Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Thirty: Out of Sight, Out if Mind
Feel free to ignore this intro if you want. It had nothing to do with the story, just me letting off some steam. It won't bother me in the least if anyone skips ahead to the fic, although my rant deals with stuff every kid (well, every kid who goes to public school) deals with, so some may find it interesting.
Okay, so . . . am I the only one who despises state testing? It's ridiculous and asinine and yet every kid is forced to take them anyway because they're required on your college application! So instead of teaching us English or math (which I still feel is pointless to take after sixth grade unless you plan on going into that field of work) or science that we might actually use, the teachers take the time to show us how to do these incredibly confusing math problems, remember complicated science facts, and write an essay that will only be five paragraphs long. This is stuff we probably won't use ever again, guys, and yet they take the time to teach it to use anyway because each school needs to reach a certain percentage or else said school's funding will be cut! Oh no! What annoys me the most is the fact that small, suburban and/or rural schools like mine do really well because there aren't as many kids, so we get some extra cash to spend when, really, we'd get along fine without it. Whereas large, inter-city schools who really need the money don't do as well and their funding is reduced even more! Does that make any sense? I don't think so.
Sands: (sarcastically) Hey, no child left behind, Sid.
Sidney: 9.9 Right . . . right . . .
VVV
The elevator ride had to be the worst part of the night. He may have to suffer through weeks, even months of painful recuperation, but, damnit, nothing could compare to riding in an elevator. Not when your flesh had been torn in three different places, wave after wave of nausea was rocking your body, and you couldn't even see where you were going.
Then again, riding in an elevator after you were shot four times and had recently been relieved of your eyes could be considered tough competition. And that was the only thing that kept Sands awake. The thought that he had already been through worse – and lived – was what gave him the adrenaline that allowed him to fight his constant battle with sleep.
Sleep. Going to bed in a dark room . . . drifting off . . . and then finally waking up again, only to see that nothing has changed. Everything is still black. The fact that you can't see is still going strong, and nothing has changed because you're blind . . . that was something that nothing could compare with.
Goddamn it, why? Why the fuck did this happen?
I already told you, the voice sighed, disgruntled. You saw Hernandez, mistook her for That Bitch –
Wait, wait – what
Ajedrez, the voice translated, now thoroughly irked. Hernandez looks like her.
What? Sands demanded wearily.
Remember what you told Lyn about learning a new word? Think you should start taking your own advice.
Bite me, he snapped, though even his thoughts were beginning to grow feeble with exhaustion. Christ . . . how much blood have I lost, d'you think?
A lot, the voice answered mockingly.
Thanks for the clarification; that really helps.
Unwillingly, he felt himself leaning even more heavily against his female companion. He hated – loathed allowing weakness to show in front of anyone – not even someone who had vowed to do everything in her power to help him – but for some reason his body didn't want to obey the orders his mind was sending it.
Shit, that can't be good . . .
Perhaps his fatigue was finally getting to him, or perhaps the small puddle of blood that was bound to be on the floor had finally gathered into a lake that did it. It could have been the droplets of sweat that were collecting on his forehead, the ones that soaked his hair, drenched his clothes so they clung to his body, and made his mask and hat horribly unbearable to wear. Whatever it was caused his knees to give out.
A rush of wind filled his aching lungs as his feet became entangled, sliding out from beneath him. He felt his stomach lurch as he spilled forward. Everything in his head was swirling violently – surely his brain was being thrown around his skull. He blinked, trying desperately to see through the darkness that had snared him once again, but his effort was wasted. He doubted that, even if by some miracle he had regained his sight, the horrible staggering sickness would have prevented him from seeing anything clearly.
Pain reeled through his body once again, but he didn't fall. All at once, the world seemed to stop. Everything was frozen in place, almost as if they had been caught in time and were waiting to be released. The only beings that had the luxury of movement were Sands and . . . Who the hell is she?
She had caught him. Whoever she was, she had caught him just as he was about to take a dive. Horrible, fiery jets shot through his arms and legs the moment she tightened her hold on him. His teeth sunk into his lower lip as his brain shouted commands to his vocal cords, ordering him over and over again not to scream. He wanted nothing more than for her to let go. Let him fall, let him lay there, anyone else would have.
"No you, though," he muttered out loud as his head unwillingly fell against her shoulder.
"Hmm?" his escort replied.
"Nothing . . ."
Christ, who is she!?
