NOTE: Contains triggering content. Discretion is advised!

Violet had been angry, sad, depressed, full of grief—name any negative emotion, she felt it. She had lost someone who had become a good friend despite her sass and attitude. Amy's death also meant that her soul left her physical body, either as a ghost or a roaming spirit among realms. At that moment, none of it seemed to matter—she was dead, and Tate broke his promise by killing her, accident or not. To Violet, it was no accident if he had intentionally pushed her.

An hour after the incident, Tate had come to Violet as she sat with her back facing the piano on its corresponding bench, her shoulders hunched over as she sobbed quietly to herself.

"Violet?"

The girl's ghost looked at the doorway as she whined softly, still mourning the tragic loss of her friend. Seeing it was Tate, she noticed a stoic expression on his face, emotionless and pale with shame; yet she did not see a stitch of remorse in his dark chocolate eyes.

"Get out!" the girl cried through gritted teeth.

"Violet, I didn't mean to—"

"Amy is dead because of YOU!" the girl screamed, bursting from her seat on the piano bench as her reddened eyes shed tears beyond belief.

"She was screaming at you!" Tate retorted tearfully. "I didn't want her to die! She was my friend, too!"

"Tate! You promised! You promised never to kill anyone ever again! You promised me that you wouldn't hurt any more people!" Violet sobbed. "And to think I was stupid enough to take you back!"

"Violet, I love you!" he proclaimed, moving closer to her. "Please! Forgive me! I didn't mean to kill her! It was an accident! I swear!"

"It isn't an accident when you pushed her the way you did!" his ghostly girlfriend argued harshly.

"I'm sorry! Please!"

"Tell Amy you're sorry! Not me!" Violet screeched. "I have a good mind to make you go away again!"

"N-No! NO!" Tate shouted, pleading with disbelief. The love spell that had brought them back together, in his mind, was supposed to last forever; yet it didn't seem that way.

"Tate! STOP!" Violet screamed, still crying her eyes out as she gripped the sides of her long, straight honey-brown hair. "Please! This is killing me! I've always hated it here, and having you here is worse! Worse than anything!"

"The d-darkness has me, Violet," Tate sobbed. "I could never fully get out of it if I tried."

"You know why?" the girl's ghost tested. "Because you are the darkness!"

"Violet, you're the only light I've ever known!" Tate cried out, starting to sob deeply with remorse, especially after having inadvertently broken his promise. "After I've spent what seemed like an eternity drowning, you taught me how to breathe! Please! Violet! I love you!"

"I…I want you to go away, Tate," she said morosely. "You ruined your chance. Now go."

Tate could not believe his ears—a nervous shake ran through his body as he found himself shaking his head in protest.

"No! D-Don't do this! Not again!" he pleaded sorrowfully. "Please!"

"GO AWAY!" Violet screeched, shutting her eyes as his screaming was the only other thing she heard.

She slowly opened her eyes to see that he had vanished from her line of sight, but the empty feeling she had gotten while alive had returned. The sad part was that Amy had not been there to comfort her and be a friendly ear. Yes, she had been yelling at her before her untimely death, but she still missed her. Violet continued to sob as she put her arms over her chest, shivering with grief as her cries filled the room.

After ten minutes of mourning, Michael had carefully gathered Amy's body up into his arms and made his way up the stairs with her, her broken neck resting in the crook of his arm as Clara and Britta followed him. Once they reached Amy's bedroom, he ceremoniously placed the corpse on the made bed, treating it like a delicate butterfly with fragile, beautiful wings.

Even in death, Amy was beautiful—aside from a morbid pallor, bruising on parts of her body, and her livid neck bent in an abnormal direction, her black eyelashes looked full enough to believe she had just applied mascara, her lips were painted light crimson, and the arches of her defined brows gave her a sleep-like expression. Her deceased form was still dressed in the one-shoulder indigo skater dress, and her legs looked lengthened by the look of black stockings and stiletto ankle boots. The three took in the sight of the corpse, and the two witches continued to cry.

"S-Straighten her neck," Clara commanded sadly. "Please?"

