NOTE: This chapter is written from Amy's perspective, hence the first person.

I didn't know what happened until my sister and Britta told me. I was shocked, but what shocked me more was how I acted in the first month or so of being resurrected. I had died before and was brought back with no problems—this time around, I could've sworn I was going insane.

I was not me anymore. I was no longer the new girl at Vanilla Pleasures. I was no longer the former school slut whose name you saw written on the back of doors in the girl's room. I was no longer the wicked bitch of L.A. I was no longer narcissistic, conceited, vain, egotistical, whatever the fuck people would call me. I was not me—Amy was dead. I was just someone totally different. I was numb to the world; indifferent, even.

The sad part is that I could not stop myself. I was doomed.

I was completely silent. I had spent a lot of time alone after I was revived for a second time in my life. I had cleaned out the cupboards and fridge of all its contents, eating and binging like no tomorrow. I didn't gain any weight, which was weird, and I had never eaten that much before.

Ever.

No matter how much I ate, I couldn't fill the void that was blackening my soul.

I found the cabinet where Cordelia had locked away all the fine wines she owned when she was here. I poured every drop of them down my throat in an attempt to try feeling something, anything. Every gulp burned me sweetly; one night I just tossed an empty bottle of pinot grigio against the wall. Britta and Clara were shocked to see me screaming at the top of my lungs.

They did all they could for me, especially in the first week and a half. They tried to get me to talk, but I couldn't. I felt like a baby. I never cried so much in my life. Even through the tears and continuous sobs, I couldn't feel shit. Jack shit. No pain, no joy, no sadness—nothing. I kinda wished Clara would just leave me to be dead.

I didn't see any ghosts in the house for the time being. Not Violet. Not Tate. Not Nora. Not Moira. Well, I didn't want to see Tate anyways. He had been responsible for killing me. I knew Clara and Britta were mad at him, too. It wasn't the point that I had been resurrected—it was the point that I was killed due to his actions. I wasn't the same anyways.

I had a yellowish tinge to my skin, especially in the first week of being resurrected by Clara. Thank god for her garden of earthly delights in our backyard. I didn't even want to look in a mirror at myself, not until this weird yellowish tinge went away. Clara gave me this liquid that tasted nasty as shit, but it worked—the yellowing went away, but I still didn't feel any different on the inside. I was just a ghost in a reanimated corpse. My heart was beating, my lungs were bringing air in and out…how could I have been dead, then?

The night before saying my first word before being brought back to life, I grabbed shears and stood in front of the bathroom mirror upstairs. I'm no stylist, but I started to snip at my curls. This was yet another attempt to feel again. As each corkscrew curl fell into the sink and onto the floor by my feet, I felt a strange release. I was really going crazy now, especially when I felt a presence in the doorway. I looked into my reflection; even my eye color wasn't the same. It was a murky, dark blue. I could see my own soul through them. They were frightening, but not as frightening as seeing Britta standing in the doorway behind me.

The old bitch started to lecture me. It was some Swedish shit. I couldn't figure it out. Guess she didn't like seeing me chop my hair off. It was only to my chin. A bit uneven, yeah, but not like a guy.

I couldn't talk, so I just broken down and started sobbing again, collapsing onto the cold, tile floor of the bathroom. I felt some of my severed curls tickling my ass cheeks. Then she stopped yelling at me and leaned down to wrap her arms around me.

I sobbed for hours after that. Hours of emotionless tears shed for nothing except for the fact that I was empty.

The following day, I had woken up late in the morning. It had luckily been a day Clara was not in class with Britta. In fact, they had stopped going to class the entire first month after I was brought back to life. I bet their professor was flunking them. No surprise there. I guess they don't give a shit when you say you have a sick relative that's in need of care. I wasn't sick, though, just fucked up in more ways than one.