Gee . . . let's think, the voice satirized nastily. It's a chick, who was at Poisson's shindig, who you went looking for – and she's sorry because about that since, due to her absence, you were shot. Now, who could possibly fit that description? Well I just don't know . . .
Just tell me, Sands panted. Instead of the forceful, commanding threat he desired the order came out clumsy and feeble, which only expressed his pain further and had no effect on the voice.
"We're almost there," the woman was assuring him. "I'm sorry about this. If I'd known we'd be on the eighth floor, I would've asked for a different room." Her voice was calm, placid even, but his harried nerves would not be subdued.
Who is she? Tell me, damnit. I want to know.
Do you? the voice questioned mysteriously.
Yes, he seethed angrily, the unfairness of the situation causing frustration that drained him of his remaining energy. Sensing that awful, horribly familiar feeling of wooziness rearing its sickening head, Sands braced himself for the worst.
You don't know, do you? he challenged hoarsely, his own voice reduced to nothing more than a guttural rasp. If he didn't get any liquids in him soon . . . but he didn't think of that. The voice was about to answer. It had to. The fucking thing never said no to a match of wits.
DING
He heard the mysterious woman breathe a sigh of relief as she shifted carefully until her left arm was around his waist. With her free arm, she reached over and took his hand in hers. Sands found that he could not summon the will to protest, though he was not certain if it had anything to do with invalidity.
VVVSilently, maintaining her hold on Sands the entire time, Zebbidy edged down the hallway with as much stealth as humanly possible. All the while she kept her thoughts focused on one single target: 316, 316, 316, 316 . . .
It was their room number. As a child, Zebbidy had realized that, when times were rough, for her the best solution was to give herself a goal and never let it go until she achieved it. It worked, for the most part. Kept her from losing her mind, anyway. 316, 316, 316 . . . Rewind, repeat. 316, 316 . . .
She barely noticed when a sharp gasp escaped Sands' mouth. It was only a mild pinching sensation in her fingers that snapped her out of her habitual state. The agent had been thrown into a world of pain and someone must have sent him a reminder. Returning his intense grip on her hand with a reassuring squeeze, Zebbidy bit her lip and continued to usher the bleeding man down the hall, while Sands felt himself fading from reality.
316, Zebbidy thought admiringly when at last they reached their room. With no time to spare, she swept her keycard through its slot, pushed the door open, and guided Sands through its frame.
Had anyone been walking down that particular hallway several seconds after the door to room 316 closed, they would have seen it open once again, albeit, only a crack. A dainty hand would have soon appeared through the slit that stood between the door and its frame. Any witnesses would have seen the hand hang a small, plastic sign – complements of the hotel staff – around the knob. Instead of being flipped over to its frequently seen message – one that read: 'Bonne Demandée' (Maid Requested) – it had been turned over, showing a much more intriguing demand.
Ne Pas Déranger.
Do not disturb.
VVVIn his bed, aside from his rapidly heaving chest, Sands was still. His fingernails clawed the sheets beneath him, digging into the soft fabrics of the mattress. Waves of pain crashed over him like an angry flood, and each time they took his breath away, leaving him in volatile suffocation and the panicked thought that he might die. When he was finally rewarded with precious air, it wasn't because the pain had let up. It was still there, just as strong as always, and he knew that it would continue to tear through his body until he finally passed out from exhaustion. Because this time, there were no wonderful, mind numbing drugs to put a temporary end to his suffering.
Meanwhile, standing at the counter of their suite's tiny kitchen, Zebbidy was hard at work as she frantically searched through her purse/bag, pulling out its contents one by one.
'And it harm none do as ye will,' she recited silently, still retrieving vial after vial, bottle after bottle until she found the one she desired. "I'd do well to remember that, but what good's it gonna do me now?"
"What good's what gonna do you?"
Zebbidy gasped, nearly dropping the crystal vial in her hand as she spun around. Her bright eyes widened when she saw Sands standing in – or rather, leaning against the wide doorframe that separated the quaint little kitchen from the welcoming bedroom. Unmasked, hatless, and relieved of his boots and gloves, Sands rather worse for wear. His lean form seemed to have shrunk since Zebbidy last saw him, an observation that aroused the suspicion that he was losing weight because of stress.
"Sands," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "you should be in bed."
"That's just what I plan on doing as soon as I get some answers, darlin,'" he replied casually, though Zebbidy saw that his hands were shaking as he crossed them over his bleeding chest.
