and I fell hard for him. I changed, because of him. For him. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. A good man. Desperate, but good."

She was on drugs… It hits me, and I start to shake, my face draining of all color. "Mom…" I croak. My voice is panicked. I'm panicked. Scared. Terrified.

"Oh, Ames! I'm sorry!" She takes me into her arms again, but I stay limp. "I was clean by the time I had you, I swear on my life!"

I want to be calmed by this; I really do. But see, that seed of doubt is still there. I can't get rid of it. She's lied to me before about a serious matter, to protect me; who's to say she wouldn't do it again?

For the moment, I choose to believe her. If there's an aspect or a part of me that's screwed up because of her mistakes, then so be it. Let it stay covered for a little while longer.

"I'm not sure what to say," I tell her, voice tiny. That, at least, is the truth.

"You don't have to say anything," she soothes me.

I think a bit more, but I have one more question. "So if Falcone's not in love with you, why does he have it out for me? For us?"

"Falcone is vain, sweetie. He also likes to be control of everything and everyone." She smiles a bit fondly, before stating, "Your father slipped that control. Showed that the Mob could be crossed, could be fooled, without consequences. That Falcone could be outsmarted. I'm not even sure how he did it. Once Falcone's rivals heard about it, he had an onslaught of problems. Every gangster around was trying to get into his weak spots. So he went after Damian."

And now we're at that memory from the night of my twelfth birthday.

"What does all that have to do with me? Why am I being targeted?" She can tell me; she was at his side once.

"Simple, Ames." Mom stands up, turns around, and faces me. "You look exactly like your father. To Falcone, you're an unpleasant reminder of the past. Living proof that Damian got away with it. I don't know if that's his exact reasoning, but it's damn close."

Well, no one ever said life was fair… Eh, genetics really are a bitch. I see her exiting the living room, off to do something else more important. Shouldn't she be protecting her daughter? One last question springs forth from the back of my mind, and I call out to her. "Mom, what was I like as a child?"

She smiles at me, eyes lit with memories. "You had less contempt for the world. You were a spunky little thing with a brave mind and a good heart." She leaves me in dark, brewing thought, throwing one last sentence over her shoulder. "And you always used to say how much you wanted to save everyone."

A/N: God, I really hope that session between Ames and her mom was believable . It can be changed… This chapter meant a lot to me. From now on, because of these past events, Ames is going to be more mature, a little more consistent in character. It needed to happen.

BEFORE I SAY ANYTHING ELSE I HAVE SOMETHING TO ASK OF YOU. There is currently a petition going around petitioning People magazine to make Tom Hiddleston "Sexiest Man Alive" for 2012… Link below (no spaces). Sign it? Pretty please? With sugar and a cherry on top?
gopetition petitions/tom-hiddleston-for-people-magazine %E2%80%99s-2012-%E2%80%9Csexiest. html

Next item of importance, I have put up a POLL on my profile. I'd like you guys to have a little more say in what happens in this story. Majority rules, so to speak. I will be putting more of these. So this one is about the Mob situation. To be truthful, I've been having doubts about that storyline, and am thinking of a way for it to be put in the past. For now (it will resurface later). So, who should deal with it? I'll explain the choice. First of all, Ames and Jonathan will obviously be involved with them in the future, so those aren't really up. Now, having Jonathan deal with the situation in any way will clear a path for him and Falcone's business deal later. If he does it in HIGH SCHOOL, YOU GUYS will give me insight on how to make that work and seem realistic. Whether it's scaring Don shitless with some fear concoction made this soon in the story as a warning to leave Ames alone, or making a deal with Falcone, you spill the ideas. As for Ames dealing with the problem in high school, I was seriously thinking about her making a contract with Falcone of sorts. I also wanted her to watch Don die, but don't know how that would work out. GIVE ME SUGGESTIONS! So, who should fix this? Ames or Jonathan? And when? I'll give you a warning in a future author's note before I take the poll down, but get your votes in while you still can. At this point, you guys are kinda determining the outcome. I hope that made sense…

Can YOU answer any of Ames' questions? Did anything strike you? Any line? Authors love it when specific parts of their work is pointed out. Leave a review, and I'll get back to you! Guys, all the praise is wonderful. But to better myself and to better this story, don't be afraid to leave constructive criticism. DO NOT FLAME, but feel free to point out anything that's bugging you. I'm not going to rip you to shreds because of a correction; I may even print out said review and place it next to my laptop.

If you love instrumental fantasy music, check out Nox Arcana. They are worth the listen!

Question of the Day: What's the weirdest movie title you've come across?

And oh yeah…The Dark Knight Rises. 19. More. Days. I can't even imagine waking up the day of and knowing that I'll be seeing it later…GAH! *crosses fingers for the Scarecrow cameo rumor to be true* Thanks god it's a 2 hour and 40 some minute movie.

Don't fave n' run. I'm watching you. 'Til next time, loves!