A/N: Oh goodness I dislike this chapter (but at the same time I can't help but love it). I hope you don't hate it as much as I do. By the way, I've added A Guide to the Girls of Dead on my profile, if you can't seem to remember who has red hair and who has green eyes, and so on. I know they all sort of blend together now, but each of them have a distinct role to play in later chapters. Thanks for reading.

Chapter Fifteen: There Are Some Wounds…

Life was different than the way it had been with Al. With this family – and it was, so obviously, a family – that I was staying with, something was always happening, someone was always talking, there was always something that needed to be discussed or done. With Al, nothing had been necessary; there was nothing that really had to be done. It was a striking, but welcome change. One of the worst things about staying there, though, was having to put up with Rebecca's snide hints now and then that she was going "to see Alphonse", which I eventually understood to mean that she was going to sleep with my brother, because of the fact she tended to not come home until the next afternoon. I tried my best to be fine with this – Al's words came back to me, and I told myself I didn't have any right to tell him what he could or could not do. But it was still annoying.

At first, Lillian obviously avoided me; she'd even walk into a room, but if she saw me, she'd turn around and walk right back out. I wanted to talk to her. I needed to talk to her. I think that maybe she knew this too, and the only reason she avoided me was to put off the inevitable.

The chance came in the middle of the next week. It was early morning; usually the girls slept in, except for Irene and Riza, who would always be in the kitchen, making breakfast. Roy would be up by that time too, reading a newspaper before we left and opened the garage. He wore glasses when he read the newspaper. I couldn't recall the Roy from my world ever wearing glasses.

Anyway, I was about to go downstairs, when I noticed that a door at the far end of the corridor was open, and light was spilling out of it. I knew that was Lillian's room. I thought about it for a split second, then strode down the corridor.

Standing in the doorway, I could tell the room was very much like mine. There were no pictures or photographs, though, only a cracked mirror mounted on the wall, which Lillian was looking into, slowly brushing her hair. She saw me in the mirror, but didn't move.

I said, "Lillian-"

"Lily," she said softly. I frowned.

"What?"

"You always used to call me Lily." She set down her brush. When I did not say anything, she shook her hand and touched the mirror in front of her. "This mirror is one of the only things I brought with me." Her finger traced the break. "Do you see this crack?" she asked, so quietly I had to strain to hear her. "I made that crack when this mirror fell out of my hands, more than five years ago. I don't suppose you remember that either."

I shook my head. "I'm not-"

"I know who you're not," she said coolly. "I'm just interested in knowing who you are."

She turned around and looked at me expectantly.

I asked, "When did you leave?"

She sighed. "Your father told me you were dead. Or, he didn't say you were dead – he said Edward was, but then, you're him, aren't you?"
"My name is Edward," I admitted. "But I'm not the man you knew."

She looked confused. "Are you claiming to be someone else? But you look… just like him! I don't understand."

"I'm sorry," I said. "The Edward you knew is dead."

She looked away. I realized there were tears in her eyes.

"If you… are him," she said finally, refusing to look me in the eye. "If you have to pretend you're not the same person for some reason that you can't tell me, then I understand. Even if you were him, at one time, and now can't remember… I still believe there is at least some part of him left in you… so I feel… justified… in saying this."

She looked up, and although her eyes no longer looked wet, there was something about her that conveyed a sort of sadness that nothing could express; such a deep sadness that could not be put into words; tears just weren't enough.

If I hadn't been looking as her lips as she said it, I would not have known what she said. The second after she did, she shook her head and closed the door in my face. I stood there for a few moments, unable to move.

The rest of the day, at the garage, and afterwards, I couldn't concentrate. All I could think about was Lillian's face as she mouthed the three words I had never expected to hear from anyone ever again.

"I love you."

The guilt I had felt earlier seemed to have disappeared. Because, I realized, in all essence, I was the other Edward. We were the same person, only from different worlds.

Or maybe we weren't. It was something I couldn't quite decide. But I guess it boils down to this:

What makes an individual?

Is it just their unique genetic coding? Is it just that they were born with a specific hair and eyes and looks and fingerprints? If you could make a clone of someone, would that clone be the exact same person? Or does it depend on the circumstances?

Could there be two people who were, genetically, completely the same, but, when faced with the same situation, reacted differently? How could that be? Inside, they're just the same person, aren't they?

I suppose being raised differently could have something to do with it. But the other Edward, he must have been raised by the counterpart of my father, and the counterpart of my mother… and when my father crossed the Gate, he replaced the counterpart of himself…

So, technically, we were the same person.