"You were shot," Zebbidy told him, emphasizing the last word extensively. "Can't you see tha-"
"As a matter of fact . . ." He paused, casting a cold smirk in her direction. "I can't."
Zebbidy was confused, and it showed. "Wh . . . what?"
"Didn't catch that?" he asked mockingly. Then, just like that, his tone changed, morphing from taunting to furious in an instant. "I can't fucking see!"
Despite the loud, rage-infested words ringing in her ears, Zebbidy heard the pain hidden within them. Her heart broke for him, telling her to forget the herbs, that all he needed right now was someone to be there for him, but she knew she could do no such thing. Not now.
"How?" she breathed, eyes wide with shock and sadness.
Sands stared (or appeared to) at her, slightly taken aback. He had thought that the correct question to ask would be 'What?' But the woman – Zebbidy, he now knew, placing her voice at last – had asked how, not what. He was confused, but she was still awaiting an answer. Well, wouldn't want to keep the girl in the dark, right?
"Well, Zeb, I'm not sure. Seems that you're not the only one prone to panic attacks when it comes to Rosa Hernandez."
"Rosa?" Zebbidy wondered. "What does she –"
"Beats the shit outta me," Sands snapped, refusing to admit anything.
Anything being . . . Ajedrez – whoops, sorry Rosathe voice queried. You know you thought she was Ajedrez.
No . . . ye – I don't . . .
The voice sighed, disgusted as it ordered lazily, Go to bed, Sheldon.
Right . . .
"Okay," he heard Zebbidy say softly. Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder. Impulsively, he jerked away but regretted it at once. He grimaced, grinding his teeth and gasping at the pain the movement had inflicted. Leaning his back against the frame of the door, he panted, clutching his chest.
Sympathy overcoming warning, Zebbidy took a hold of the stubborn man's arm again and lead him, surprisingly without protest, to the bedroom. She still held onto his arm and he still had yet to shrug it off when she helped him lay down. A little stunned but not frozen with shock as Sands had been earlier, Zebbidy kept her hand in place while she pulled the blankets up around him.
"Are you cold?" she asked, watching him 'gaze' at the ceiling with blank eyes.
"A bit, yeah," he admitted, suddenly realizing the odd draft that lingered within the bedroom.
"Okay," Zebbidy said, tucking the blankets in around him to keep the heat in. The last thing she needed was the agent to go into shock. He's already done that once tonight, by the looks of things. Looks . . . shit . . . I wonder if he really is blind . . . ?
"I'm gonna go get my . . . . supplies," she told him gently. "In case you didn't notice, cuz it doesn't seem like ya did, you've got a few holes in you. They'll need to be taken care off."
This said, she turned to leave, only to be stopped by a strange question: "How many?"
"Hmm?"
"Holes," the agent translated. "How many?"
"Oh," Zebbidy realized. "Three."
"Where?"
This time, she noticed the pain and . . . was that despair? And worry, too? She would have never expected such emotions to come from Agent Sands had she not received her visions of the man. They were from his past, she knew now. Someone took his eyes and somehow he got them back. That's why he's so worried. Oh my gods . . . the poor thing . . .
"One in your chest – I don't think it hit anything vital – then a bullet went through your side, but it just grazed it, and you've got a nasty hole going through your arm. I'm gonna have to tend to that one first, by the looks of it."
Sands made no reply, not even a nod, he merely gazed up at the ceiling, a blank look on his face. But she saw him relax physically and she heard his mental sigh of relief. Calmed herself, Zebbidy took that as her motive to take her leave.
"I'll be right back," she told him, simply informing him that she was now leaving to room, but to Zebbidy, the sentence sounded more like she was trying to assure the agent that she would be back instead.
VVV"This one may hurt a bit, so feel free to yell –"
"I didn't while you stitched up the other two," Sands pointed out weakly.
"But you can't tell me they didn't hurt," Zebbidy countered, glancing at him before re-threading her needle. But one look at the wound on Sands' left shoulder made her stop.
"How'd you get this one?"
"Flipped over one of the tables for cover; some mobster shot a bullet, it went through it," Sands replied tiredly.
"Shit . . ."
"Mmm . . . ?"
"There's probably wood embedded in your arm – "
"Goody."
"– so I'll have to get it out or else you'll catch an infection. Luckily, I brought tweezers with me."
