There came a soft knock at my door. "Samantha?" My mother called, with concern.

I burrowed deeper under my blankets. I hadn't left my room for two days, except for in the dead of night. Fuck school; fuck life; fuck everything. My bed liked me and that's all that I needed to focus on. After days of crying, of screaming silently to myself and still not knowing why, I was utterly drained. I was incapable of caring and my emotions were diminishing. My mind was numb, but most importantly, my heart was numb.

"What?" I droned.

"Are you all right?"

I heard the confusion in her voice and I thought, I should feel guilty. Mother was probably worried that I was regressing. She probably thought that I was back in that place – the place that had driven me to my suicide attempt. But this was not the same place. This was not the same pain. This pain was more absolute, somehow. It was more plaguing and raw.

"Yes," I rasped, hoping that she would go away. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to have to pretend that I was okay. I didn't want her to see that I wasn't okay.

"Well," I felt her hesitation radiating through the closed door. "Your father is here. I told him you weren't feeling well but he wanted me to ask if you wanted to see him."

I stayed silent. I couldn't make a decision right now; I couldn't think through the pros and cons of having another conversation with my father after our last one.

"I think you should, honey." Mother continued in a low voice. "He and I have been talking about you since the last time you and he spoke and I think that he's really come a long way. You might not think he deserves another chance but I don't think it could hurt anything."

There was a long pause.

"Okay," I agreed. If was what she wanted was for me to go talk to Dad, I would. It saved me from having to think about it and that might save her from asking why I had imprisoned myself (I didn't want to explain that I was serving the sentence for someone else's crimes).

"I'll go tell him!" Mother gushed, obviously relieved. I heard her heels on the floor as she tottered away from my door back down the stairs.

I pushed myself shakily out of bed, pulling on a pair of discarded yoga pants and a sweatshirt. I yanked the hood up around my features, trying to mask the fact that I hadn't been sleeping or eating. I also didn't want anyone to see my puffy, hot-to-the-touch, red, crying eyes. I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the upcoming encounter and then I left my bedroom.

Mother was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She gave me an encouraging smile and pointed me towards the living room. I dragged myself into the room where my father was sitting on the couch, waiting for me. His head was planted in his hands and he didn't look up when I entered. I stood just inside of the entrance way, leaning against the wall. I crossed my arms against my chest and cleared my throat. He could talk all he wanted; I wasn't intending to do anything but listen.

Dad's head flew up at the noise. He looked over at me.

"I'm sorry, Samantha." His voice – usually so strong and confident – seemed shaky; weary. "I didn't understand you at all. And I was wrong to judge you for something that you couldn't control; something horrible that you tried to fix in your own way. I was just wrong, in so many ways when it came to you. And I can't apologize enough for it. I can't say any words to make it better; I can't take any action to make it better. I just hope you know that I'm sincere."

Tis the season for apologies, my mind went sarcastically. I rolled my eyes at myself.

"Thank you for the apology."

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?"

I dropped my gaze to the floor. What could I possibly want from him; ask from him? I didn't want to take anything from him just so he could feel better about himself. While I appreciated the apology and while I thought I saw something genuine glinting in his eyes when he spoke, I didn't want to accept something just so he could feel at peace with ignoring me and belittling me. Besides, there was nothing I wanted that he could give.

My father couldn't give me peace at mind. My father couldn't take away my memories. My father couldn't change the truth.

I felt tears well up in my eyes and I tried desperately to squash them down.

"Is there, Samantha?"

I didn't respond.

"All right," he sighed heavily. "I'm planning on moving in here, with you and your mom. I've been away for far too long and the business really doesn't need constant monitoring."

My head flew up. "What about the house in New Orleans?"

Dad shrugged. "I might sell it or rent it."

My stomach churned and, as I thought the words, I blurted them. "Can I move into it?"

My father's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "The house in New Orleans?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Why?" He blurted, his eyebrows heading for his nose. "Why do you want to go back there?"

"Because," I stuttered, thinking deeply about my sudden decision, "I think that if I go back there I might find myself – you know, who I was before everything."

I looked into my father's eyes, hoping that he would understand. For everything he hadn't understood about me, for everything he hadn't tried to understand, I was owed comprehension on this. I needed him to realize, to know deep into his core, that letting me go back to New Orleans was the right thing for me. Because I knew it was; though I couldn't explain why it was, though I didn't understand where this was going to lead me, I knew that I couldn't make a better decision for myself right now.

