A/N: Can't get enough of this: thanks for the few but loyal reviews! Really, I appreciate them.

"You're about to top your record for the stupidest things you've ever done."

Joe looked tiredly up at his Aunt Gertrude, then back at the suitcases he was re-organizing. His parents had brought everything back from his dorm room, thinking he couldn't be going back to Bayport University for the rest of the semester. Both had been shocked by their son's vehement determination to return immediately, fresh out of the psyche ward.

I need to be alone. And I can be there.

"I mean it, Joseph. I used to think cutting up your arm with your brother's name was the stupidest thing ever, but you're just determined to break all your own records by insisting that you go back to school! Maybe your parents caved in, but I won't allow it."

His Aunt had been following him about the house since he'd walked in the door, chastising him the entire time. "Honestly, you'd think your parents would have learned their lesson by now, that you shouldn't be running around unsupervised! They already lost one son--"

Gertrude broke off as Joe whirled around, horror on his face; shock filled her own over what she'd just thrown at him, knowing it was as cheap shot. Normally a comment like that would have enraged him; this time, it just made him sick.

"Shutup," he whispered.

His Aunt stood still, then slowly her eyes filled and she sank onto her nephew's bed.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

Joe ignored her and stared into his suitcase. He felt cold and shock creeping on him again, as the numbness wore off. He'd felt like this so many times a day since he lost Frank.

Wrecked the van the night of his funeral, went out drag racing souly to destroy it, couldn't help it, it represented our partnership, our bond, that was all gone, why shouldn't our car be, hitting the pole inaugurated my self-destruction...

Anything brings this feeling on: his name, a song he'd liked, the smell of him lingering on one of my shirts he'd borrowed, a picture carelessly left out...anything. First, the numbness. My mind's defense from the terrible reality. Then the cold shock, then the pain—so bad and sharp on every inch of my soul I just want to scream for him, howl his name to the sky as if God would give him back or at least tell me why he took my brother and left me behind.

Unconsciously, Joe rubbed his fingers over the gauze on his arm, over his brother's stitched name. He wondered if Frank was listening, or if he could read his thoughts.

Remember I'm with you. Always.

"Joseph, sweetheart...I'm just so worried about you. We all miss him so badly, honey. I can't imagine getting through the day with you gone too."

I don't want to hear this I've been hearing this since his funeral its just words nothing to actually live for.

But he understood his Aunt. She had his temper; they reacted the same way—with anger—when they were scared.

"I know," Joe finally managed, "But...I need to be alone now, Aunt Gertrude."

"Being alone is what got you into this mess."

"No it wasn't. Being home again was. These weekend trips here. Having his room right next door. Seeing his things again. Remembering everything we ever did together in every room of the house." He sighed and wished his father hadn't confiscated his cigarettes. "I've got to get out of here."

"Will you try it again?"

Joe swallowed and looked away.

I won't let you jump. 

"Not now."

"Meaning you will."

"Meaning I don't know." He turned and stared at her frightened eyes, narrowed but still loving. She'd been with them for as long as Joe could remember; their guardian, their protector. As sharp as she could sometimes be, she loved her nephews. "I'm going to try, Aunt Gertrude. I really am."

She nodded slowly. "I still don't like it. I'm going to keep tabs on you, young man. Anymore of this insane behavior and I'll haul you out of their myself."

Joe just nodded and slammed his suitcase shut. His Aunt quietly said goodnight and shut the door softly behind her on her way out.

Joe slumped down on his bed, looking around the room for something to distract him. He wouldn't let himself sleep. The nightmare was always there no matter where he was, but it would be much worse having it here, waking up in his house and being assaulted by memories everywhere he looked. There--his desk where Frank had helped him with homework. There—his blank bulletin board he'd once covered with photographs of his family and friends. There—the stain on the carpet, the scorch marks from the flames that had tried to eat him alive.

And always the bathroom they'd once shared, the room that acted as the bridge to his older brother's room, no longer left untouched.

"Frank?" he asked softly, wanting his brother to materialize. No such luck, though. It had been three days now.

Am I crazy? I saw him twice though!

Joe sighed and flopped across his bed, concentrating on he ceiling and forbidding his mind from thoughts.