"Yeah, luckily," Sands muttered dryly, wrapping his uninjured arm around the wound at his side. The action didn't ease the pain at all, but it gave him the false sense of security that he sorely needed.
"Okay, I'm gonna start," Zebbidy began, raising the pair of tweezers in her hand, a gesture that would have appeared almost menacing had Sands been able to see it.
"Zeb, just because I'm blind – " he stressed the word, hoping to get to her "—doesn't mean you have to voice your every fucking move, all right? Just get it over with."
"Y'know," she said, her voice taking on an icy edge that Sands was not accustomed to, "I really don't think you're in any position to order me around. I'm under the impression that you're an ungrateful bastard, yes, but may I remind you that I did save your ass. I suppose I could have let you stand their like a dolt and allow that guy to shoot you full of holes, but, unfortunately, my emotions wouldn't allow that."
"Nice to know you're starting to warm up to me – ahhh . . ." Sands hissed through his teeth, his comment being cut short as Zebbidy plunged the sharp ends of her tweezers into his left shoulder, sending bolts of pain through his already aching limbs.
Zebbidy faltered only slightly as she took notice of the agent's pain. Already beads of sweat were beginning to collect on his forehead, reminding her of how much blood he must have lost, of how much everything must hurt, of how he had lost himself just hours ago . . .
"What happened back at Poisson's anyway?" she decided to ask; a ploy to take Sands' mind off of the pain that was obviously eating away at him.
"What?" he snapped, cringing and grasping the sheets surrounding him. "I already . . . told you . . . . I don't . . . fucking . . . know. And it's not gonna happen again, so don't worry about it."
Why shouldn't I? Zebbidy was tempted to ask. But she restrained herself. The man was already in a world of pain; he didn't need her contributing to it.
"Okay," she said, dutifully returning to her task. "Damnit . . . there's still some in there. Brace yourself for this . . ."
Ow . . . ow . . . ow, ow, ow, ow, OW! Goddamn it! Zebbidy glanced at Sands as his cries of torment entered her mind. On the outside, however, the agent merely ground his teeth together, his face pinched with the agony that had been wreaked upon him. Again, Zebbidy felt a sharp pang of sympathy towards him, a yearning sadness that stuck in her chest and refused to leave.
I wish you'd let me help you . . . she found herself thinking miserably. But this is all I can do until then.
VVVIt's funny. I seem to recall you agreeing to 'come to her rescue' if and when things got ugly . . . and yet when that did happen . . . she was the one to rescue you.
What's your point? Sands wondered tiredly, his every bone aching from the torrent of bullets that had ripped through his body.
No point, the voice said mildly. It's just ironic.
Whatever . . . Now would ya piss off? I'm kinda tired.
Well whose fault is that, smart-ass? You haven't been sleeping well at all, have you?
No.
That can't be healthy, Sheldon.
I'm aware of that, thank you.
So's skipping meals.
Yeah.
You've got a fever, too, y'know.
Uh huh . . .
And Ajedrez is standing right behind you.
"What??"
Sands spun around despite his injuries. He looked around, searching wildly for the gun he could not see. Everywhere he looked, no matter which way he turned his head, he was met with darkness. Feeling panic begin to rise, Sands tried desperately to calm himself down.
Resisting the urge to think of that quote that Lynné was always repeating, Sands took in several deep breaths, ignoring his instincts all the while. They were insisting – no, ordering him to bolt, but he contradicted them.
How the fuck can I run when I can't see
Don't . . . look . . . at me. Ask the bitch behind you. She's the one that did this.
Pivoting again, though he knew it would do no good, Sands took up his hunt again, only this time his prey was not a gun, but the woman who had thrown him into this mess.
Ah, no. That would be Rosa. Although I Ajedrez is the one who started all of this in the first place, so you might be right in thinking it was her.
"Why don't you tell that voice of yours to be quiet? You've kept me waiting for too long."
Sands felt his body freeze up just as it had done in Poisson's ballroom mere hours ago, only this time, he still had control of his actions. Whipping around, he turned to face the woman who had spoken, and this time he was not met with unending darkness.
"Sorry if I interrupted your conversation, baby," Ajedrez apologized playfully. "But I needed to get your attention somehow."
She was dressed exactly as she had been on the day everything had gone to hell, the day he'd finally fallen along with everyone else. Wearing all black on the Day of the Dead and having a gaping hole going right through your abdomen . . . how very fitting. Ajedrez didn't seem to be bothered by her wound, though. Or maybe she just had a higher tolerance for pain than he did.
