He killed her. He killed her, and he doesn't care. He killed her… because she cared…

No matter how hard I tried to stifle the anger that pressed it's cold face against my heart, it's effects only proved to show all the more.

He killed her like she was nothing.

I grinded my knuckles together as I sat against the kitchen cabinets. The thick skin was too hard against the white bone that pushed beneath it too move or contour.

"Michael?" Angela called.

"Over here." I said quietly, as if I hadn't made enough noise to wake the entire state of Louisiana already.

She was tired, but her fear of what she'd heard earlier shown itself right through her exhaustion. Though, the minute she saw me sitting around a small spatter of debris, she was quick to my side. She asked what happened, and what I was sitting in. And I just shrugged.

I was trying my hardest to maintain, and not to cry. But the magnitude, of what I knew, held too much weight and I collapsed under her touch. Like a fragile pile of glass, balancing on a twig. A single movement of her warm tender skin on my cheek was just enough force to toss me to the ground.

"He killed her…" I said weakly. My knees drew themselves up against my chest and tried to border my sadness in. But as with my anger, and my inability to cope, it came tumbling forward, and knocked me back down.

She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

Instead, she pushed my knees aside, scooted close to me, and pulled my head into her arms. Her pale skin always seemed cold at a sight, but was truly, a comforting warm.

I found that as she held me there, everything that had once bottled in my chest seemed to die away. Even as I tried to smother my gasping breaths, and slow my seeping tears, the addiction of the pain seemed to just pull me in.

I thought of when I watched my mother die, right before my seven year old eyes. I remember the red that glinted in the streetlights more than anything. I remember being told that I might die. I remembered tearing Angela away from her mother, and the passing of Nick's Uncle Gary. But most of all, I remembered my father. The undeniable fact that I couldn't protect him; it only made things worse when I tried to repress it. Lashing out didn't help and neither did trying to forget that it had even happened.

I remembered the smell of blood, the scent of death, floundering around the house and sifting through the furniture until it hit my nose. The aroma of lit gunpowder was quick to detect, and with that scent I found myself running. Knocking chairs and other objects from my path, I was in a suspended state of fear. I held my breath all the way into my father's Sun room… and then I saw him.

His face was gone. All that was left was a dripping socket of blood and partial brain matter. The edges of his skull were splintered and jagged, and I couldn't have been in anymore denial as I was before about what had happened. At the time, I told myself it wasn't real. I'd hallucinated before, and I knew how real it looked… but this was real…. And he is dead.

"I'm sorry."

I hadn't even realized that I had been muttering it over and over since I started crying. And as I raised my head from her embrace, I noticed that everyone was around me. Their hands were on my shoulders, and their eyes burned fiercely for me to be okay.

But I looked away from them. I stared only at Alan. And as he sat across from us all, I knew what I had to do.

"We're going to Canada."

"Hello?" She answered groggily. Her tired voice was heavy with regret for having to answering the phone so early in the morning.

"Claire. I need you to come back down to Louisiana." I said quickly. I didn't want to cry over the phone, nor did I want her to worry.

"Michael? Michael, it's two in the morning." She complained.

I ignored her complaint. Looking into the living room, I made sure Alan was out of earshot. I'd told him what had happened, and he was crying even harder than I was. His torso was bent over his legs and he was furiously trying not to scream. The wave of tragedy that rushed under his skin was completely evident as I listened to his emotions.

"Michael?"

"I'm here. I just really need you down here, Claire." I said, trying to break my gaze. "I've got a huge problem, and you may need to bring Derrick and Wilson with you."

"What? Why?" She said, angrily. I could tell she didn't like to be in the dark about things, but she had to be. I didn't want her to do anything until she got here. "Michael, you better tell me why I'm getting dressed, and it better be good."

"I have a brother." I replied. I knew it wasn't good enough, though maybe she'd be too caught off guard to interrogate me any further. "Look, you're just going to have to trust me, okay?"

There was a silence from her, but in the background I could hear her shuffling through her dresser drawers for clothes.

"Okay?" I asked again, trying to keep her on track.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be down late tomorrow though." She snapped.

"Why don't you take a plane?" I asked, ignoring her anger.

"Cause I have a fear of heights."

Another silence, more shuffling.

"Alright, I'm set. I have my keys, and I'm texting the other two. Anything else?" She asked. The way she said it was like she was talking to herself, but when she asked again…

"No, no. That should be good. Just hurry okay?"

"Sure, but you better have dinner ready when I get there!" She warned, making me laugh.

"I'll be sure not to disappoint. Just be safe, but be quick. We've only got a few days."

"For what?"

"Love you, Claire. Bye."