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I couldn't sleep all night. Every time I close my eyes, I see Uncle's face staring back at me, with his glass eyes and stiff features.

And at the very same time, I see my father's crumpled body in his car seat as the black car charges at both him and my mother.

I pull the covers off of my face, gulping in the fresh air. I always fall asleep with the blanket over me, but I can't just stay like that for very long with hyperventilating. It's a wonder I don't die in my sleep from hypoxia.

I mentally berate myself. Why would you joke about that now, of all times? When he... when he's...

I press my comforter firmly against my teary eyes. I constantly feel on the verge of crying, both for my uncle's death and for my parents'. But it almost feels like I have to choose sides. The side of my parents who I hardly remember, or of the man who raised me but murdered my parents?

Argh! I don't want to choose sides! And they're all dead anyway, what does it matter?

Don't lie to yourself; of course it matters. A voice chides in my mind.

Who asked you? I squirm into a sitting position and rest my back against the wall, eyes shut tight and hands clenched into fists in my lap.

I sit there for what feels like hours, until a knock echoes quietly throughout the room. I lean forward. Are they knocking on my door? My vision spins, and I'm standing outside of my room, holding a fist up to the wooden frame. Yep. Once my sight settles, I rise noiselessly to my feet and pad over to the door.

Cracking it open a bit, I peer up at the visitor. Messy caramel hair piled up in a bun, a flowery blouse and a thin cardigan. Tanith. Her eyes look on me with obvious pity, and my mood sours even further, if possible. Nothing aggravates me more than pity.

"You've heard the news?" Her voice rings in my ears, and suddenly I can't speak.

I simply nod my head, and slip back into my room's safety. Sitting down on the floor with my back to the door, I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them tightly. I press my fist to my mouth to hold back a sob, but a small, traitorous whimper escapes, and that's when the floodgates break open. Tears stream relentlessly down my face and dampen the neck of my nightgown. But I don't care.

Today I'm crying for nothing and everything. For all the wasted time and the lack of time and too much time to think all of this through. I don't want to think today. I just want to cry.

-§0§-

It's past noon now, and my tears have long since dried up. I feel numb. I drag myself up to my feet and walk out the door, unseeing, unfeeling. My legs carry me to the unattended west wing of the manor, where no one else dares to go. But the moment I reach one of the empty, dust-covered rooms, I pause. Something feels... off.

I turn around the room, gazing at every dark corner like something might pop out at me. I have a weird urge to leave the room now. So I do.

The hallway leads the way I came or to the right and around the corner. I take the right. When I round the bend, I begin hearing loud cracks and smashes, like the sound of china dishes breaking into thousands of pieces. I find myself walking up to one of the many doors on my left.

I rap my knuckles softly against the splintering wood, and say the first word that comes to mind. "Alastair?" Don't ask me how I know; I just do.

"Alastair, are you in...?" I trail off, momentarily distracted. I thought I saw someone moving in the room over there. Must've been my imagination...

I slowly push the door open, and hold back a gasp. There is a cloud of dust in the air, and shattered tile pieces litter the ground near the bath tub, which is shielded by the shower curtain.

I carefully tread through the war zone and over to the tub, where I pull back the curtain to reveal... Alastair? I almost don't recognize him. Blood coats his hands and seeps from the back of his head onto the wall. It leaves long trails down his nose to his chin, where it then drips onto his legs. I don't have much of a problem with blood, but that much... from one person... now I'm not a doctor, but that doesn't seem okay. Alastair shrinks further into the curve of the tub, as if to hide himself from view.

"Alastair..." It comes out barely above a whisper. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened." His voice shudders as he says it. "I'm fine, just... leave me alone—"

I hold his coat sleeve firmly between my fingers and pull, urging Alastair to his feet, but he resists, tugging back from me. "Come."

At that one word, he stops fighting back and looks up at me. His eyes shine with tears and recognition flashes through them. "You—" Alastair stumbles as he's getting out of the tub, and I grip his shoulder tightly to keep him from tipping over. "How did you find me here?"

I meet his confused look with my even one. "I just had a feeling."

"You look... familiar." What? Does he not remember our talk? "Yesterday—"

I quickly nod my head while helping him further out of the graveyard of tiles. "Yes, you saw me yesterday. We..." I happen to catch my reflection in the mirror. Only, it isn't my face that stares back at me. It's my mother's. Her milky white face with it's auburn hair in a delicate twist at the back of her neck. Her large doe eyes stare accusingly at me. For what, I know not.

I shake my head lightly to ward off the image, but it remains there, as do my eyes. "We were talking, both of us and Tracy Collins. Do you remember Tracy?"