"Mind telling me what the fuck's going on?" he asked casually, wishing he had a cigarette there to reinforce the mellow air he was giving off.
She laughed, amused. "You mean you don't know?"
"Kinda hard for me to tell when all I can see is you."
"Aww . . ." she sighed, pretending to be touched. Sands felt a stab of annoyance that stood out among the throbbing pain that had been plaguing him.
"So I guess you screwed up again, hmm?" She was toying with him, and Sands knew it.
Don't be baited, don't be baited . . . It's what she wants, smarmy, conniving bitch . . .
"Guess so," he replied coolly. "Would you know anything about that?"
She merely flashed him a mysterious smile and took a step towards him.
"Rosa Hernandez . . . she's your sister, isn't she?" Sands guessed. "Barillo had two hoes the agency failed to tell me about."
Ajedrez shook her head, stepping closer. "No."
"Half sister."
Another step. "No."
"Cousin."
She was just an inch away from him when she answered, "No."
"Mind telling me who she is then?"
"See for yourself," Ajedrez answered silkily.
"Cute –" he started to say but a hand on his shoulder forced him to turn around. Long – longer than Ajedrez's – dark, curly hair spilled over the gauzy blue fabric that covered tan shoulders. Piercing blue eyes stared up at him from a pretty face.
Pretty? the voice snorted. Yeah, pretty familiar . . .
Ha. Ha, Sands replied sarcastically.
"I don't know if I can explain it," Rosa Hernandez confided to Ajedrez.
"Doubt he'll notice. He's too busy having a conversation with himself. Couldn't you tell?"
"Actually –"
"How the fuck do you know about that?" Sands demanded as his eyes narrowed menacingly.
The pair of women looked stunned, but only for a moment. In an instant the identical, evil smirks were back, each holding a secret that neither cared to reveal. Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike Ajedrez, one that she, apparently, didn't mind if it was voiced.
"You told me, remember?"
"I doubt that," Sands began.
"You told me everything . . ."
"No . . ."
". . . when you told me your plan . . ."
"No," he insisted more to himself than to the two women. "I didn't . . . . I didn't tell you jack –"
"But you did," Rosa interjected, adding her two cents. "You filled her in on everything. The money . . . the coup . . . how much you care for your sister . . . how much you miss your mother . . . the homicidal thoughts about your father . . . even," she paused, surveying him, "that fucking voice . . . in your head."
"No . . ." Sands muttered hollowly, insisting to himself that he didn't – he would never. . . he wasn't that dense . . . If ever he should marry, he didn't think he'd even tell his wife about that fucking voice. And as for caring about Lynné, mourning his mother's absence, and wanting to kill his father . . . well, aside from that last one, he doubted he'd ever admit to any of that.
You didn't tell her anything. She's making it up.
"It's just trying to lure you," Ajedrez informed him calmly. "If you want to be delusional, fine by me. Just don't let it get in the way of things."
"What?" Sands asked, confused and hating how stupid he must have sounded.
Don't listen, the voice warned. Shut her out – shut both of them out. Shoot the bitches – NOW!
Sorry, don't have a gun on me or I'd've done that already.
"How do you know all of that anyway, Rosa?" he sneered, shooting the other woman a glare.
"You shouldn't concern yourself with that," she replied, still smirking broadly.
"No, really, I think I should."
Ajedrez shook her head slightly, laughing, "No . . . you shouldn't."
Rosa was laughing now, too. Both or them . . . laughing . . . laughing at him, the fucking cu –
Hey, now, let's keep it clean, the voice reminded him warningly.
Fuck it. They can hear what I'm thinking anyway.
"We can," Rosa smirked delightedly, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.
Shut them up, the voice ordered. Shut them the fuck up!
"You can't," Ajedrez chided brightly. "Because you can't destroy what you can't see."
And then, they vanished as everything around him went black.
VVVSands shot straight up in bed, ignoring how much it made his chest and side scream. Sweat trickled down his face as he panted for breath, grasping the sheets that had twisted themselves around him.
Those aren't sheets . . .
Arms. They were arms. Ajedrez's and Rosa's; they had to be. Who else would be holding him back like this . . . ?
"Lay down," a soft voice instructed, trying to goad him into sleep as gently as it could. "You'll pop your stitches if you don't."
Zebbidy, he realized, too tired to think any further.