"It's broken," Michael told her. "Trust me, it won't stay like that unless you go in there and fix it."

"Please try?" the dark-haired witch asked. "I'm not asking for much. I…I know I said I couldn't heal her, but…I-I want to try."

"There's nothing you can do," Michael contradicted somberly. "She's dead."

"Ja, there is," Britta said, wiping away her tears with the handkerchief she kept on her person. "We are häxor. She has the power to do so."

"But she's dead. Nothing to heal," Michael repeated.

"She can't lay like that!" Clara whined. "Please, straighten her neck!"

Fine, he thought with a low grunt as he leaned down to adjust her gradually stiffening neck as much as he could. He held the sides of her head, feeling her frail golden curls between his fingers as he gently moved her head to make it look like she had been laying straight. Clara had walked over and put a firm pillow beneath her head, allowing it to stay in place as she adjusted her stiffening arms over the front of her torso. When they turned around, Britta had not been the only one present, crying from their loss—Clara got a glimpse of a tearful, heartbroken Violet standing in the doorway.

"Violet," the witch muttered.

"Is that Amy?" the ghost asked as her voice cracked.

"Yes, yes it is," Clara replied tearfully, lifting a finger to wipe it away as soon as it began to fall.

Violet slowly entered the room, suddenly a tangible figure as Britta placed her small, frail hand on the teenager's shoulder. Just seeing Amy's corpse lying on her bed as though in a deep, peaceful sleep made her whine louder as tears continued to flow rivers down her face. Clara pursed her lips inward as they continued to mourn heavily—on a side note, Clara felt weak and powerless. Resurgence would only cause her to die of her severe injury all over again upon being revived, while her healing powers were not strong enough to heal deep into the dramatic break in her neck. Julie, her long-since deceased aunt, had healing powers that were able to heal Amy's broken ribs the first time she died at age five from a collapsed ceiling in the house fire.

"Amy…" Violet sobbed, kneeling next to the bed and placing her ghostly hand on top of that of the corpse's. "I-I should have just l-left when you asked me to…t-then T-Tate wouldn't have s-shoved you. Y-You were such a bitch, but y-you understood me. I could tell you a-anything and y-you wouldn't judge me. You w-were my friend…"

"Amy…" Clara whined, putting a hand to her brow as she felt a finger tap her shoulder.

"Clara?" It was a deep voice, and she turned around briefly to see it was Michael. "C'mon. I'll take you for a drive."

The dark-haired witch was appalled, as was Britta even though she kept silent and detached.

"Are you nuts?!" Clara asked emphatically. "I just lost my sister! To know I can't revive her or heal her kills me! Are you for real right now?!"

"Trust me," Michael replied somberly. "I know what I'm doing. You can come right home after. I promise you."

"Clara," Violet interjected, wiping the tears from her face. "Y-You should go. Maybe he's right. I'll be with Britta if you go."

"Britta?" Clara asked. "I…don't know if—"

"All things must die, min äskling," the Swede replied sadly. "It is a part of life. I know what it is like. If she is haunting this house with the rest, she will always be with us. If not, she is with those gone before to the Other Side waiting for us to join them."

"This coming from someone who eats golden apples to make her hair glow," the young, raven-haired witch remarked sarcastically as she made her way out of Amy's bedroom and down the stairs. As Michael waved to the ghost and century-old witch to bid them goodbye, he followed Clara to the second story, leaving Britta and Violet with Amy's body.

"We need to cover her," the Swede said. "Something…uh…what's the word?"

"A sheet?" Violet asked in a tearful sob.

"Nei, something…you can see through," Britta replied in a raspy whisper, sniffling as the odor of decomposition mixed with the perfume Amy applied while alive first punched her nose like a fist in flight.

"Britta, she's going to rot," the teenager said. "I can see it now…like, I remember seeing my dead body in the basement. I had bugs crawling in and out of my nose and mouth and—"

"I believe Clara is too afraid," the Swede cut in, her green eyes looking into Violet's honey-colored ones. "She is…fearful of her power. She is afraid to use it. I believe she may be able to revive Amy and fix her neck."