They brought me a buttered English muffin and a glass of water that morning—my sister sat with me. For once, she was prettier than me with her long black hair, bright blue eyes, and bright bohemian clothing. She also had been acting strangely, but maybe it was just getting used to me and my behavior.

"Amy?" she asked me. "Are you alright? Did you sleep okay?"

I just kept my eyes on the food, taking the small plate to me as I took huge bites of the English muffin. I swear, I devoured it in two bites. There I go again.

"We have to go food shopping again," the Swede stated. "You keep eating everything."

I heard every word that came from her mouth, but I kept at it, eating my English muffin.

"Amy, you're worrying us," Clara whined, taking my hand. I pulled it away from her. "Please talk to us? Can you try? Please?"

I still had food in my mouth, but I tried to move it to speak. At first, nothing came out as I mouthed words. Britta and Clara looked at me with anticipation as I replied to my sister hoarsely, but clearly.

"I….c-c-can…not…t-t—"

"Oh my god, you're talking!" Clara exclaimed with a smirk. "My power never deprives people of speech. Why did this happen?"

"Maybe you did not focus enough?" Britta asked my sister; then the Swede turned to me with her greenish eyes. "Are you well?"

"I…am okay," I replied, slightly clearer than before.

"Did you see anything on the Other Side?" Clara asked me.

As a matter of fact, I had not. Here's why.

"No," I said. "It was just…uh…darkness."

"Darkness?"

"Yeah."

"Why darkness?" Britta asked.

"T-This house has a hold on the…the dead," I explained. "I…think I was trapped here while dead."

"So…you did not see your aunts, your father, or…Geirdís?" Britta asked, discouraged as she sighed sadly. I just shook my head—I knew what she was talking about because I had seen the Other Side when I first died, but this time, I hadn't seen it.

I swear, it's this house.

And me having my first conversation since being revived was about two weeks after I was brought back. So for the next three weeks, I spent time alone. Lots of time alone.

My sister didn't even want to celebrate her birthday. Bless her, though. She was selfless, especially since her goal was to get me back up and running as though I never snapped my neck.

Yeah, that was my cause of death.

I remember seeing the ghost who killed me, Violet, Clara, Britta and…Michael.

Michael Langdon. I had invited him the night I died so he could meet Tate. I had it all figured out that he and Vivien were his parents. They were both so much alike, so much so that I couldn't figure out who had been nicer. They were both killers and even a little psychopathic. Michael had even told me he loved me; I told him that I didn't feel the same. Flat out. It was still sweet, but I really didn't know what to say at the time. I had lots of sex in high school…I didn't really know what the word "love" meant. Was it the fact that he killed five people to keep them away from me? Was it that he tried to keep a calm outer shell so I wouldn't be antsy? Was it the way he kissed me? I guess I'll never find out. Maybe he was a good person deep, deep down inside, past all the murderous rages and emotionless face.

Maybe he loved me in a different way? Like I said, I couldn't feel a thing when I was brought back, but I couldn't help but think about him.

He was actually the first guy I met when I moved here.

He wasn't on my mind every day, though. We weren't official, if you know what I'm saying.

I did ask Clara if he had stopped by at all while I was dead.

Her answer was very vague: "he laid your body down on the bed. I resurrected you."

I was like, "are you sure? That quick?"

I guess when you're dead, time is non-existent.

Britta and Clara also showed me how to use my powers again. I knew I was a pyrokinetic and a bit of a telepath before I died for a second time, but there was one power I had only used once when I killed that little, ugly-ass monster in the basement. It appeared as a black orb from my hand and I projected it toward him, and it killed him.

Now, summoning a black, deadly orb from my hand didn't really happen anymore.

I found out the official name of the power—necrokinesis.

It was the power to cause immediate death in a living thing.

