It was late.

Or, at least, it felt late. I couldn't tell the passage of time from inside of the cell, but the feeling was consuming me. You know, the weird feeling where all of your limbs feel heavy and breathing is a chore, but your mind is running at a thousand miles an hour? That was what I was currently conscious of. My limbs felt paralyzed but in my mind, I was running a marathon (not that I could, at any point in my life, run a marathon).

I stared upward, toward the darkness. Absent-mindedly, I touched the corset part of my dress where it was frayed. When Vlad had stabbed me, my dress had ripped. According to Fenton, Maheen had torn it even more when she came to patch me up. She'd put a bandage over the wound as best as she could but, as Fenton said when he told me the story: "She was so busy being fuckin' sassy with me; I don't know how she managed to put the thing on." Then he'd mimicked her voice and went, "Excuse me, but I'mnota doctor!"

Well, no, she wasn't, but none of us were. She helped me when he couldn't while I was unconscious. If it weren't for Maheen, I wouldn't have the medicine that I did. If it weren't for Maheen, we wouldn't have eaten at all. And, if it weren't for her, I would be slowly and painfully bleeding out with no medicine nor bandages.

Besides, if anyone deserved sass (and more), it was Fenton.

I turned my thoughts away from him. I'd spent days on end with him; he was my only company. At this point, I needed a part of my life that wasn't influenced by Fenton. I actively made myself think of something else, but I couldn't think of any happy thoughts, which was what I desperately needed to do in this dreary cell.

For the most part, I found myself thinking about my mother. Whenever I pictured her, I saw one of three instances.

I was a child, young enough that my mother still picked me up, but old enough that my legs were long around her waist. My head was resting on her shoulder, peering up at her. Her cheekbone was what I predominately saw, though I could see her red lips and the angular line of her nose. One hand reached behind my mother's neck and touched the back of her head, running my fingers along her curls. And, though my mother continued to talk, she leaned her head to the side and rested her head on top of mine. All I could see of her was the round of her ear and the wrinkle in her neck, but the connection I felt was better than any view.

In the hospital, I was coming to. I was despairing that I had lived. All I wanted in that moment was to try and die again, but I opened my eyes. And the first thing I saw was my mother, standing in the corner of my hospital room. She was dressed, as always, impeccably in a pastel skirt suit with impossibly tall heels. Her appearance was disheveled though; she had mascara down her cheeks, her lipstick had completely rubbed off and her hair was escaping its usual up do. That being said, looking back on it now, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I was pulling into the driveway of the house in Amity. I had just arrived after my exhausting trip from New Orleans. It was hot and nearly midnight. I opened my car door at the same time my mother opened the front door. She looked like she always did: her blonde hair was perfectly styled, piled on her head in a classic look; her make-up was perfectly applied (including the red lipstick she'd been wearing since I was a child); and a bright skirt suit, topped off with high heels.

When I thought of my mother, this was what I remembered most. I remembered her warm skin against me; her ears framed with golden hair. I remembered when I saw her disheveled for the first time in my life, the white colour of the hospital room making her lack of vibrancy even more apparent. I remembered her standing in the doorway, yellow artificial light behind her and for the first time I thought the word 'home' with a surge of happiness.

It was hard to think of what she might be like, now that I've disappeared. As strange as it might seem, lying here stabbed and starving as I was, I didn't want her to worry about me. Sure, there was the recording that Vlad had me make. I would've preferred that she thought I was a reckless idiot, running off with a boy that I barely knew, than for her to know the truth of what I looked like right now. My mother is a strong person – excessively so – but even strong people have their limits. I didn't want to be the person who broke my mother.

When I had tried to commit suicide, I didn't have someone who loved me. I had no friends; I was bullied every day. My parents were gone all the time. I didn't have anyone but myself and I wasn't a strong enough person to protect myself. In the aftermath, Mother woke up to it. I know I've said it a thousand times, but she is and always will be the reason I'm alive today.

I wiped a tear from my cheek and, once again, redirected my thoughts. I didn't want to think of Jazz, likely buried by now. I thought of Tucker, whose condition was unknown but, if it was anything like Jazz's had been near the end of her life, he was in a grave condition. My only hope was that if the worst happened to him, Vlad or Elliot would have been down here soon after to taunt me and Danny about it, knowing how much we both cared about him.