"Revive?"

"Ja."

"As in bring back to life?" Violet asked.

"Ja," Britta said. "Now, where do we get a…see-through fabric? She must be covered until Clara returns."

Clara was sitting in the passenger seat, having stopped crying five minutes into the drive with Michael she agreed to accompany him on. Her blue eyes were beet red with purple, venous pressure marks beneath them as she watched houses and buildings pass them by as they drove. The lights were on in every part of this suburb, but when they reached downtown L.A, lights seemed to be in abundance. The sun had set an hour before—looking at the digital clock on the dashboard, it was just after nine-thirty.

It didn't take her eyes to look over and see Michael taking an occasional glance at her—she just sensed it, the feeling of olive-green eyes drawing themselves to her person as he drove. She kept her eyes down on the skirt of her paisley-patterned dress before turning her head upward and glancing over to see out the window; they had been entering a wooded area. She felt the car stop, and watched Michael turn the gear to a stop.

"Why are we stopped?" the witch asked.

"I want to talk," he replied. "Is that alright?"

"Yeah, but just so you're aware, this ride has done nothing for me," Clara replied tearfully. "Amy is dead, and I can't do anything to bring her back."

Michael stayed silent, ruffling the top of his blond hair as Clara buried her face in her hands.

"She was a pain, but I still loved her. She was my sister," the raven-haired witch sobbed. "She'll never be able to come back."

"You can't bring her back," Michael replied somberly; he was quite expressionless, especially for someone who had witnessed Amy die. "Not even if you tried."

"I did bring her back once," Clara revealed sadly. "I died trying, but it worked. Then our mother had to bring me back to life. I…I remember it now…"

Thirteen years before…

Watching the coroner and his assistant leave, young Clara knew her chance was up—she got out of hiding and looked up at the clock; she could not read time very well even thought the large hand was over the twelve and the small hand on the ten. She felt tears form in her eyes as she gazed upon her dead younger sister. She tried to walk over, but her attention was caught by the majestic beauty of Amy's dead face. Though it was pallid with blood running down the side of her soft, pale pink mouth, her golden curls softly fanned around her head and was still quite neat even after being rustled around in a body bag for some time.

"Amy?" she whispered with a cracking voice. "It's me, Clara. Your sister." She paused, letting a tear shed from one of her large, clear blue eyes. "Aunt Julie told us spirits hang 'round 'fore goin' down to Helheim. I…I hope you're still here."

The silence was enough to make Clara begin to cry as she drew closer to the table upon which her sister's corpse was rested. He leaned forward slightly, holding the pallid hand the coroner had analyzed before leaving.

"You're so cold…cold like Aunt Julie. You need to stay warm. You'll catch a cold. They say they'll put you in a freezer, but you ain't food," the girl wept, gripping her dead sister's hand slightly. "I love you, sissy. I wish ma were here to bring you back, or Aunt E-E-Eleonora? Maybe both of 'em can bring you back."

Now, the putrid smell of decomposition was getting to her nose, but she was more focused on getting her words out and her tears shed. Clara also could not help but gag slightly, letting her cough out away from her sister's frigid corpse. Clara let out a moment's worth of sobbing as she tried to hold her sister's head, looking down and letting her tears fall on the corpse's pallid smoothness. Amy's small head was surprisingly heavy, and the girl closed her eyes.

"Amy…A-Amy…"

Her chest felt heavy, and she struggled to take a deep breath.

"A…Am…."

She felt her heart begin to slow down, fighting to pump liters of blood through her veins.

"W…wh…uh…huh….ah….huh…."

Heavier breathing; her final thought came to mind.

What is happening to me? Clara's eyes suddenly felt heavy.

THUD!

"I…didn't remember much other than waking up in my mother's lap on the floor," Clara explained. "That was when I realized I could revive the dead."

