This chap mentions suicide,so read with caution, por favor. And, to make up for last chapter, this one's long and juicy (pause.)

Sprawls of darkened grey swirled across the sky, billowing from the west in the threat of another bout of dreary showers. Grey barbed wire surrounded the building of yellow brick warn with age and grime, towering above the brown streaks that dyed its green fields. Black letters spelled 'Dimmsdale Juvenile Detention Center' within an illuminous white sign stationed a ways away from the building's entrance, and within the room with walls empty of color and full of government funded medical equipment and stiff cots atop metal frames, two of its newest inmates sat stuck as the infirmary's newest patients.

The swirly designs in Bradley's cornrows were now disheveled and untamed from the fight that had broken out after a minor disagreement that had escalated into a major altercation in the cafeteria. Hunched with one bent knee on his cot, a black patch covered his left eye bludgeoned shut, the left side of his swollen face bashed with multiple bruises that had swelled into one patchy welt. While his face was not the only thing bruised, Bradley's battered ego winced in phantom pains beside his best friend who was unresponsive in his own cot. Black kinky curls equally ruffled with contusions riddled across his face, a thin blue sheet of the cot stopped just above the bloodied gauge wrapped around LeRoi's chest. Bandaging the slashes and deep cuts of spiteful vengeance gouged from a prison-made shank.

It didn't take the Fairy Council's intervention for Bradley and LeRoi to poke the wrong bear. Particularly boys nearly a whole foot taller, three years their senior, and who were serving sentences for more horrendous crimes than assault and battery. Ignoring these facts, Bradley and LeRoi thought it a good idea at the time to poke fun at these boys. Simply because they were the type to keep to themselves, and the former 8th graders had greatly misjudged the older teens as easy targets.

As they say, beware of the quiet ones.

One of the older teens had knocked Bradley to the ground like a strike of lightening knocking down a Sequoia in a forest. His rapid-fire fists had struck Bradley so hard in the face that the orbital in his left eye was crushed to a squishy, bloody pulp. The older teen's friend, having a shank made with a strip of sharp metal taped to the end of a toothbrush hidden in his jumper, skipped throwing hands and jumped straight to weaponized attacks. While his friend used Bradley's face as a glorified punching bag, he himself had shoved LeRoi to the ground, and his shank made mincemeat of LeRoi's chest before he could even think to defend himself. Even before security guards could tear the two sets of boys apart.

In another section of town stood a dungy building molded out of grey concrete, famously (or infamously) known as Dimmsdale Correctional Facility. Within the concrete walls of the male ward's infirmary, a redhaired man lay comatose in a cot. Medical personnel had to constantly tend to the injuries sustained to the entirety of Jim Byrne's torso, as well as along the length of both of his forearms. No matter how much gauged they wrapped to control the bleeding, the white wraps would be soaked red within minutes.

The unrelenting blood loss had slipped the Jehovah's Witness into a coma, reaching the point where other medical personnel were discussing with security guards on whether this qualified him to be transferred to Dimmsdale Hospital for more intensive care. He was lucky enough that two guards had found him coated in crimson, slumped next to two other inmates known as Butch and Hartman. Because had he not been when he had, he would have joined the nearly decapitated body that had been found crumpled in his own pool of blood.

With the mortuary van parked out by the back hall of the correctional facility, guards looked on as paramedics began to zip the plastic body bag. Securing the body drained of the color already absent from his pale skin aside from the dried crimson splattered across the width of his thick neck, connecting his head to the rest of his body by a slither of skin. Unmoving, stiff. Lifeless.

Frank Abrahams was consumed by the blue plastic once the zipper reached the stopper before paramedics unlocked the gurney's wheels to him out through the double doors that two other guards held open. Death on prison grounds was, unfortunately, not an uncommon phenomenon. Even suicides on prison grounds were not uncommon. What was uncommon, however, was the nature of Frank's death. His overly macho, almost smug demeanor did not strike prison officials as the type to take himself out, let alone make sure he went out by nearly decapitating himself.

If that wasn't mysterious enough, their sole witnesses, Butch and Hartman, had zero recollection of events once they'd come to. This too was baffling because the cameras seemed to skip a particular section of time despite working properly, and not a guard on the field nor any other prisoners remembered seeing anything out of the ordinary. So, when it came to filing the reports of two minor loss of consciousness, one with critical injuries, and one explicit death, the warden was just as stumped as his prison staff.