Thinking of Elliot made me angrier than thinking of Vlad, oddly enough. Vlad had been the mastermind behind everything; he had been the puppeteer pulling the strings. Yet, it had been Elliot who had been at the forefront, lying to me. If logic dictated my emotions, it would be Vlad I hated the most. Vlad knew my history with Fenton (though I wasn't 100% sure on how he knew all of that) and he used it against me. Vlad sat there and thought about how to accomplish his main goal, while hurting as many people as possible in the process, and then he sent Elliot after me. Despite all of that, it was Elliot who was taking the brunt of my hate. It was Elliot who lied directly to me; it was Elliot who made me think that he was someone else, someone worth it; and then he took it all away.

I clenched my fists and dug my fingernails into my palm to distract myself. Think happy thoughts,I instructed my brain. Happy thoughts.

I pictured a beach. Beaches were always supposed to be hot, sunny, and beautiful; the exact opposite of the cold, dark, dreary cell that I was currently trapped in. No, I thought, you're not in a cell.You're on a beach.I was lying on hot sand, taking in the sun. I was tanning my usually pale body. I was happy to just lie there and listen to the waves crash upon the sand. I needed nothing more in life than to breathe in the salty air.

Suddenly, Valerie Grey rose into my mind. Valerie, who may very well be on a beach of her own in Mexico. Surely, she was happy in the new life she and her father had been forced to create. She was a strong woman; though we hadn't known each other long, I knew that she was. I also knew, as I told her the very last time I saw her that we would have been great friends, if we had been given the opportunity to get to know one another properly.

I relaxed as much as I could onto the stone floor trying not to think of how the cold was biting at my skin or how much my wound was throbbing. All I thought of was Valerie, a beach and friendship.

(-.-)

I woke, scrabbling for my blanket and wondering just when my mattress became so uncomfortable. I went to shift onto my side and pain rocketed through me, bringing reality with it. I wasn't in bed and I didn't have a blanket. Instantly, I wondered what I was using to cover myself with. I blushed before I even opened my eyes, thinking that I had somehow maneuvered my skirts up over my arms and was currently flashing Fenton.

I opened my eyes and found that it wasn't, in fact, the skirt of my dress that was covering me. It was Fenton's suit jacket that had been thrown over my body. I slowly propped myself up against the wall, sliding the jacket from my body. I picked it up my hands and ran my fingers over it; my body heat still seeped into the material.

I looked over at Fenton and stretched my arm out.

He shook his head. "You keep it." He encouraged me.

"Won't you get cold?" I asked him, not wanting to be selfish, but the extra warmth the suit jacket would offer me was so tempting.

"Ice powers," Fenton reminded me gently. "This cell doesn't even feel cold to me."

"You're probably the reason it is cold," I grumbled.

Fenton shrugged, realizing this was likely the truth. "Sorry about that."

I put the suit jacket on properly, pulling it over my arms and trying not to aggravate my wound. I began to button up the jacket. As I did so, I answered him. "It's all right. Just … if you discover fire powers, please put them to use immediately."

"All right, that's a fair deal."

Quiet reigned between us for a moment.

Then: "How long do you think we've been in here?"

I didn't mean to ask, really. The question just slipped out. Last night, my dreams had been filled with beaches and places that I hadn't visited. The memories of the dream-world had me salivating for freedom, aching for it, even. Dreaming of the real world and all the wonders it had left for me to discover was far less agonizing than thinking of all the people out there who I was aching to see again, though they both left me in the state of being. I wanted out of here, and I wanted out of here desperately. And it wasn't just for my own mental and physical health that I wanted out of here, either. I wanted to ease the ache that had come from my disappearance. I wanted Fenton to return to ease the ache of his own loved ones pain.

"Too long," Fenton sighed. "I don't know. I always view time as being much shorter than it actually is. So, if we've been here for a week, in my head it will only feel like two days or something."

I sighed along with him. "I'm the exact opposite. I live life with school-clock syndrome."

Fenton nodded, and then raised his eyebrows at me. "And what is 'school-clock' syndrome, exactly?"

"You know, when you feel like an hour has passed and the class is almost over and then you look at the time and, in reality, you have fifty minutes to go until the end of the class."

"Ah," Fenton made a noise of understanding. "I think every student has suffered from that."

"And teachers. They probably dislike dealing with students as much as students dislike dealing with them."

"Probably," Fenton agreed. "Either way, it was very witty of you."

I smiled, though it was a tiny one. I fiddled with one of the button on his jacket and said, "Well, you must have forgotten how hilarious I am."

"There's nothing about you I've forgotten," Fenton insisted.

I didn't know how to answer him.

Fun fact about me: I graduate high school tomorrow!

I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my betas: Forever Sky.

~TLL~