Michael had a distant look in his eyes, listening to every word of her childhood recollection—yes, he had somewhat believed that Amy was a witch along with Clara and Britta because he had witnessed them put their powers to use, but the idea of bringing someone back to life seemed far-fetched. How could it have been possible? Or was it that he was so used to the normal course of death that he disregarded its truth in total?

When she felt one of his hands placed on her upper back only for it to turn into his arm around her shoulder, she glanced over at him with a startled stare in her blue eyes.

"I loved Amy," the young man confessed. "Maybe a little too much, if anything."

"Michael, I hate to burst your bubble, but Amy didn't love anyone," Clara revealed. "I'm not saying that t-to be rude, but she used and dumped guys left and right. I mean, maybe there was a time where she did love someone, like her first boyfriend, but other than that I—"

"You're not telling me anything new," Michael interrupted with a disappointed tone. "She told me she didn't love me."

"When?"

"Last night, actually." Clara just looked at him sadly, biting her lower lip and sighing.

"I-I'm sorry," the witch told him.

"I didn't feel anything," the young man said as their eyes met briefly.

"When people say that, it is never true," the witch contradicted. "You were hurt."

"No, I wasn't," Michael stated with eerie calmness. "I don't feel anything. Half the time, I'm empty and emotionless, full of pride for no reason."

Clara took a sigh and looked down, thinking of Amy—seeing her dead body bothered her so much that she finally spoke up to the young man and asked for what she wanted.

"Michael…c-can you take me home?"

He just looked at her sternly, yet his face was emotionless.

"Why?"

"B-Because I want to try and do what I was going to do," Clara explained. "Please?"

"No." There was the eerie calmness again.

"Michael, I have to go back home," the witch repeated more tenaciously. "Please take me home."

"No."

Clara took it upon herself to open the car door, stepping out and walking away from the car. However, as she did so, she heard rapid footsteps behind her. Listening to her instinct to run, Clara felt nervous and frightfully anxious even as her attempt to run failed—she was forced onto the ground, and before she could let out a scream, she felt a sharp slap move across her face along with the sound of deep male grunting.

"HELP!" she screeched.

"Stay still!" The male voice sounded familiar—Clara knew it was Michael she was struggling against as she felt him pin her down roughly against damp soil. In a wooded area, it was isolated with no one to lend a hand in getting Michael off her.

"STOP! STOP IT!" the witch screeched.

Resisting Clara's struggling and screaming, Michael reached down to undo his pants, taking his member out of his pants as he roughly pulled the paisley dress up to expose her pink cotton panties. Without hesitation, he reached his fingers down to gently stroke her from the outside, at which Clara gasped and whimpered with tears coming from her eyes.

"Stop…stop!" she begged.

"You're quieter," Michael noticed, continuing upward to massage her small bundle of nerves. "You like it."

"N-No!" she cried out. "Stop! No!"

As soon as he felt a sign of warmth between her legs, he pulled the thin crotch of fabric aside and pinned her down further as he slid himself into her. As soon as it moved past the entrance, Clara screamed out in pain and sobbed with fear—she had never had sex before.

"AH! OW!" she yelped. "S-STOP!"

"You mean to tell me you're a virgin?" Michael asked insincerely. "Geez, had I known…"

"Get off me! STOP!" the witch shouted tearfully. "Please! Stop it!"

Every thrust had been painful up until a certain point—every scream, cry and whimper of pain had been ignored by Michael as he pumped slowly but with force. Strangely enough, she felt herself quieting down to the faint sensations of tingling in her loins, stifling a moan as she sniffled. Michael did not feel any remorse, but to make her think he was, he leaned down and kissed from her cheek to the outer corner of her eye, taking his time with each.

"Ah…"

"Sh, it's okay," Michael said. "It's not that bad."

"No….no…" she muttered tearfully. "Let me go…i-it hurts…"

Then she felt his bare finger rubbing the little nub just above her entrance, and her face contorted into a grimace that quickly became a moan of pleasure—how could she have liked something like this? Here he was, raping her after she had just lost her sister, and she was feeling pleasure from it. Was she in her right mind?

"Ah…s-stop! Ah! Oh…ye- no!"

