A/N: Ah, the last chapter. I've decided at a compromise. I know what I want as an ending, but that will only leave with more questions than answers and...that makes my brain hurt. So, I've decided with this. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own the fancy, name brands.


I'm not going to kill myself.

No way in fucking hell.

I won't play that game only to have him let go of Sammy, too.

I'm not that goddamn naive.

When he left with his jacket flung over his shoulder, and when a painted smile of accomplishment plastered itself across his face, I was glad to see him go.



Halloween starts off with a bunch of stupid teenagers. Jeepers Creepers is entirely made of up stupid teenagers. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre had only one stupid teenager actually live to see another day. The Ruins was just stupid teenagers in a foreign country.

Every horror story, movie of tragedy and disaster, and slasher film stars stupid teenagers.

I am a stupid teenager.

And I'm going to die because of it.


After Lucifer leaves, I don't go back to sleep. I don't think that I'd be able to if I tried. To slip back into a black oblivion is one of the last things I want to do. Instead, contrary to original belief, I get to work.

I switch on my lamp, quickly bathing my room in a dull, bleary yellow light to get myself dressed. I make my bed, brush my teeth and eat breakfast at the table like I do on Sundays.

**A Fact about My Death**
The last thing I ate before I died was those Cheerios;
I never told my parents that I used the last of the milk.

At five o'clock in the morning, I find myself sitting in the middle of my living room floor, inhaling the pine scent that's infected the carpet from our Christmas tree, watching the sun rise. I can't remember the last time I've seen the sun rise. That silly sailor rhyme tinkers around in my head, and I try to remember if it's pink or orange that I should be worrying about, the deep array of color splattering the horizon above my neighbor's house and dancing across the sparkling snow. The patch of oil slick leaking from underneath the Comanche and down my driveway is a startling rainbow of every hue as the sun's rays hit it, making me realize that the truck's been due for an oil change since I got the thing. The room around me, however, is still an ugly patch of dull gray.

I think it started in the mall. Yes, it definitely started with the mall. I knew from that first moment of seeing him up in the Abercrombie poster that he was trouble; all of those girls flocking around to look at something that wasn't really even him. It was just a big photograph. That candle illusion was a cruel trick that Lucifer planted in my head to test and see if I was worth actually wasting a week with or not. Unconsciously, I passed that test. I suppose that once your heart's involved, you have no chance of passing anything.

Bobby was only interested in the sex that he'll never get, his dim little mind not even caring about how I felt or what I wanted. A very retarded part of me thought that just because a Kenmore fridge is involved and I'm pushed against, the Devil just may have given half a shit. Mistake number two in the book of Jennifer Taylor DiCarlo. Even now, I still can't comprehend exactly why I believed that Lucifer may have cared a slip for me. What a crock.

Thinking over the past week, I cringe inside at all of the dumb spools of bold-faced lies he told that I felt to be true. The gravestone? Yeah, probably just a trick that he pushed into my head again. Lucifer Morningstar. Christ, if anybody's seen with such a name, they'd be stoned to death. His son, his family, his life; all lies. Every single one. Now that I'm actually taking the time to flip through it all, I cannot fathom how I put my trust in him. He told me the very first day that I was wrapped around his pinky finger and that I didn't even know it. Still, I thought that I had the upper hand, I thought that I was the smartest damn thing that this world had ever seen, I thought that he felt something for me. A boner, sure, but that's certainly it.

It makes me feel worse that I'm not the only one, either. I'm one of millions and millions that have been fooled and conned into believing that they were special and deserving. The thing is, I've realized this, and they have not. Sammy has no idea that he was played like a deck of cards with the corners bent to give away the aces.

**A Fact about My Death**
Lucifer was right in saying that my brother would be involved in my death.
Sammy lived.
I wish that I was just as good of a card shark as him.


A lie.

The whole "week" thing?

A lie.

I know this one's bullshit because he told me the other day that the mall set-up was to see if he'd actually try me out before handing me the contract with my signature already on it.

The warm light of the sun hasn't reached the coffee table or the television set yet, and I almost inch forward to bathe myself in the comfort before it dawns on me that I only have to wait a few seconds.

Lucifer's taking out my whole family with one fell swoop, and he knows it. Sammy and I both dying on the same day, but of different reasons. My parents won't be able to take it.

I'm shocked that I don't cry for them, for Sammy, or for myself. This is partly because I did my share of bawling in the wrong person's arms, at the wrong time and in the wrong place.

Why didn't I know?

I should have. God, I know that I should have seen it -- smelled it -- from hundreds of miles away, that terrible deceit. The Devil. C'mon, JT, are you honestly that stupid? I ask the question to myself over and over again, but, in the end, I only get one answer:

Look who's watching the sunrise because she knows it's going to be her last.


Ashley's dad's brows perk in surprise. "JT."

"Hey, Mr. Lawston," I say, awkwardly shoving my hands into my pockets. "Is Ashley around? She hasn't been answering my phone calls or anything."

"She's, uh," he starts, his brows falling back into place, "out."


"Yes. Out."

"At my ex-boyfriend's?"

**A Fact about My Death**
At the wake, that's what Bobby introduced himself as: "The ex."
I don't think I've forgiven him.