As the woman's ward received their daily dinner trays of goop just above edible, guards stood stationed in every corner of the lilac bricks and mauve concrete floor. One of the newest inmates, dressed in her orange jumpsuit, hunched with solemn eyes to her untouched tray as isolated as a prisoner would be in an enclosed cafeteria full of other criminals outnumbering the guards. Her black ear-length bob once combed in perfect strands now stringy with anxious perspiration as tears blurred pink eyes, fogging the glass of her black circular rims.

In the twenty years of marriage, this was the first Nicky Byrne had been separated from her husband. That and, growing up, she'd only heard of other kids getting a spanking or getting punished for wrongdoings. She'd never experienced getting into trouble herself, not even for slipping grades. To land herself in jail? For two counts of child abuse?! Nicky never thought she'd see the day.

Carrying her own tray of unappetizing grub, another inmate traveled through the cafeteria. Shoulder length strands of jet-black hair swooped over a face of pale skin and yale-blue eyes puffed with bags full of sleepless nights. Marissa DeLisle was no stranger to jail, thanks to a record full of violating DUI probation hearings. She knew how to avoid becoming a harassment target for other inmates while staying under the guards' delinquent radar.

She had to snicker to herself; between the passage of time trapped in a jail cell and the lack of alcoholic anesthesia to drown her senses, Marissa had come to realize just how fucking toxic Frank was. And yet somehow, the two outlaws had been a match made in crooked Hell.

Scanning the indoor picnic tables for a place to sit, Marissa slowed upon the sight of Byrne all alone like some pathetic slab of raw meat just waiting for ravenous lions to devour. The only thing she knew about Byrne (aside from what she'd assumed was her last name since she'd only heard guards address her as such) was that she was in the clinker for not necessarily initiating child abuse, but negating it.

What a coinky-dink; Marissa was in the slammer for the same thing. Or, at least, that's what she told herself.

Byrne didn't seem to talk to anyone, speaking only when spoken to (strange for someone whose sole purpose is pioneering or whatever.) She kept to the back of lines, the corners of walls. Kept to herself in her shared cell, the cell she happened to share with Marissa. Marissa had half a mind to leave Byrne to be pathetic all by herself. However, judging how weak and helpless Byrne looked, something compelled her to at least prevent someone attacking her or something. Then Marissa would get stuck with another roommate she knew little and/or cared about. Something she'd personally rather avoid since she was going to be stuck in this dump for longer than a couple years...

Nicky shuddered with a small flinch when her cellmate took the one of many empty seats in front of her, yanking her out of an altered reality.

"Tsk…" Marissa grumbled from Byrne's less-than-stellar expression to see her. Not that she honestly cared. "I know I look like a gremlin, but cha don't hafta rub it in…"

"O-Oh, u-um…" Nicky's mousy voice stammered. She was to remain separate from 'the world' to avoid Satan's moral corruption, meaning contact with non-Witnesses was to be avoided or, if it cannot be helped, kept at a minimum. Nevertheless, it was rude to ignore the person that you're forced to share tight spaces with, and without her husband or literally anyone from the congregation around, there was no one to reprimand her otherwise. Besides, she didn't see herself becoming 'buddy-buddy' with DeLisle. She didn't need to know too much about her background to see 'corruption' written all over her.

"…I-I'm sorry-"

"I'm joking." Marissa stated matter-of-factly, making Nicky slouch further. "And get it together."

Nicky's eyes fluttered in misunderstanding. "I-I'm sorry?"

"Showing any weakness'll get cha ass killed." Marissa starkly advised, using her plastic spoon to scoop a spoonful of…whatever the fuck was on this tray. "That shit'll attract bitches like flies to light. Understand?"

Goodness, such a foul mouth…Nicky kept her opinion to herself, mustering the courage to looking further than the fellow inmate in front of her. Spotting the strange, almost vulturous stares from other clusters of inmates, fixed in her very direction. She gasped a shudder, darting her eyes back to the tray before her.

It's just for a year…Nicky squeezed her eyes, clasping her hands in what Marissa assumed was a praying position. Just one year…

Swarms of police cars and ambulance vans flashed red and blue lights, reflecting off the dark overcast of grey skies. City officials surrounded the property of carbon-copy affluence within the polished community of Dimmsdale Acres. For the normally mundane gated community, the blaring sirens had drawn nosy neighbors from minding their own business in their homes. Gathered around as bystanders to the unconscious nanny being wheeled out on a gurney by two EMTs while a third EMT squeezed oxygen through a mask, acting as the nanny's makeshift lungs as they hurried to the ambulance.