But that means that no one in existence is unique, or individual. Since there are always counterparts for all of us, that means there is always someone else who is exactly like us. So, if one person chooses something, is the counterpart of that person destined to choose the same path? But wouldn't that eliminate the concept of free will, depending on who got to choose first? Or, since they're the same person…

I shook my head, trying not to think. It was all just too confusing. But the same thoughts kept coming back, again and again sneaking into my mind when I least expected it.

"Ed," said Riza one evening, a day after my talk with Lillian. Riza was smiling slightly.

"Yes?" I replied.

She paused and looked at me. "Did you talk to Lillian?"

I was taken aback. "Well…yes. How did you know?"

She smiled, looking thoughtfully at me. "Lillian hasn't told us anything since we picked her off the street. Last night, she talked to Anne for a long time… your name seemed to come up quite a lot."

I shrugged. "She thinks-"

"Thank you," said Riza. "Lillian really needed that from you."

She was still looking at me, with an odd look on her face.

"Is there something else?" I asked.

"Usually I can understand people pretty well," she said slowly. "But I have no idea how you managed to get Lillian to talk. I tried everything in the book, and then some, but that girl refused to talk to me… and then you're here for a week and she's spilling her secrets with no hesitation… why is that?"

"I don't know," I said. "She genuinely thought I was someone else."

"Anne told me that part," replied Riza. "Anyway, Ed, that's all. I'm very grateful, and I think I speak for myself and the rest of the house as well when I say please stay with us as long as you like. We want you here."

I smiled at her. Suddenly, soft music floated into the room. It sounded like a piano. I listened to it for a moment, transfixed. I saw Riza stand up straight.

"Oh, God," murmured Riza, also spellbound by the music. I looked at her. "Winnie hasn't played since Mike died."

She jerked her head toward the door, saying, Go on. I smiled at her and went to the living room, where Winnie was sitting at a piano, moving her fingers over the keys smoothly, like it was second nature to her. Anne and Lillian were sitting next to each other on an old moth-eaten couch. Lillian smiled when she saw me. Anne just looked at the ground. Irene was sitting on an armchair, watching Fiona out of the corner of eye. Fiona was sitting on the floor, a ball of yarn and two knitting needles in her hands. She was trying to figure out how to work them. She wasn't doing so well. Rebecca, who wasn't with Al, for once, was chatting quietly with Shauna, who was nodding enthusiastically at everything she was saying. Margaret, who was listening to Rebecca as well, was shaking her head, as if saying, this is ridiculous.

The music stopped. Winnie asked, "Do you play?"

I shook my head, looking back at her. "Oh, no."

She grinned. "I could teach you."

"I don't think-"

"Come on. Sit down."

About to protest, I silenced myself and sat down.

"Let's start with some simple chords…"

I don't think I paid much attention to what Winnie told me that day. I was savoring the feeling of sitting so close to her, of her hands arranging mine on the keys. She talked quietly, since I was so near, and I forgot everything around me, and nothing else existed in the world, except for the piano, Winnie, and me.

The music was fractured and bumpy, but it was there, despite the pauses when Winnie would instruct me on what to do. The effect was mesmerizing.

What felt like only minutes later, Winnie yawned and said, "It's late."

"What? No it's not," I said, having not quite recovered yet from being so close to her.

She laughed. "It's been hours, Ed."

I frowned and glanced around the room. I hadn't noticed everyone else had left.

"We should be getting to bed," said Winnie. I nodded vaguely.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so."

There was silence for a second as I looked around the room. Then I turned back to her. She met my gaze, and there was a small sly look in her eyes.

Before I could tell what was happening, her lips were on mine, and my heart was pumping, and I could hear my blood in my ears as her arms snaked around my body and my arms, acting out of their own accord, slipped around her waist and then we were on the stairs, stumbling up to the second story, all the while trying to stay locked at the lips. Somehow we ended up in my room; she managed to get the door closed behind us, I don't know how, it was like I was blind to everything except her face, it was like I couldn't feel anything except her body… It was a long while until we were asleep that night.

Hours later, I felt a hand holding mine. I smiled and squeezed the hand. A voice whispered in my ear.

"What about me?" whispered Noa.

I awoke with a start. Winnie lifted her head tiredly. "What is it?" she mumbled.

I stared at the ceiling, my heart pumping even faster than it had been the night before. "Nothing," I replied.

There was a silence between us for a moment. A tense silence, crackling with unseen energy. Then, in a low voice, she said softly, "Tell me about that girl. The one in the photograph."