I had been in the garden with Clara as she was tending to all her floral growths. Then this swarm of butterflies came fluttering over. They were so beautiful, and a lot of them had bright blue wings. Kinda like the same color as my eyes were before I died. I raised my arm to let one land on my finger. However, it didn't stay up. It died within seconds of planting its little legs on my finger. As it fell in my palm, I looked down with such shock that the color returned to my pale face. With my other hand, I touched its wing lightly only to feel that it was dry, brittle, and even broke with a gentle touch. It scared me a bit; the butterfly hadn't hurt me, and it was so beautiful. I didn't want it to die. I hadn't even been thinking about using that power. When Clara came over, she wasn't mad, but she was kinda confused.

"What happened to it?" she asked. I just shrugged, but she held out her hand—I just backed away.

"N-No," I said. "I-It died when it t-touched my hand. I don't w-want you to d-die either."

"What makes you say that?" she asked me. "I won't die. Just hand me the butterfly."

"Clara, I k-killed that little g-gross fucker in the basement with t-this power," I explained. "I died. Remember? I t-think it got worse."

"Fine, then," Clara said; she still held out her hand. "If it helps you sleep at night, just hand me the butterfly without touching my hand, okay?"

So I did. I was careful. Very careful. Clara took the butterfly in her hands and concentrated, healing its wing before releasing it back into the air to fly—she had resurrected it. It was so beautiful when it flew, and its wings were the same color as before.

I was actually jealous for once—Clara was life. I was death.

To avoid killing people or living things by accident, I began to wear these black lace gloves. They were so pretty. They became a part of my everyday life, and I could wear bracelets around the wrist part to make them look prettier.

I didn't really have to wear them around Britta, though. Those golden apples, whatever the fuck was in them, made her immune to my fatal touch. She could hold my hands like a normal person and not die. She was practically immortal.

Bitch wouldn't share her apples.

I actually saw her eating one after I started to speak again. I didn't really know where they came from, but I noticed with each bite, her hair began to glow golden; not like lighting up, but it was shining like crazy. I can't even describe it. Even her eyes looked like sparkling jewels. It was actually quite creepy. She had been in the garden beneath a tree when I found her glowing from the top of her golden hair to the bottom of her feet. I sat in front of her and stared her dead in the eye.

"I want one," I demanded. "I d-don't want to look l-like this anymore."

"I am sorry, but I cannot," she told me. I was so mad.

"Why?" I was clearly irritated.

"Because you will die. You are not suited for these." I was NOT buying that shit. There was NO way I would die. Maybe be immortal, but not die!

"Bullshit," I said. "Gimme one."

Apparently she hated when I spoke my mind—so she telekinetically launched me a couple feet in the air and I landed in a green hedge. It didn't hurt—I couldn't really feel anything.

October was a crazy month in itself—Halloween was at the end of it, and when I had seen Violet again and had an emotional reunion, I learned that it was the only day a spirit could leave the house. They were all trapped in here. No afterlife—nothing. I kinda felt bad.

It was also the month I saw Michael again. I had been sitting on the staircase, chain-smoking with a candelabra lit by my powers. I was wearing the black gloves, which went perfectly with my strapless, raven corset-top dress with a black crinoline skirt and knee-high black boots. I had worn lots of black after I was brought back a second time. I guess all my "slutty" clothes just weren't doing it for me anymore.

Britta had answered the knock on the door kinda in front of me.

When it opened, it were as though he were looking at a ghost—me.

A/N:

So Amy was resurrected, and I added a first-person chapter for the sake of you guys knowing what was going through her head. She's quite different now, isn't she?

I keep getting requests for a Violet x Amy ship ("Aiolet" or "Vamy"). It's a good idea I might consider, and that's a huge if.

FACT: I was inspired by Madison Montgomery's "I Am a Millenial" monologue from AHS: Coven to write this chapter. Of course, this is much longer because, you know, it's a chapter.

Thanks to Lana, MaliceInWonderland23, Weezy815, and Female whovian for ALL of the reviews since the beginning! I love hearing what you guys have to say!

Please leave feedback, and maybe favorite and follow?

Thanks! :3 stay tuned!