"Yes." Alastair follows my gaze to the mirror. He walks up to it and taps his index finger against the glass several times. "Are your ghost friends in there? Tell them hi for me." He chuckles for a few moments before it shifts into a coughing fit.

I pay his words no mind. Instead, I stalk forward to grasp his hands in mine. I turn the sink's faucet on and run Alastair's hands under the water for a few seconds, until it eventually goes from a dark red to clear again. Then I turn off the tap.

I turn to look at Alastair again and I frown. There are little tile fragments pricking up in his skin. "You should have the doctor look at you."

Alastair looks at the floor and pushes his fists into his jacket pockets. "It's fine."

I trail my eyes over his body, searching for any more signs of damage. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No I'm—" Alastair suddenly jerks towards the sink, throwing his hands out against the counter to catch himself. His back faces me, and suddenly I see just how bad his head really is. A large patch of his hair is stained blood-red and is still dripping with the stuff. The rest that isn't red is pure white from the tile dust and broken shards that cling fondly to his dark hair.

I meet his eyes in the mirror, and I can't stop the look of disapproval. I knew his "problem" was bad, but I didn't know it was that bad. Deep down, I know I'm a hypocrite for hating pity and yet giving it to others. But I shove that thought away and step closer to examine his head further.

"I'm fine." Alastair repeats himself and steps away from me and towards the open door. "I—I have something I need to do, so..."

"Don't." I say sternly to him, but also pleadingly. "Alastair—"

"You don't understand." His voice sounds bright, but also very dark. Is that possible? "I need this."

No, you don't! I can help you, there are people here that want to help you, people that you can trust! You can trust me!

"You're hurting yourself." It carries an air of finality with it. I know that if he goes, I won't force him to stay. Not right now. Not today.

Alastair's eyes grow hard. "You don't know anything." He backs away from the door, stumbling for a second, then finding his feet and bolting. His footsteps echo down the hall.

I turn back to the mirror, trembling, and my mother is gone. Everyone is gone. Why does everyone leave? Why can't I make them stay? Why can't I help them?

I slam my fists against the counter, and I jump back in fright of myself. I'm not a violent person, so this is new for me. Leaning forward, I splash cold water across my face. Not for any reason, really; just because I can.

I wipe my nightgown across my face and realize that I never changed out of it. Oops.

I quickly hurry back through the manor and to my bedroom, hoping that no one else sees me like this, and no one does, thank gosh. I quickly slip out of my nightgown and throw on a long-sleeved black dress that ends just above the knees; today feels like a day for being traditional. I leave my hair hanging down, not feeling like putting in any real effort, and make my way downstairs.

Some of the guests give me quizzical looks and others pay me no mind. Either way, I don't pay any mind.

I walk into the kitchen where cooks are dashing about preparing lunch. With my uncle gone, who pays them? Weird. Not having eaten anything today, I lean forward to grab a muffin from a platter on the counter.

Be careful.

I immediately freeze. When the ghosts care enough to warn me about something, it's usually important.

"What?" I whisper to myself.

Make sure not to unintentionally land yourself a spot next to your family.

What? Who says that?! How inconsiderate, unthoughtful—

Oh. I stare horrified at the muffin in my hand. I snatch my hand back, letting the muffin drop to the counter. What if my uncle was poisoned? He didn't have any physical damage done to him, that I could see. And what way is easier than by poisoning to food? Like, say, this muffin here?

But I need to eat! I can't just not eat!

Well, I did have to learn how to bake in my lessons with Miss Joy. I'm supposed to start cooking this year, but I mastered the art of baked goods late last year. I never made it for dire need, however. I only ever made it for lessons. I'm sure it'll be fine, though.

I need to make something that won't be entirely unhealthy to consume on a daily basis... well, I can make some really good bread. And I can take a few newly-grown fruits and vegetables from Miss Joy's garden! She wouldn't mind, I help her all the time there, anyhow.

I get started preparing the ingredients and prepping the oven. I get some more funny looks over my dress and a few new ones over my baking. Who would have thought that the spoiled rich girl can actually do things herself?

Once I finish mixing together my ingredients and put the bread pan in the oven, I am about to head out, when I stop myself. What if, while I'm gone, someone poisons the bread in the oven? I know, I'm super paranoid, but it could happen! So, I stay there until the baking time is up and I pull the bread out of the burning-hot death trap. And the bread looks warm and crisp and ahhhh... smells amazing.