A 9-1-1 call from the distress of a little girl had dispatched paramedics and the police force to the Wells residence. Fenwick Nicholas had been discovered first in a teenage boy's room, unresponsive and bleeding from both ends of his nether regions. The little girl had very little to go on considering she too had found him in this state before frantically calling 9-1-1, and the police would have to question the nanny once his condition was stable. Even in his critical condition, the nanny still had a fighting chance…

The same could not be said for the teenage boy…

"My babyyyyy!" Angela Wells wailed out, giving little thought to how her appearance could be perceived as unappealing for the first time in her life as another pair of EMTs wheeled out the smaller body covered head to toe in a white blanket. The grieving mother threw herself onto the body, doubling over in pained sobs, before her husband had to pry her off so that the EMTs could do their job.

Marcus Wells wrestled with Angela flailing about in his grasp, yelling through grit teeth for her to get it together. There were people watching, specifically people that knew their lineage well enough to cast judgement. This was not the time to throw composure out the window. Meanwhile, their sole surviving daughter, still dressed in her soaked and dirtied private school uniform, stood off to the side with silent tears streaking her cheeks. Barely containing the crashing waves of heartache with the tightness of a quivering lip as her brother's body was loaded into the back of the van.

Hillary Wells had come home from Brightsburg Academy, just like any other day. Sure, her brother had stayed home sick, and her parents' adopted child was still missing, but to Hillary, it was still just like any other day…until it wasn't.

She'd read her tween magazine in the back of the family limo, and once the driver had opened the door for her, she'd opened the front door with her house key. Just like any other day. She'd announced her arrival once she shut the door, knowing her parents weren't home because they were still at their marketing firm. Just like any other day. Receiving no response back, she'd walked up the stairs to escape into her room. Just like any other day…

Then, she walked past her brother's room, and what she found mentally scarred her.

Fenwick groaned in and out of consciousness, unclothed from the waist down. Bleeding in places she never wanted to see on a grown adult ever again. When her eyes could tear themselves away from the gruesome sight of her nanny to realize that Anthony was nowhere to be found in his own room, Hillary's first instinct was to cry out for him. She didn't know what else to do; this was so out of the ordinary.

Dashing down the hall, her steps had slowed at the sight of water seeping from beneath the closed door to one of the hallway baths. Not just any water…red water. She cried out again, calling for her brother. When no response had come, she barged the door open…and she froze.

Rivers of red water led her gawking gaze to the overflowing bathtub. His Gucci pajamas clung to his skin like glue, skin that appeared far more ghostly than just being under the weather. He was slumped, nearly submerged in the water, before Hillary's feet forced her to move, to hurry to him. She shook him as hard as she could, yet his eyes never opened. And then, she noticed the bloodied razor wading in the river of red water, before she reached for his arm that had an open slit with no more blood to drain, reaching from the top of his wrist to the inside of his elbow.

Panicked, she grabbed at his other arm only to find the same lengthy gash, and when she'd taken a closer look at the ghostly paleness in his sunken eyes, the crack in her heart's hardened shell struggled to accept reality staring her in the face.

It had already been too late for Anthony Wells…her only brother.

. . . . . .

Black smoke swirled from the red flames that had yet to die down along the vast field once vibrantly green now a deathly brown. Flames that charred the scraps of metal to where the signature "B" crest was almost unrecognizable. As detectives and the police force discussed the whereabouts of the missing pilot and what could have possibly caused this tragedy, bloodied sheets covered what remained of three bodies.

For one of the mangled bodies, they could make out the burnt bits of a flight attendant's uniform. And while the other two were practically reduced to burned bones, the scraps of expensive clothing and frayed strands of blonde hair gave clues to the city officials as to who they were…

They never thought they'd see the day that Diana and Orville Remy Buxaplenty IV would perish in the ghastliest way imaginable.

Farther out in the outskirts of Mount Dimmsdale, two more bodies were placed side by side. White blankets covered what little remained of their decency, shielding their mangled remains from the witnesses that already had the displeasure of discovering them. Two hunters had been out hunting when they heard a large crash. Unsure of what the crash could have been in the middle of the woods, they weren't sure whether to investigate until they'd heard a woman call for a man named "Daran." Concluding that the crash must have come from someone potentially driving off the mountainous road, they soon heard a man cry out for a woman named "Susanne."

