So, before you start, there are some things you should know. First, while this uses a version of the story "Here Without You," as it's start, it is NOT to be considered a sequel, or a continuation. It is sort of an AU of that story, but I want to be clear that that is a stand alone. She is dead in it, and one shouldn't read it and think, "oh, but she was really okay." She is not. She's dead.

I'm mean like that.

I have tweaked this opening bit a tinge, so if you've read it before, there is some new stuff, and some changes, so you should at least skim it, 'cause the end is totally different. Also, I made up Liz's b-day, so if you know what it is, either tell me, or forgive me for being to lazy to track it down.

Also, for anyone who reads "The Madness," I'm pretty blocked about it, so it will be a while before anything happens there. If anyone has any ideas for where it should go (and I mean this) add them to your review of this story (see how that works?) and I will give them SERIOUS consideration (with the exception of suggestions like "I think that Liz should get pregnant with alien triplets." Not only will I NOT write that story, but I'll just be disappointed in you).

So, without further ado:

Oh wait, I forgot: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING. Sure, I'm bitter about this, since you at GH waste my character, and generally torment me, and one day I plan to own it, and then you'll see how much better GH could be, without shoddy storytelling, but yeah, until then, don't sue me.

Ahem:

But I Was Young And Foolish, And Now Am Full Of Tears

He could feel the trickle of water down his spine, and smell the mud. The rain hadn't stopped in days. It just poured, endlessly. There was talk of flooding on the news, amazement at the unseasonable deluge, when a week ago the weatherman had gushed that they were to have nothing but sun. Jason wasn't arrogant enough to think the weather had anything to do with him, but he was grimly pleased about it. It suited him that even the sky wept. He stood in it, finding satisfaction in being cold, in being wet. If he thought that he would be left alone, he doubted he would ever go home. The rain was, really, perfect in everyway. It even went with the dedication on the headstone.

Here Without You, It Keeps On Raining

He knew for a fact he didn't have much imagination, but she had this vision of her, instructing that it rain in honor of her. Only she wasn't selfish like that, she wouldn't want it to rain, and be grey, and flood.

She would want it to be sunny, for everyone to be happy. For him to be happy.

His chest ached under the weight of his heart. It beat sluggishly, as if it had turned to lead. Or dried out. Or died. Or a million other unoriginal clichés.

But it quite simply hurt to live without her. For now, the pain was sharp. Making his stomach twist and convulse. Making it hard to think. He knew with time, the pain would ease. Or change, more. It would become a dull, throbbing ache that shadowed his every move. That his mind would clear, showing him with excruciating detail, every minute of their past. Every wrong word, each and every wasted moment, the wasted opportunities. Every bad decision and every stupid, unthinking time he had taken her for granted.

It would show him how he had always loved her. From their first conversation to her last moment.

He loved her now. When it was way past time, and far to late. When the events of the previous week were unchangeable, and set in stone. Like her name. Carved in stone.

Elizabeth Imogene Webber

March 17th, 1982- October 31st, 2004

Beloved Mother And Friend

Here Without You, It Keeps On Raining,

He wished the word wife was listed. He wished she had been his wife. And more the point, he desperately, endlessly, furiously wished there was no list at all. That she was going to walk up and tell him it was a horrible mistake.

He wished he had the chance to fix things, and to tell her how madly he had always loved her. He wished that when he forced himself to go home that she would be there, rather than the remnants of her life, found for him by her grandmother, in a wooden box with his name painted across the top.

A piece of red glass. Dried roses. A single white glove, stained with makeup. His old number scrawled onto a coaster. An unreturned library book. Some soda crackers from Kelly's, the kind that came with soup.

Though he couldn't feel them, he knew tears had mixed with the rain on his face.

A painting of the wind. He had that too. Wrapped in brown paper because he knew if he looked at it, he would shatter.

Regret had become a filter through which his every breath passed, so he was constantly dizzy with it. He raged against God, in whom he didn't believe. He railed against circumstances. His fury roiled through him like acid, and his grief, well, that was unspeakable.

He found himself looking down at his shoes. Soaked black loafers Sonny had bought him, laughing, saying that Jason needed something other than boots in his wardrobe. Well, they were ruined now.

He cried. An endless river of grief that merged with the rain.

There was a flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a crash of thunder.

Jason bolted upright in bed.

TBC

(Chapter title taken from "Down by the Sally Gardens," By William Butler Yeats.)

But, since I'm nice, you SHOULD be able to skip right along to chapter two. At this moment, how much do you love me?

Well don't talk to the computer, write it in the review box!