I turned away so I didn't have to face her. "No," I said.

She put her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder. "Why not?"

Somehow, it was getting harder to breathe. I found myself shaking.

"Ed?" she muttered. "Why not?"

"Because it hurts too much," I said quickly, then closed my eyes, trying to close out all the pain. Despite being the shortest dream I had had in a long while, somehow that one hurt most of all.

She was silent, but I could practically hear her thinking about me. I shut my eyes tighter, but the images in my head didn't go away.

Winnie held me. "Are you sure you don't want to talk?"

"No," I said. "I'm tired. I want to go to sleep."

She loosened her arms a little. "Alright," she said. She paused, then said, "I love you, Ed."

I didn't reply.

The next morning was a Saturday, completing my first week there. It was late morning when I woke up. Winnie wasn't there.

I sat up and buried my face in my hands. I couldn't believe Winnie said that. Just a week ago, I had never expected to hear the words I love you from a woman ever again, and now I had been told it twice – albeit in completely different circumstances…

I didn't really understand why I did what I did. I had always just assumed that I was attracted to her because she was Winry's counterpart in this world. Somewhere inside of me, I still couldn't decide if that was true or not.

When I went downstairs, Winnie was alone in the kitchen. "Hey," I said to her. She smiled stunningly.

"Glad to see you're finally awake."

"Sorry," I said sarcastically, pouring some tea. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh really?" she asked, grinning. "And why was that?"

I kissed her. "You tell me."

She laughed. "Ha-ha, very funny." She paused. "You know I think Becca guessed why you took so long to get up today."

"Well, it is right up her alley," I replied. "Besides, it doesn't matter, as long as it stays her guess." Winnie looked at me guiltily. "You told her?"

"She asked!"

I laughed this time. "It's no problem. Unless… would Roy be okay with…" I trailed off.

She snorted. "Are you kidding me? He's been trying to make you and I happen since he met you."

I smiled. Winnie and I were going to join the others in the living room, but when we were in the hall, there was a loud knock at the door. Winnie started to get it, but Rebecca flew past her and threw the door open. "Hi Al," she said breathlessly.

My brother stood in the doorway. I glanced at Winnie, then went to stand behind Rebecca. "Hello, Al," I said.

"Oh, hello," he replied, avoiding my gaze. "Um, how are you?"

"I'm doing great," I said, nodding. "What about you?"

"Oh, fine, thank you." There was something oddly formal about his voice.

Becca said, "Well, come on Al, we've got to go!"

"Yes, yeah, of course… well, bye, Ed." The door slammed in my face. I stood there for a second, rooted to the spot.

"C'mon," came Winnie's voice, and she tugged on my arm slightly. I shook my head and let her pull me into the living room.

"Where did Rebecca go?" asked Roy, who had been talking to Riza.

"Alphonse was at the door," replied Winnie, rolling her eyes. I was suddenly very aware of her hand holding mine.

"I see," replied Roy, and there was some strange hint of a smile on his face. The conversation in the room resumed as usual, with Shauna looking a little jaded.

Winnie pulled me over to where Anne was sitting with Fiona and Lillian. "Good morning," I said to all of them. Anne mumbled something, Lillian replied with a brisk, "Good morning!" and Fiona hummed a random tune.

Winnie said, "Anne, did you know that Ed's brother is also an artist? He paints." Anne nodded but stayed silent. "Anne draws, but most with charcoal," Winnie told me. "She's really very good."

"Oh, yeah, Al used to use charcoal all the time," I said, getting the hint. "He still draws a lot with it. But mainly he does just stick to painting."

Even as I talked, I could see Anne looking up, just the tiniest bit. Winnie continued.

"Ed has a painting in his room that his brother made. I'm sure he'd love to show it to you sometime."

"Of course," I said. "And I'd like to see some of your work sometime too."

"Now that is a great idea!" said Winnie. "Anne, why don't you show Ed some of your drawings?"

Anne's face was very red. "Oh – I don't know – they're really not any good – I don't think-"

"Alright," said Winnie smoothly. "Another time, then."

Lillian said, "Do you know, I used to know this girl from Liverpool who was so handy with a pen…"

And just like that, Anne seemed to relax a little around me. I could sense improvement on the air.

That evening, Shauna came down to the living room, after being upstairs for nearly an hour and announced, "Helena won't come out of her room. Again."

"Well leave her alone then," said Riza. "I wouldn't open my door either if you were on the other side of it."

Shauna made a face at Riza as the rest of us laughed. "I'm serious. She's been in there since noon. I think she's crying."