It was then that they'd tried to head in that direction, using the cries as their compass. Dashing through the infinite trees at speeds they never knew they could reach. The closer they came, the more the cries faded. When the cries could no longer be heard, the hunters had assumed they were too late. Luckily, they were already close enough to see the owners of those voices…

Or, in this case, unluckily.

The woman was bleeding from her mouth, crushed beneath a totaled station wagon, while the man was yards away with unnaturally bent limbs. One of the hunters had told the other to go back to find a strong enough signal to contact emergency services. Directing emergency services to their exact location wasn't the easiest feat; police cruisers were too wide to easily maneuver through the narrow path of the trees, and the ambulance vans were forced to stay at the location of where black skid marks stopped at the edge of the road and led to the branches snapped in half below.

AirMed had to be called in, sending a helicopter in that could barely reach the location of the man and woman deep in the woods. Once emergency services could assess the scene and had found ID sprawled along with various personal belongings, they had come to a tragic conclusion...

They had identified the bodies of Daran and Susanne Turner.

Beneath the high-bay fluorescents lining the polystyrene squares above, the wildlife conservationist cradled his face in his palms. Hunched with despair in a chair as medical personnel passed him as if he were just another chair against the emerald walls. Clark Carmichael had never expected to receive a call that the woman who was still his legal wife had been involved in an accident that could only be rationalized as misjudgment and a slip in precaution. Could a tiger chomping down on his wife's neck even be rationalized as misjudgment? Because from what the zoo and city officials had described, it sounded more like straight carelessness to him.

Ignoring every speed limit in the city in his rush to Dimmsdale Hospital, Connie Carmichael had already been taken for emergency surgery by the time he'd arrived. When doctors had briefed him on her condition, her chances of survival seemed grim. Doctors had assured that they would do everything within their power to save her, and there was nothing left…but to wait.

Waiting. A task so simple, yet the hardest thing he ever had to do. Waiting felt far more agonizing than hearing the awful news itself; he couldn't go in the operating room with her, he couldn't hold her hand. He couldn't tell her that everything will be alright, because that would be a lie. He wasn't sure that everything would be alright, no matter if he actually wanted it to be true. He was powerless, left to rely on the fateful hands of modern medicine.

As if that wasn't enough of a bombshell, he'd received a call from Principal Waxelplax that his daughter had been marked absent. Impossible; Chloe knew better than to miss school. Did she take the bus and just…didn't go to school? Or did she leave to take the bus and just…didn't? Why would she do that? She'd just been grounded and served after-school detention for skipping, which, was already so unlike her…

…unless the divorce was taking on a larger tole than she let on.

In that case, then this shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Ever since Connie had shouted at her the way she did and had flushed Chloe's Lexapro down the toilet, Chloe's behavior had been off. She'd completely shut down, like someone had flipped a switch in her personality. Add getting caught in the middle of a nasty divorce on top of that, and you have a recipe for acting out.

Clark groaned in his palms, fingers reaching to scratch at the sides of his frazzled sideburns. This was so much to deal with at once…he…he can't handle this.

"…Mr. Carmichael?"

Glossy blue snapped from his palms at the green-eyed brunette's gentle approach, a tag pinned to the chest of his turquoise medical scrubs that read "Dr. Mick Wingert." Bouffant cap securing most of his hair as he lowered the facemask to underneath his broad chin. Clark took one glance at the weary remorse in Dr. Wingert's frown before his teary eyes began to contort in his face. Attempting (and failing) to stop the dam in his wounded heart from breaking as Dr. Wingert started his bad news with a weighted exhale.

"…we did everything we could for your wife, sir, but…" he didn't have the heart to finish his sentence as Clark doubled over, spiraling into audible sobs muffled by his hands. It was evident that Clark already knew the tragic outcome, and in expressing his professional sympathy, Dr. Wingert lowered what he hoped was a comforting hand to Clark's shoulder.

"…I'm deeply sorry, Mr. Carmichael." Dr. Wingert sighed before he removed his hand to give the new widower a moment to process. "I'll be right back…"

Leaving to report the exact cause of death, Clark could not contain the crush of his grief. Succumbing to the suffocating sadness that chipped away at the shield against his sorrow. His last encounter with her, the last words to her, were laced with the spite of his broken heart. In spite of their qualms, in spite of their bickering…he had still loved her with his whole heart.

