Today is June 17. I hope I don't short out the computer with my tears; I hope I can finish this story. Annie has been in the hospital for two weeks now. She's been looking horrible. She lost weight, her sight was going, and she was hardly responsive. She died today. The woman I love died today.

I am sitting here, on her bed, wishing my kitten was curled up in my lap again. I feel so empty, no longer comforted by her warmth. I am in Hell.

Logan's still at the hospital. He refuses to let go of the hand of his daughter. I've never seen him cry. According to Jean, he was still crying, hours after I left.

Dena is in shambles. Annie means so much to her. The little tyke is lying beside me, holding Annie's pillow to her face to smell her scent. She's even wearing Annie's favorite shorts, though they swallow her whole. She's devastated that her sister left her, just as she found her.

Scott and the others are just finding out about everything that has been happening since March. Scott feels like an ass. Good. He should. He, more than anyone else, made her last few months Hell.

Jean is trying to be the strong one, but we know she can't. Her telepathy must be driving her insane, the same goes for Professor X. I really don't know how they are still sane. There is so much sadness and despair in this house.

I have to tell Al and Weasel tomorrow. That's going to be even harder. She was so close to Weasel, and Al loved her like a granddaughter. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I miss her so fucking much.

I hear someone downstairs; Tony just arrived. His face is soaked with tears, as is Captain America's, who stands behind him. Does Rogers know that she died for him? Did he know that he was the only reason that this 17-year-old had to die? Does he know that she gave her life gladly to bring him back? He better save the world or he disgraces her. Annie thought he was worthy; worthy of her life. I am going to make it a point to not give him much trouble. I'll let him do his good-guy hero act, and not get in the way. Annie would want that.

He never even got to meet the woman who saved him.

Everything I type is in present tense. I refuse to write in past tense. That would be like admitting to myself that she's gone. I can't do that; not yet. I have to hold on to that one little spec of hope that there's been some mistake, and she'll walk through the door and yell "Gotcha!"

I look over to her desk. My dead lilies are still sitting in a vase on her desk. I am breaking down. I can't handle this.

This is the end of Annie's story. She's done. She's really gone. I miss her. I love her. She is truly an American; she is a martyr for this country. The worst thing is; no one will ever know what she did. That makes me want to shoot myself in the head.