Characters: Melanie, Maggie, Sharon

A/N: This story is less of a formal narration and more of a 'stream of consciousness'. What does that mean? Well, instead of each event happening and being narrated in a strict chronological order, the events run in a roughly time-ordered sequence, though some are out of order. I've been writing this with the idea in my head that Melanie is looking back on all these events and occurrences from a point in time long after the end of The Host and as such, she is remembering the events in a vague, contemplative manner.

Also, as some of you may have noticed, I have already changed the title of this story once (from Body and Soul to In Regards to Myself). However, I find that I am still unsatisfied with the title. I have been rather unsuccesfull in my attempt to create a title that better fits the story, and am now asking you, as the reader, for help. If you have an idea for a new title you can mention it in a review or send me a PM. One more thing, I have thought of one more possible title, which I like, but does not necessarily fit the story: Death Finds Us Breathing. I'd appreciate feedback as to whether it is a viable title nevertheless.

Maggie and Sharon were another story entirely. They were among the first to hear the news of my return. My first impression of our reunion is that of a flame of red hair bobbing rapidly toward me. A gray cloud followed the flame at a slower but no less enthusiastic pace. Then vision disappears in a crush of arms and bodies and disembodied voices. It took me a moment to process the situation.

Maggie and Sharon had caught me up in a tangled hug. I was unable to distinguish which body parts belonged to whom until they withdrew from the embrace some minutes later. I looked into their faces and did not recognize them. After so many months of seeing these faces drawn taut and unforgiving by the harsh lines of anger, hatred, and bitterness, the softer emotion of joy made them unfamiliar and strange.

They welcomed me back with profuse warmth and enthusiasm, exclaiming excitedly. Such an about face in attitude, though not unforeseeable in retrospect, was unnerving.

I didn't know how to react.

"Melanie! It's good to see you again!" Sharon fawned over me. Her hands clasped mine tightly. Maggie echoed her daughter's greetings faithfully. Her wrinkled, bony hand grasped my shoulder with surprising strength. The aging woman might have looked slight, but there was strength yet in her wiry frame. We Stryders were made of tougher stuff.

I made some generic reply, unable to forget how they'd been bent on hating Wanderer. Even when she'd proved herself again and again. Even when she'd risked her life to save Jamie. Even when she'd refused to speak against Kyle, despite the fact that it was clear to everyone that he'd tried to kill her. The two women had clung to their hatred just to spite Wanda.

I looked over their faces, and it occurred to me that I had never been overly fond of Aunt Maggie. My memories of the family reunions are fuzzy but solid. She'd always been a grouchy, strict aunt. Any time I spent the night at her house, I was put to bed promptly at 8:00 pm, even after my parents had long since extended my bedtime to nine. Her house was not very kid friendly-breakables and collectibles crowded almost every flat surface. There was to be no running, no shouting, no 'horseplay'. In general, no fun-at least in the eyes of my nine-year-old self, anyway. The visits to her house were typically dull and uneventful. There were rare occasions when Aunt Maggie would have some great surprise planned out for my stay. Trips to the ice cream parlor, the zoo, the water park. Aunt Maggie was stern, but she'd never been downright mean.

My opinion of Sharon was much higher. Growing up, I idolized Sharon. Because she was an adult, she was automatically awarded a higher status than other cousins who were my age or younger. She was roughly 20 years older than me, though she acted as though she were ten years younger than her age. My favorite cousin from the time I met her, in my eyes, Sharon could do no wrong. My hero-worship only made it that much harder to realize that when all was said and done, she turned out little better than her bitter, unforgiving mother.

Her maturity, coupled with the fact that she epitomized everything I hoped to be when I was her age, instantly bestowed her with a level of regard and esteem that easily forgave or overlooked any and all shortcomings. My visits to Sharon's house were decidedly more enjoyable than to her mother's. She almost always had something fun or interesting planned out for us to do: shopping, spa days, trips to the zoo, mini-golfing, and even Disney Land one time.

Sleepovers at her house were epic. I'd bring over a friend or two if I wished, and the night would be spent watching movies, making popcorn and ice cream sundaes and cookies, doing each other's hair and make-up, making forts, telling scary stories, and staying up as late as we could. As a rule, the first to fall asleep was the target of devious pranks and tricks. And in the morning, despite all the late-night shenanigans, Sharon would be up and making pancakes and bacon for breakfast. She'd make them just the way I liked them: chunks of banana hiding in the batter, topped with whipped cream and extra syrup.

At age nine, I'd placed my image of Sharon on a pedestal. At age 20, I stood looking at the remains of that image. It had fallen from the pedestal at some point, shattering upon the unyielding floor. No trace of those jagged jigsaw pieces remained. The base of the pedestal was surrounded by a gritty powder. Each small piece of the image I had created as a child had been trodden on without remorse, until the pieces had been rendered into this dusty powder. A small breath would blow every trace of it away.

Mother and daughter must have felt each inconsequential word as if it were a separate splinter of ice. Sharon stepped away from me as though she'd been slapped. I did not mention Wanderer or the time I'd spent trapped inside my own head, but the words were weighted with the implications of everything that I'd witnessed during that time. Needless to say, the two of them didn't demand my attention for much longer.

I could imagine what Wanderer would have said. She'd have made some excuse for their inexcusable behavior, used the defense that they were human and she was not, argued that their hate and anger were warranted because she, Wanderer, was in the wrong. Wanderer would have wanted me to be reconciled to my family. But Wanderer wasn't here anymore. What she would have said and done was a moot point.

I had the good fortune of being present when the two women heard the news that Wanderer was still alive. Their expressions hardened and cracked simultaneously. My distaste morphed into disgust and disdain as I watched the all-too-familiar snarls of hate return to their faces. As I looked at them, I saw all the vices and failings of humanity as a whole represented in these two individuals I had the misfortune of calling family. In that moment, I saw why Wanderer and her kind had thought we might not deserve this beautiful planet. I understood, as she had put it, how the souls might have felt that they could 'do better'.

Looking at my aunt and cousin, I had to admit that I didn't completely disagree with them.