He would never wish this type of ill upon her. Not even to his worst enemy.

. . . . . .

"Today, January 15th 2003, has been nothing short of a heartbreaking day for the city of Dimmsdale." News reporter, Chet Ubetcha, began the broadcast of the evening news on a somber note. "From four more children of Dimmsdale that might too have gone missing, to the violent disputes within our city jails. To the unexplainable tragic events that has claimed the lives of many…"

Curly hair and bushy brows silver with old age, the elderly mother felt her tattered heart break the longer she witnessed the news reporter clear his throat on the mounted tv screen, doing his best to keep his swells of hopelessness in check. Indeed, today had been nothing short of heartbreaking.

Regardless of the numerous calamities reported, nothing was more heartbreaking than the last four days of personal torment.

Seated in a stiff chair surrounded by the emerald walls and cyan tiles of the ICU, Dolores-Day Crocker turned dejected eyes away from the screen. Resaddened by the multiple IVs that prodded through the veins of her only son's frail arms. Wires protruded from the collar of his hospital gown, hooking him to a heart monitor. Supported by a band laced around his head, a clear cylindrical tube was lodged in his throat, attached to a railroad track of tubes hooked to a ventilator with an oxygen level display across the screen.

Dolores reached for Denzel Crocker's lifeless hand, caressing the bone of his chilly fingers. Pushing down threatening tears with a shaky sniff as the drone of the heart monitor beeped steadily, indicating subtle signs of the life that she could no longer feel in him. Nothing could have prepared her for a mother's worst nightmare.

A nightmare that had become her karmic reality…

Traveling up the stairs towards her son's room, her maternal instincts sensed something off for what felt like the first time. Last night, she had peered through the window looking out into the backyard. Finding him burying his green parakeet and pink galah in what appeared to be two shoe boxes. She didn't need the despondent shakes in his shoulders and the wet streaks down his sunken cheeks to tell her how much those birds were his world. And now, that world was completely destroyed.

When he'd tossed the last pile of dirt onto the shoe boxes, she saw the instant switch in his aura. His gaze had grown distant, lost in a melancholic reverie. As if his spirit had descended into a dark labyrinth from which there was no escape. She had tried to talk to him when he'd returned to the house, though she herself wasn't sure of what to say. He didn't look at her, yet she could see that something had broken inside of him. His cold shoulder trudged past her and up the stairs. Shutting himself off into his room without dinner.

It was not unordinary for Denzel to coop himself into his room, but she found herself greatly concerned for his wellbeing. For one, it was now half past ten in the morning. Even in his teenage years, Denzel never slept in this late. For another, she could usually hear when he'd step out of his room to at least use the bathroom. The house was loud with a deathly silence, and it chilled nerves through her veins.

Dolores reached his room and gave two knocks upon his door, figuring she might make things worse if she used the battering ram off the bat. "Denzel, are you hungry? I can make us something for breakfast."

No response.

"…Denzel?" her heart began to hammer in her chest. "Are you up?"

Dead silence.

She thought to check the doorknob, finding that the door was locked from the inside. It also was not unordinary for Denzel to lock himself inside his room. This time, something about it churned the troubling pit of her stomach.

"Denzel!?" she knocked again, louder than the last. "Open the door, please!"

Still nothing. Time for drastic measures.

Trekking across the hall to the coat closet, she retrieved her battering ram from its resting place. "I've respected your privacy by knocking, but now I have to assert my authority as your mother by coming in anyway! Don't say I didn't warn you!"

The door burst with a bang, revealing a darkened room that appeared as if it'd been in the middle of a warzone. Wrinkled hunter-green bedsheets straggled in a thrashed heap. A hand-drawn map of some imaginary world and posters of stars and crowns, now ripped to ragged shreds along olive-green walls. Disorganized papers of endless research lay in scattered piles across the planks of the floor, metal and cardboard crates tousled as if they'd been thrown. Cracks webbed through the PC monitor near specks of glass, crumpled near a toppled wooden side-table.

"…Denzel, honey? W-Where are you?"

Her hammering heart was now pounding, setting the battering ram near the doorway as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Unless she was a heavier sleeper than she thought, she couldn't remember hearing any commotion after he'd locked himself in his room last night.