I let out a deep breath. "Okay," I say finally. "It'll be easier that way, I guess." His expression suggests that he's completely confused. "Thanks."

Heading out to my truck, I turn around at the last minute. "Oh!" I call out, right before he closes the door. "I always wanted to tell you that you make the best cheeseburgers."

He simply blinks and disappears into his house as I make my way towards Bobby's.


I'm sitting in his driveway, staring at the front porch. I remember that front porch. Lots of things happened on that front porch that would've easily been seen by any yahoo walking by with a big mouth and a glass full of pink lemonade. For some reason, I can't get out of the truck. It's like the door is stuck.

Instead of walking up and knocking on the door, I go home.

I try to write a letter.

I try to write an e-mail.

I try to call and end up hanging up halfway through the first ring.

I can't do it.

Even if I somehow managed to muster up the gall to go up and talk to one of them, I have no idea what I would say. When Ashley called me the other day and tried to apologize, I just shoved it down her throat because I thought that I'd take out whatever Lucifer's prediction had in store for me. I was wrong, and I don't want to admit it. I need to apologize; I need to do something.

Something tells me that I shouldn't apologize. She slept with my boyfriend, for Lord's sake.

**A Fact about My Death**
Bobby let Ashley cry on his shoulder at the funeral.
They were holding hands.

Damn, what a big ass mess.

Now that I'm thinking about the glorious, big ass mess, it all circles right back to me.

Lucifer even told me that he was going to use his charm and good looks against me, but hell no. I just thought that I was, somehow, smarter than him. I didn't even have a plan, but I thought I did.


My parents left Sammy's side for one night, but they couldn't bring themselves to do it much longer. Personally, I don't blame them. If my son was in a coma, I don't think that I'd leave him alone in a dingy hospital that smells like old people and just wait for somebody to flip the switch.

"Oh, sweetie," my mom says when she sees me, rising out of the cheap vinyl chair that I was sitting in when Lucifer popped into Sammy's room yesterday.

She pulls me into a tight hug and a I return the embrace, just letting the homey warmth fold over me. "Hey, Ma," I say into her neck.

After letting me go, she holds me at an arm's length away. "You look very pale, JT, are you all right?"

Oh, I bet I look like hell. "Just worried," I say, my eyes landing on the placid, still form of my little brother underneath the cotton sheets fitted by the nurses paid for by our taxes.

"Your father went to get some coffee. He should be back soon." Her voice sounds hollow.

"The coffee sucks here."

Even still, she gives me a don't-you-dare-swear-little-girl look that makes my mouth quirk into a sloppy smile. "I know." I like how she agrees.

The downy curtains are pulled back from the double paned windows, allowing a sweeping grace of light from the setting sun give the pale room a golden glow. I cross my arms, just listening to life support machines do their job. It's a terrible invention, really. Frankly, I'd just want to pass right on to Hades instead of having a piece of breathing metal pump air into my lungs. That's one thing I wouldn't be able to stand; rotting away as a vegetable. I hope that Sammy doesn't become one.

**A Fact about My Death**
I died thirty minutes after the accident.
I wasn't a vegetable.

A few minutes later, my dad appears with his wonderful coffee. The mere smell of it makes my stomach turn. He sips at it, standing next to my mother at the end of his son's bed, his eyes red-rimmed. His stubble is catching up to him. I really want to go up to him and put my hand on his shoulder or something, but he's too far gone.

"He needs something," I suddenly blurt.

They both look at me. "What?" my mom asks.

"Like..." I shrug. "Flowers. I dunno. It's depressing in here."

"You're right," says my dad as he's staring down into his foam coffee cup, his glasses starting to slide off his nose. "I'll go get them, hon."

Ack, that's not what I meant. "No, no," I say quickly. "I'll get them." I fish my car keys out of my jacket pocket.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, no big deal."

**A Fact about My Death**
Sammy never got his flowers.

I stand next to the wooden bench that's just next to the mulch pile; it's surrounded by a buch of granite blocks that suffices for a semi-flower garden. Slowly, people clamber off the city bus, the sign next to the bench proclaiming that I am, indeed, blocking the cross-walk. Idly, I side step, doing a sort of dance in my shoes as I wait for the bus to move because it's blocking the space that I parked the truck.

I swear to Christ.

When the noisy, smelly bus finally pulls away after dropping off those few ignorant stragglers, I see a man standing on the opposite side of the parking lot, a folded newspaper in hand. He straightens his tie and the cuffs of his pinstripe suit, his red eyes glowing from beneath the brim of his bowler cap.


However, he's more than twenty feet away from me and I figure that if I don't acknowledge his presence, I can keep on walking and he won't even know. I make my way over to the Comanche with a little more bounce in my step that deemed necessary and wrench open the driver's side door, vaulting myself into the seat.

The shift sticks as I yank it into "D", my palms breaking out into a sweat that makes my hand slip on the textured steering wheel when I back out of the space. Looking into my side view mirror, I see him standing completely stationary behind the tailgate of the truck with the printed letters "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear."

Oh, the irony.

There's a squeal of tires, a wail of the horn and complete blackness when I roar out into the freeway, Lucifer's grinning face of pure accomplishment mocking me in the mirror.

**A Final Fact about My Death**
He won.



A/N: You ghost readers, I want a final opinion! I know you're there!