But now I'm so paranoid that I wait until the bread cools, wrap it up in aluminum foil, and set it in a plastic bag. I sling the bag around my arm before I leave the kitchen for the garden. There are actually two parts to the garden. The first is the greenhouse, where there are rows and rows and rows of plants growing in dedicated spaces. The second part is the outdoor garden, which is much smaller in comparison, but is much cuter, with a little white bench nearby and brick pavers lining the perimeter and walkway.

I walk up to the greenhouse; Miss Joy is much more attached to the crops in the little outdoor garden than to the ones in the greenhouse. There is a small scanner next to the door handle which scans your entire hand, needing all five fingerprints and a live pulse for the door to unlock. There are scanners like that around the house in a few secret areas the guests are allowed in, most of them relating to my Uncle's "business". Most of them allowed Uncle, me, and Miss Joy, a few only allowed Uncle and me, and one door only allowed Uncle. Uncle trusted me with many things, but this was not one of them, I suppose.

I press my hand up to the scanner and wait for it to bleep twice before removing my hand and sliding open the metal door to the greenhouse. All around me are rows of fruits, vegetables, and flowers, arranged according to season. Along the wall on either side of the door are gardening tools and instruments measuring temperature, humidity, and a few I don't understand. The glass walls and ceiling of the greenhouse are bulletproof.

You may ask, why is there a scanner for a greenhouse? Why is there bulletproof glass for a greenhouse?

There are two bunkers on the Victorianesque estate. One of them is only accessible via the basement, and requires my, my Uncle's, or Miss Joy's hand to unlock. And the second is below the greenhouse.

I was never allowed in the bunkers before. It was a place used only in dire emergency. But Uncle isn't with us anymore, and I haven't seen Miss Joy for a few days. There's no one to stop me.

I run over and grab a shovel from the wall to the right of the door. I find the daisies in the second row of flowers, and I dig them up. Daisies were always my favorite flowers.

I set the shovel down and dig further with my hands, until the telltale glint of metal tells me that I got it. I brush the dirt off of the scanner and press my hand palm-down onto the surface, until it bleeps twice. The sound like air leaving a balloon fills the room, and a hatch blending in with the tile floor pops up in the aisle between rows two and three.

Peering over the edge, I see that the steel rungs lead down into darkness. I snatch a headlamp from the wall, click it on, and descend.

The steel feels freezing cold beneath my fingers, and for a frightening second, my right hand slips, and my feet soon follow. Gripping the bar tightly with only one hand, I reach out and latch onto it with the other hand. I settle my feet back onto bars of their own and start down again, only this time, much slower. When I finally reach the bottom, and my feet hit solid ground, I feel my legs shaking. I glance back up, and the light from the greenhouse looks so far away. I gaze around at my surroundings.

The room is a essentially a concrete box. The only thing is see in this near-blackness is a small wooden table and chair set against the wall opposite me. On the table I see, as I draw nearer, is a CD. It is inside a small paper envelope with a plastic film viewing in at the small disc. On the disc are the words My Final Goodbye.

Trembling, I glance around at the room once more. There, nestled in the corner of the room, is a little CD player with a black handle. I grab it and settle it on the table's top before I sink into the chair. I turn the player on and pop the CD in. It whirs for a few short moments before a familiar man's voice fills the room.

"I knew you would come down here. If you truly came in the event of an emergency, I would likely be with you, and would not allow you to listen to this. But I suspect you are here not out of sheer rebellion." The voice pauses. "Gray, I want you to know that I never wanted—no. That's unfair of me to say. I wanted your parents out of the picture. I did. There is no escaping that fact."

I draw in a shuddering breath. Do I really want to hear this?

"I decided all this before I knew you. I didn't realize how... how..." Disappointing I am? How bad of a niece I was?

"How absolutely wonderful you are. You are the light of my life, and I know that may come as a shock to you. I distanced myself from you–not for anything you did! It's because I feel guilty. Guilty for having robbed you of your parents, guilty for having replaced a life of innocence, of peace, with one of fear and solitude. I do not deal with guilt well, and for that, I am truly sorry. I cannot give you the life you deserve, and that haunts me every day."

Salty streams are by now dribbling pathetically off my chin and onto my dress. I hold my head in my hands, and my body quivers.

"If you are listening to this, I am already dead. Perhaps I ought to have led this recording with that? I know not when, nor how, I died. All I know is that I deserved it. I deserve every lick of punishment I get if it, in any way at all, makes up for what I did to you. I have always been so cryptic around you, so secretive. I forced you to be something you aren't when I took you in. I am harsh and unforgiving at times. I am spoiled and petty and demanding."

"But Gray. Never doubt that I love you. Never doubt that."