Scanning the room, the tingling chills through her veins soon crawled up her spine. A pungent odor seared the hairs in her nostrils the further she crept into the room, and when she took one small step to her left, her heart came deathly close to stopping.

Slouched in the darkest corner of the room…was Denzel. Slumped against the wall, pale lips dripping yellow bile onto his black tie, enlarging the pool that had already stained the torso of his white shirt. Ragged breaths strained against her chest when she spotted an emptied pill bottle cradled in his lifeless palm, crushing her ribs until her breaths escaped in a scream.

"DENZEL!"

Rushing to her son, her frantic shakes to his shoulders could not wake him. Giving little thought to the sight of vomit, she propped his head back and leaned a listening ear to his lax lips. She then pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, and horror broadened in her eyes as all sense of time froze to a halt.

He wasn't breathing, and she could feel no pulse.

"Denzel, please! Open your eyes!" her motherly instincts took full control, cradling her son against her bosom. Rocking back and forth in grief-stricken cries. "Don't do this, Denzel! Don't do this!"

Wretched wails erupted from the depths of her being, uncontrollable and raw. Sobs that scratched the back of her throat, burned aching throbs in her chest. No, please. Not her son. Anyone but her son. Admittedly, she could be selfish. Stubborn, even. She and Denzel bumped heads because of this, more often than not, and any mentions of past grievances always led to present bickering matches. Still, Denzel was her son. If she had been a better mother, then…

So consumed by her emotional turmoil, Dolores failed to notice the magic of steel-blue sparkles glittering around her son. Steel-blue sparkles enveloped the corpse in her arms, breathing new life into his dead heart. Color washed the paleness out of his skin before the glitters vanished as his eyes bulged in a long gulp of breath. She gasped, catching a glimpse of Denzel's dilated pupils until his eyes rolled back into wilted lids, and she pressed back a sob with a palm to her trembling lips as his breaths rasped through parted lips, gurgling in the faint rise and fall in his once rigid chest…

A droplet of her deepest regret fell onto the back of his hand, watching his lifeless body breathe through a monitor. After the miracle of Denzel starting to breathe again, Dolores had willed herself to leave him in the fetch for a phone. 9-1-1 operators had to calm her down before they could walk her through the procedure of CPR to keep Denzel clinging to life until paramedics could arrive.

Medical professionals could not explain what had brought Denzel back, surprised that he'd come back at all. A ventilator had to become the strength that his weakened lungs lacked. Thankfully, there was still brain activity. More than you'd expect from a man who had met death in the face. However, with no changes in his vitals over the last four days, medical professionals were uncertain if Denzel would ever be more than a living vegetable.

On Dolores' behalf, the hospital had to contact Principal Waxelplax to inform of the teacher's status. With the air of uncertainty hanging over them, they had come to the conclusion that Denzel would likely be out of commission for the rest of the school year. If, by some miracle, Denzel was to awaken from his coma, who was to say that he would be in the state of mind to educate? Who in their right state of mind would willingly ingest an entire bottle's worth of medication to the point of stomach pumping?

Despite his reputation as the crazy fairy-obsessed teacher, this attempt had pushed him far beyond 'being crazy.'

Dolores whimpered, pressing a palm to her lip as she choked back a sob. How large of a role had she played? Was she the biggest cause of his downfall? Squeezing his hand into hers, the wounds in her heart needed him to come back to her…

Little did she know, Denzel did not want to come back…

. . . . . .

Orange gold stretched far and wide across the horizon of saline waters, arches of rumbling sea-foam gently brushing against the sandy shore. Carrying his socks and shoes with two fingers with his other hand tucked in the pocket of his black slacks, Mr. Crocker strolled along the feathery grains of Dimmsdale Beach. Quiet in his strides, Mr. Crocker was not alone. A green parrot perched on his left shoulder with a pink parrot on his right, eyeing the man lost in his thoughts.

"…do you wanna talk now, Denzel?" his pink parrot croaked to break the stretch of silence.

Though he slowed to face the vibrancy of the fiery sunset beyond the blue waves of low tide, Mr. Crocker saw the world through a muted and colorless lens. "Cosmo…" he turned to the green parrot, then turned to the one feathered in pink. "Wanda…" his voice quivered, each word a fragile whimper trembling with the weight of unspoken gloom "…I'm sorry."

Cosmo cocked his head as if confused. "Why're you sorry?"