Irene got up. "I'll go see what I can do."

Half an hour later, Irene came back empty-handed. "She won't unlock the door," she said. "She wouldn't listen to anything I had to say."

Lillian said, "Ed should talk to her."

Everyone looked at me. "That's not a bad idea," said Roy thoughtfully. "She might talk to you."

"Why would she talk to me?" I asked. "She barely knows me."

"Exactly," said Shauna observantly. "I think you should go up there."

"What? That's crazy," I said, but Winnie pulled me up by the hand and led me upstairs. From the sound of it, Helena was crying her eyes out. "Helena," I called. "Why don't you open the door?"

She sobbed even louder.

"Please?" I asked loudly. No comprehensible reply. "Helena, please, I can help… if you don't open this door, I'll knock it down."

Winnie held onto my arm. "Ed, is that the best way to-"

"One," I said loudly. There was a sound of movement from the room. "Two," I said. "Thr-"

The door opened. A mousy looking girl with dark eyes stood there. She was very short; hear head only came up to about halfway on my chest.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Go away," she said. She tried to close the door, but I stopped her.

"Stop it," I replied, edging my way into the room. "You need to calm down."

"I'm calm," she said blandly. "Now go away."

I managed to get myself into the room. She stood at the closed door. There was nothing decorating the walls or the dresser. There was a small window she had pulled the curtains on.

"Why were you crying?" I asked, examining the window. She didn't say anything. I turned back to face her. Her arms were folded, and she was staring at me stoutly. "Can you tell me?" I asked.

She looked long and hard at me. Finally, she told me, "You know, I do this a lot."

"Do what?"

"Board myself up in my room, crying. After a while, everyone just sort of leaves me alone. You're the only one who's ever actually gotten in."

"That's a good thing, right?" The smile I was hoping for didn't come. I continued, "Why were you crying? What happened?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she said curtly. Her eyes traveled down my arms and rested on my hands. My right hand.

"Oh," I replied dimly. In this light, the arm was so obviously prosthetic. For a moment, I wanted to put my hand behind my back and shake it off, but instead, I held it up to the light. "It's kind of scary, isn't it?" I asked.

"I've seen worse." There was a short silence.

Then, I said, "What's wrong? You don't sound to me like the type of person they all think you are… why were you crying?"

Nothing, for a second. Then she reached out and took my arm. I couldn't feel it as her real, warm fingers trailed across my cold, fake ones.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "No, of course you haven't. I lived there with my family before here. My family was killed there."

She was still holding my hand. I said, "I'm sorry."

"Dear God, don't be," she told me nonchalantly. "I can tell you've suffered through something just as bad."

"How do you know that?" She pointed at my arm. I decided not to push that point. "Are you alright?"

She looked at me oddly. "Do I look alright?" she said.

"Not at all," I replied. "Why were you crying?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she said.

"Helena, please...you can't stay quiet forever."

"Why not?"

"What's wrong?"

"I don't even know you. Why should I tell you anything?" she demanded.

I looked her squarely in the eye. "Please," I said quietly. "Even if it hurts, you need to talk to someone. I can help."

"No you can't," she said, but I could see her slipping. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me. Talk to me."

"I don't want to!"

"You can't keep pretending everything is okay," I said. She looked at me like I was crazy.

"What are you – how can – why do you even care?"

I looked at her seriously. "I guess I'm part of this family now."

For what felt like a long time, there was silence, and neither of us moved. Then she turned around, opened a drawer of the dresser, rifled around in it, and took something out.

"I think you should have this," she muttered, pressing the something into my hands. "So I don't have to use it."

I looked at the thing in my hands. It was a gun. I looked back up at her.

"I believe in heaven," she said. "I want to go to heaven. But sometimes I also want to… sometimes I want to point that at my head and pull the trigger. But then… then I wouldn't go to heaven, would I?"

She shook her head and wiped her eyes. "Get out of here."

"But you need to talk-"

"Later. Go."

I felt like it was time to leave. Nodding, I slowly slipped out of the room. Winnie was leaning against the wall on the other side of the hall, something halfway between bitterness and amusement in her eyes.

"Even if it hurts, you need to talk to someone," she said, parroting my words to Helena. She shook her head. "Hypocrite."

As she walked away, I began to say, "That's different-"

But even has she waved her hand and disappeared downstairs, I started to think that maybe it wasn't so different after all.

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Gah I hate it. Tell me what you think.

(Helena sucks. I hate her. Lillian rocks, and you know it.)