Instead of returning to bed as she wished, Sands felt himself lean forward into the woman until his burning forehead was securely nestled within the crook of her shoulder. He didn't know if it was out of tiredness or yearning, but at this point, he found that he could not will himself to care.
VVVOh my God! Thirty chapters, guys! Thirty chapters!! 8O I'm shocked to say the least, although after I got to eighteen on the last story, I should know better, right? I still can't believe I thought this story would only be about twelve chapters long – I had a plot and a few scenes, but nothing to fill the gaps with. When I started this one I figured that it would either be much longer or dismally shorter than its maker. More than likely the latter, but, once again, I was wrong.
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Sands claims that he was not frightened by Barillo and 'that twisted fuckwad, Guevera,' but merely pretending to be because he wanted to 'lead them on.' 9.9 Men. Can't admit to anything. Aww, it's so great to hear that somebody thinks Josey's precious. :) Just as long as she doesn't become annoyingly cute, of course. u.u
morph: (hangs head in shame) Yeah . . . you figured it out, no thanks to a certain someone (shoots a sideways glare at Sands) But it's cool that you were able to think of that from that one comment he made. Really, I hadn't intended that to happen. Just trying to get Sands to be Sands, y'know? And I love that you said the story reminded you of OUaTiM! I wasn't going for that either exactly, but it's still neat to know my fic kinda goes along with the swing of the movie. :) I've dealt with more computer problems than I can list, so I know how ya feel about that. I wasn't ticked or anything, I just wondered where everyone had disappeared to all of a sudden.
Lynx Ryder: Firstly, this is gonna be one long response, but you wrote me a nice, long review, so I feel obliated :) I love how you wrote that they're my characters now. In a sense, they are, I think. This is the way I've always figured it: There is really only one Sands (same thing goes for anyone else, whether they be from movies, books, cartoons, or TV shows). That Sands is the one from the movie, the one created by Mr. Rodriguez and brought to life by Mr. Depp. To me, any Sands in a fanfiction or fanart is almost like a spinoff of the original character. Not saying that they're out of character or anything, just that they're not the one from the movie. Not matter how much they appear to be like 'Real' Sands, they each have something about them that makes them different. They may have quirks that aren't in the movie, or secretly care about their sisters like mine, or learn to love again like yours. In any case, they're not – exactly – the Sands from the movie. So, in a way, everybody has their own Sands – though that doesn't mean disclaimers aren't necessary. Suing people is a trend anymore. 9.9 In chapter twenty-seven I noticed that Sands was shot in his left arm. Again. Thinking back on it, I realized that he always wore his third arm over the left one, so I kinda took that and used it as an excuse to why Sands wore the fake arm in the first place. Aside from the fact that he could shoot someone if things went awry, of course. u.u And I liked your long winded agreement; it fit Sands very well. In control, he's good to go but once he loses it, well, he loses it. His "cool" I should say. u.u Yes, Liam is definitely the black – or should I say white? Lyn and Sands are much darker than he is – sheep of the group. He's a nervous man by nature, but that trate is almost exaggerated by Sands and Lynn's icy presense. Zeb being an agent . . . hmm . . . never thought of it, though I'm not sure if she'd agree to it. Good or evil, she has extreme difficulties when it comes to killing someone. Only when it is absolutely necessary will she actually go through with it and pull the trigger. It's a long story that has much to do with her past and, more importantly, her genes, but it won't be explained until later chaptes. You won't have long to wait, though :)
Invader Nicole: Oy, I never get to talk to you online anymore! :( It's cool you reviewed, though. Hope your computer's working again. O.O! Tell Armani to stop before she give Zeb any ideas. Yep, the stigmata thing is pretty nifty. I think I heard it on a show that was on the history channel one time. But I'm sure you can find a lot of info on the Internet, too. u.u
fanfiction fanatic: I know what you mean. I haven't had much in the area of time either. 9.9 Dang school. Nice to hear from ya again, though. :)
Before I make my leave, I want to apologize in advance. Why? The next chapter might be a little late – late meaning no updates 'til Tuesday or possibley Wednesday – if it's not late, it'll be short. Again. Sorry :( School is demanding my attention, however, now more than ever. I have try-outs for District Choir all day this Sunday, so I really only have a few hours tonight and all day Saturday to write. Don't wanna go to Districts, but when your choir director(who scares the heck outta you o.o;;) is the one who decides not only what grade you get but what part you get in his muicals, you really don't have many options. XP
o