Regret fell in Mr. Crocker's features. "I'm sorry for lying that I was happy and that I didn't need you anymore…" his chin lowered, the waves now brushing against his toes. "I'm sorry for giving up on you…"

Giving the deserted beach a quick scan, the parrots transformed into their true forms within a teal cloud of magic. A matching pair of yellow shades rested on the bridge of their noses, foreheads tied with blue headbands. Necks adorned in a choker of blue, feet bare beneath blue bell-bottoms.

"Oh, no, Denzel, we understand why you did what you did." Wanda solemnly expressed, fuchsia strands parted down the middle just above the shoulders of her yellow crop top. "We would never hold that against you."

"You were one of the rare godkids to sacrifice your own happiness, just to save us from Vic." Cosmo added, shamrock-green locks tied in a low pony with a black vest over his bare chest. "If anything, you should find that as admirable as we do."

Fixed eyes to the waves before him, Mr. Crocker faintly frowned. It was getting harder to see past the tears clouding his eyes.

"Sweetie, we love you." Wanda stressed tenderly.

"We'll always love you. No matter what." Cosmo shared in his wife's sentiment.

Mr. Crocker lifted his glasses with one scrubbing palm to the gloss in his eyes, unable to resist the swells of agonizing heartache rocking in his shoulders. His jaw trembled as a single tear traced a path down his cheek "…I-I love you too…"

Wanda's heart ached for their former godson, seeing his heart break all over again. "Oh, Denzel…"

Cosmo and Wanda sandwiched him within the loving embrace of their undying affection, and Mr. Crocker clung to them as if he had aged backwards to the suffering of a miserable ten-year-old boy. Never wanting to let them go, ever again...

Through a magic portal secluded within the dark walls of his office, the Commander of Fairies folded his arms, watching the heartfelt scene unfold. Peering into the comatose dream of the elementary school teacher, dreams projected by the latent memories revived by magic.

Admittedly, Jorgen Von Strangle could have left Mr. Crocker alone to end his own existence in peace. Beyond using the magic wiper on him again, he had nothing more to do with him; the Council had wanted to take measures in preventing the inevitability of Mr. Crocker's suspicions for the absences of the Council rounding up the remaining Dimmsdale godchildren. Still, a slither in Jorgen's heart felt that Denzel Crocker did not fully deserve to go out in such a pathetic way. So, Jorgen had gone behind the backs of the Fairy Council, gone against Da Rules that he was trained to enforce.

He had used magic to bring Mr. Crocker back from the grips of death, and in the process, his magic had awakened memories that Mr. Crocker did not consciously know he still possessed. The memory wiper is a powerful tool used to eradicate one's memories. That said, every strength has its weaknesses.

The memory wiper could not fully deplete the huge memory bank of the subconscious mind; the subconscious mind's endless capacity permanently stores every single thing that happens in someone's life, even events that the conscious mind forgets. It's the strongest influence of one's behavior and motivations, hence why Mr. Crocker always had a strange connection to anything pink and green. You could even say that this also explain why Mr. Crocker had developed such a strong bond with his green and pink birds, going as far as to give them the names 'Carlos and Wilma.'

Jorgen had been given his task from the Council before he ever expected Mr. Crocker to watch Carlos and Wilma take their last breaths; however, Jorgen had a feeling that the loss of his birds was not the only straw to break the camel's back. Cosmo and Wanda had become much more than just Denzel Crockers godparents; they had become a part of him. When he'd lost them, it was like he'd lost himself. In a symbolically twisted way, losing his birds was like a repeat of losing his godparents. Something that had never seemed fair to Jorgen. Something that, I guess you could say, Jorgen pitied Mr. Crocker for.

As far as Jorgen could tell, the Council Members were not aware that he had revived Mr. Crocker and unlocked his repressed memories. At the same time, he couldn't help but worry how long he could go without getting caught.

Sawing logs in his top bunk, Irving lay sprawled partially covered by his white sheet. Swizzle grumbled in her sleep with a pillow pressed over her ears, facing Nyekundu peacefully nestled close to her in their shared queen. Tucked beneath their queen-sized sheets, Wanda's head slumbered against her husband's chest, lulled by Cosmo's soft snores as he cuddled her. In the top bunk next to the married couple, Juandissimo rolled over onto his stomach in his sleep, and in the queen below him, Rose slept undisturbed on her side despite the light setting sun seeping through the glass window, casting her skin in a warm glow.