"What was that?" he asked. "Was that a 'yes?'"

"No! No!" Clara denied, feeling him thrusting in and out of her slower than he had been. "I-It wasn't!"

"I heard you say 'yeah'," Michael smirked. "You like it, don't you?"

"Ye- I mean, no! No! I don't! Take it out! Please! Ah!" Clara whimpered, holding in a moan as the tip of his spear of flesh rocked against a certain area that felt too good in combination with him rubbing her clit.

"AH!" she yelped.

"There we go," he said. "I knew you'd like it…"

Michael tried to keep from having a climax too soon, and the least he could do was to make it pleasurable for Clara. He found his hands releasing her wrists, no longer pinning her to the damp, grassy earth as they moved to his clothed shoulders. With soft grunts and moans, the young, sinister man pumped in and out, rocking his hips until he felt the walls of her sheath convulse around him. She was indeed enjoying herself—had she been in her right mind?

"M-Michael….I…ah…no…no…" Clara moaned with guilt at the ecstasy from the one who had torn her flower away.

He climaxed within moments of first seeing her toss her head back gently, and as he unloaded his white-hot eruption inside her, she finally pushed him away. He had already pulled out, seeing her virgin blood glistening on his shaft like a sword used to kill brutally. Leaning down to kiss her pale neck softly, he sighed.

"I'll take you home," he said, helping her to her feet.

Have I lost my mind, she thought as she went back into the car and readjusted her appearance, I was just raped only to enjoy it. Why? Am I sick?

Britta had noticed that Clara's dress was dirty when she returned home—she tried to question her, but the young witch had not answered. In her mind, if she was raped and liked it, then it wasn't rape at all. She was, without a doubt, guilty for feeling that way, but knowing of Britta's history of such a happening in her past, that was another reason to keep her mouth shut.

They had gone upstairs to where Michael placed Amy's corpse before he left with Clara and for the night. Violet had been gone for an hour from the room, leaving them to their own devices as the two witches looked down at the body. She was still freshly dead, but the odor of decomposition began to consume the air around them. It was not, however, strong enough to make them gag uncontrollably. Britta had unveiled the body and looked to the raven-haired witch.

"Try," she commanded.

"That's…why I came home," Clara replied, still shaken up from what Michael did. "To try. Please hold her head straight?"

The Swede sat just above Amy's head on the bed, looking down to see that the pallor had become almost spongy in appearance. Her small hands straightened the broken neck out as Clara gathered her thoughts and rubbed her palms together, placing her hands at the curled sides of her dead sister's blonde head as she concentrated. She managed to focus on the memory of reviving her as a five year-old in the morgue years before, and within five minutes, Britta gasped to see Amy's eyes widening, noticing them to be fish-like, dead, and staring off into space eerily.

"Look," the Swede directed.

As Clara opened her eyes, she saw the livid pallor consume Amy's face, but the look in her eyes was very different than when she had been alive previously—they were dull, almost the color of slate with hints of blue still in them. They actually looked more like glass eyes than human ones, but perhaps Amy had been in a lot of pain with the broken neck.

"Amy, hold on," Clara said tearfully, gathering her thoughts again as she wrapped her hands around her revived sister's neck in a firm manual chokehold, concentrating extra hard to get the healing deep where it needed to be. As a green light healed within the affected area, Clara took her hands away and felt somewhat dizzy even though the sight of her powers manifesting was a relief.

When Amy suddenly jolted upright only to breathe heavily and uncontrollably, Britta and Clara were both startled. Her raven-haired sister took her forearms and shook them gently, feeling the pulse from a heartbeat rushing through her vivified veins as she saw her sister sobbing uncontrollably, letting out loud whines as the other two witches held her.

"It's okay," Clara sighed. "You're alive again."

"Min äskling," Britta said, stroking her great-granddaughter's golden curls. "You are back in this world now."

Little did they know they were being watched—the figure of Tate watched in awe in the open doorway the moment Amy jolted upwards and back to life.

A/N:

This was a heavily intense chapter, so sorry about anything triggering. I did put a warning for a reason.

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