"Well," he said slowly, "I don't suppose that it would hurt once school is out for the three of us to go back for the summer."

I shook my head. "No. I want to go now by myself."

"Now? What about school? And on your own? Samantha, you are only a child."

"I'm not a child anymore." I argued. "And I can do all of my schooling online like I did before."

Dad looked at me. "I'll discuss it with your mother," he consented. "If this is what you really want, and if you're sure it's the best decision for you, then I give you my blessing for going."

"Thank you," I said, trying not to be stiff but unable to bring any sort of emotion to my voice. I turned and walked out of the room. I was striding toward my stairs when my mother's hand darted out, catching me around the bicep. I spun to face her.

"Samantha," she said, voice soft. There was a knowing look in her eye that made me know she had been eavesdropping on my conversation with Dad. "Do you truly think you're going to be happy going back there?"

I averted my gaze, looking instead at the stairs. "I think I need to."

She slid her hand down the length of my arm, taking my own hand in hers, like I was a child again. "I don't want to see you get hurt there."

"It's gotten too hard to be in Amity," I revealed. "I can't stay here anymore. I'm going to be going to college next year and everything is going to change. And before that happens, I need to go back to New Orleans and rediscover what I left there."

She squeezed my fingers. "Are you sure you don't want us to come with you?"

"I need to go on my own." I said firmly.

"When do you want to go there?"

"Sooner rather than later. Every second I spend in this town I feel like I'm drowning more and more."

Suddenly, Mother yanked me into a tight embrace. "If you want to talk to me you can. I know I'm not the most attentive mother but I do love you and I want you to know you can always come to me."

I held her in return. "I just need to get out of here."

"We can make it happen for Saturday," Mother swore.

"Thank you," I managed. I let go of her swiftly and made for my bedroom. My feet pounded the stairs and I felt as though my legs were going to give out with every movement I made. I made it to my bedroom, closed the door, and slid down the wood.

I curled my legs up to my forehead and let myself rest in that position. Tears began to well but they didn't pain me as I began to shed them. I wasn't crying from pain; I was crying from relief. I was getting out of Amity. In just a few days I was going to be able to walk away from this place and my pain would, hopefully, disintegrate into a memory – just like Phantom was always supposed to end up.

Despite the fact that I was going back to New Orleans, a place of pain, I felt good about it. It was going to be good to reconnect with that forgotten piece of myself. There was a time before the complete pain in New Orleans. Though I was never an accepted child, I'd had peace with myself once. There had been moments of happiness in New Orleans; I had been at one with myself and I didn't have the insecurities I carried with me now. I was convinced that if I returned there I would be able to come to terms with who I had become since I was that person. And once I came to terms with myself, as all of the books, quotes, and movies taught me, happiness would follow.

And I craved happiness; craved it like a lost rose in the dead of winter. I could feel pain in every beat of my heart. Every time I blinked, his face would flash – lightning fast – across my eyelids. And even though it was only for a fraction of a second I could see that face (each damned face; each perfect, loved, hated damned face) in tortured detail. And it would fuel my hurt again. All of my wounds, which would never have a chance to heal if this continued to happen, would tear open again. I could feel myself bleeding from the inside out; the same place I was screaming from.

I was screaming for freedom. I was screaming to be released from my thoughts, my memories, and the truth. The truth that the best time of my life and the best person I would ever meet was only a lie. The word illusion, illusion, illusion echoed in my head. I fell asleep wishing that I would wake up and learn it had been a nightmare; that Phantom had never lied to me. I would wake up and Fenton would be an enemy and Phantom would be loved and there would be no correlation between the two. But every time I opened my eyes the hammer came to my heart, smashing the pieces smaller and smaller. Eventually I was going to turn to dust.

I felt like my mind was stuck on a hamster wheel. I kept thinking the same thoughts over and over again; I kept wishing the same wishes. I kept thinking his name. I kept hearing his words – that blasted story that flipped my life upside down. I didn't know how to wrestle myself free of him but I was going to fight for it.

I didn't want to remember him.

I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my betas: foreversky. Don't forget to vote on the poll – Danny's companion is in the lead with 54%. One more chapter and the epilogue left!

~TLL~