Covered in the bed's sheet beside Rose with knees draw to her chest, Susie sat wide awake. Irving and Cosmo's snores droning into background noise from the restless thoughts denying her of sleep's reprieve. Thoughts of earlier argument between Rose and Swizzle that she didn't have to get involved in but had inserted herself anyway. An argument that'd led to the emotional exchange between herself and the man that reminded her so much of her late husband.

Blinking back tears, she observed the fairy with his eyes closed, resting on his side in the bed below Irving's bunk. After she'd run away from him, she had kept her interactions with him to a minimum. A difficult task within the restrictions of their current living conditions. At least, she'd assumed these would be their living conditions. Didn't seem like any of them were going back home or would be returning to their godchildren anytime soon…

Having long since given up on sleeping, Susie pulled back the sheets, carefully rising from the bed. Hovering over Cosmo and Wanda's snuggled forms before she grabbed the latch, slowly pushing the glass door apart. She paused at the loud snort that then went quiet, glancing over her shoulder towards Irving's bed. Worried that she'd made too much noise until the restart of his steady snores gave her confirmation to part the door enough for one fairy to exit.

Unaware of the icy-blue orbs that had opened before he'd even heard the latch unlock.

Taking her time, Susie shut the glass door behind her before she floated further out onto the terrace. Arms wrapped around herself as somber indigo looked up at the sun that never seemed to set, a pang of grief bringing back the tears that she quickly blinked away. Just when she thought she'd moved on, powering through the day without a shed of a single tear, all it took was that one little reminder. The reminder of losing the only man she ever loved. And the huge chunk in her heart that had died along with him.

The back of her palm scrubbed away the tear that managed to escape. No matter her efforts, it had always been a struggle to give her heart to another man. Alewandro, the first man to teach her what true love is, had promised that he would never leave her, but he'd been gunned down by that maniac, and she couldn't save her first and only love…

Staring out at the fluffy sea of pink clouds, another thought came to mind. Something she had not done since becoming Chloe's fairy godmother. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, a shimmering pool of sadness left unspoken.

Alewandro…Susie spoke in her mind, the only place she felt safe expressing the real pain inside. After all this time…after thousands of years…I-I still miss you…

Her head lowered, hearing the sound of his voice that still lingered as a distant echo in her mind. Picturing his heartwarming smile, the image of him she had not dare forgotten.

…guess it goes to show…that you don't ever get over the loss. You just learn to live without them.

Years of repressed grief pricked the corner of her somber stare, trailing past her chin …I just smile and laugh through it but…it's been so hard…living without you. So fucking hard…

The weight of her loss streaked her cheeks, pressing down on her shoulders like an unyielding burden. Please…give me some kind of sign. Something to show me that you never left… indigo gazed towards the setting sun …that you're still with me…

Almost as if on cue, the open and shut of the glass door spun her around in a short, shuddered breath. Seeing Alondro's hesitant float out onto the terrace, locking eyes with those familiar icy-blue orbs. Eyes that sagged as if they too had barely slept, yet filled with unrelenting remorse.

Embarrassment whirled herself away from him, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her arm. Attempting to hide tears already seen. Fuck, he wasn't supposed to see her like this. No one was supposed to see her like thi-

An audible gasp squeaked at the firm touch of a hand on her shoulder, spinning her around to face the stare that pierced through her heart, straight into the depths of her soul. Given no time to resist when his tender palm cupped the wetness of her cheek, and the warmth of his lips captured hers.

Alondro didn't know what in the gods name had possessed him to do this, and considering how he had yelled at her earlier, he didn't know why Susie hadn't slapped him off of her. He could excuse this brash impulse as a heartfelt apology. He had just met Susie, and she had just met him, and yet, something inside, deep inside, just had to kiss her. Had to taste the sweetness of those full lips that sparked the faintest memory of a past love…which was literally impossible.

He had been young and dumb once; prior romantic relations with women had never developed past situationships. The concept of 'love' was not a huge part of his upbringing, and when he'd gotten his godparenting license, he'd poured all of what he thought of love into his career. Alondro had never 'loved' another woman; his heart never had the capacity to do so.

At least…he didn't think so.

Susie's wide eyes didn't know what to make of this impromptu gesture, and considering how blank her mind was, she didn't know why his lips barely broke from hers before he planted another one.

All she could do was give into him as her eyelids fluttered close.