Note: I have no idea if We are Legion is an actual band. But, for the purpose of this one shot thing, they are completely fictional.

Entry #1 [Scars]. Meet and Greets.

September. 1998. 11:37 PM.

I live next to a rockstar. Which is probably a strange way to start a diary. . . But, I don't really know what to write in this. I'm not exactly an interesting person. Besides, you probably don't want to know about me. I don't even want to know about me. Yeah. It's all pretty boring here. Honest.

While I try this thing, though. . . I guess, you can call me Scarlett.

Anyways, my rockstar. His name is Allen. Maybe you know him. Maybe you don't. Not yet. But, someday. . .everyone will know him. He sings in this group, We are Legion. You must know about them, right? I mean, they do have an album out. It's pretty heavy listening. . .but, it's awesome. Dark, catchy hooks. Thick lyrics that will make your brains spin. Also, melting drum beats that you can bang out like crazy on tabletops. Or, desktops. I do it a lot during class to pass the time.

I even caught their music video last week on television. It was their new single, Paper Dolls. I haven't seen Allen in a while. Months, maybe. Watching him on screen like that was kinda shocking. His hair is blue, now. All long and stringy and totally not what I remember.

It probably shouldn't have been that surpising, I guess. He's got his own things going on these days. I don't really expect him to visit. Not anymore. It's not like we're all that close, either. He's in his twenties. I'm only twelve. He has tour dates. I have homework. But, I like to think that we might be. . . I don't know. Friends might be pushing it, since he was actually my babysitter about six years ago. . .

We are something, though. Whatever it is.

When he has a spare moment in the area, we still talk. Sometimes. He's a midnight kinda guy, so I gotta stay up late to catch him near the lakeside out back. He likes it there. It's empty. . .quiet. It helps him think, I remember him saying. He likes writing beneath the trees.

I'm watching those same trees, now. Wide trunks. Green leaves. Maybe the chill is settling in my hands and making it a pain to write, but I won't close the window. Silvery moonlight shines on the water below, calm and smooth like glass. Maybe the lake helps me think, too.

Maybe the lake. . .makes me miss him more. Which is silly, but I can't help it. He's grown, moving on. I'm still me. I'm. . .

I'm still here.

[1.] Paper Hearts.

She sits on the dock, shoes skimming over the water. Past the silent trees, the skies are bleeding hazy reddish into twilight as the sun sinks lower. She has a book in her hands, something about insects. Next to her is a small glass with a couple stray leaves and twigs inside. You give a closer look. . .and something on the leaves will wiggle its irridescent wings.

She calls him Brock. He's the only one still alive, which is okay. Once he dies, he'll go into the collection with all the others. Which is probably a little strange. Because, most kids like trading cards or barbie dolls or video games. While she does like video games, as resting on her other side is a Gameboy Color, she likes bottle caps more than cards and dolls. Bugs even more than those. She also likes the stars, too.

Watching space is almost like being there. She wishes that she was, sometimes. Out there in the darkness, exploring the universe. It's probably so much better than being stuck down here.

She turns another page in her book, trying to see in the dusk. . .trying to ignore the shouts and laughter across the lake. Her hands grip the pages tighter, but all she can hear is that thumping music. All she can smell is smoke and grilling burgers. It makes her stomach hurt.

Dad is still in the labs at home. . . He'll probably skip dinner again. He does that a lot when he has those big experiments going. It seems like she hasn't seem him, spent time with him, in weeks. He gets so busy, sometimes. . . She wonders whether or not he even remembers her when he works. She misses him.

Sighing, she closes her book. Her gaze strays back across the water, the large house with the white trim, the bright lights. All the vehicles spilling out on the lawn. She sees the balcony door slide open and squints, trying to see him through the shadows. It might be him. . .or it might not be. He is there, though. Somewhere.

Allen came home yesterday. She was in her room, playing her Gameboy, when she saw that glinting black car pull into the garage through the window. It was amazing. Literally, she almost burst with excitement. Her heart was slamming against her chest as she ran towards the stairs, then flew out the side door with no socks on. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? It didn't matter. He was back, now.

But, when she walking over, hearing doors slam and voices. . . His voice. . . Something wasn't right. She saw him stumbling up the pavement with his hands all over this punk chick, his expression stupidly happpy. She saw them go up the steps together, tripping, giggling. Completely drunk. He shut the door, not noticing her, then. . . Well, nothing. He stays inside and throws a party the next night.

She watches the people with her stomach twisting. It hurts a little bit more as she stands up, scowling. Who cares? He'll be gone again soon, anyways. Probably won't even stop in to say goodbye. It's not like she waits up every night, hoping that he might call or write a letter or whatever. It's not like she listens to his album on repeat or jots his lyrics across her ceiling. It's not like that at all.

Anger burns through her. She rubs at her stinging eyes, then reaches down and hurls the closest thing she has into the lake with all her furious strength. Her pulse thrums with smoke as nights comes down. She sees the insect book tipping through the gentle water. . .

No. No, what has she done? She chokes back a startling noise, something like a broken laugh, while the worn text moves away. Idiot! That book. . . Dad gave her that book. She takes it everywhere with her. She has to get it back. Without thinking, she kicks her shoes aside, then dives into the cold.

She probably should have thought a little bit. But, the book is almost gone. She can't let it escape as she paddles. . .paddles. . .clothes heavy with water, slowing her down, as it tips beneath her desperate splashes. It seems like hours have gone. Her limbs scream in exhaustion, stretching. . .almost there. . . Her hands graze the slick cover, but her head dunks under.

Everything is black and bright with stars. She gasps, ice in her lungs, crystalizing down her throat as she breathes in water. It happens so quickly. In seconds, she is choking down air again, spitting and heaving and beginning to panic as her arms scrabble towards. . .anything. Anything at all to grab on to.

Oh, she doesn't want to drown. Please, she doesn't want to die! She tries to scream, tries to get their attention on that balcony. Does anyone see her? Does anyone hear her? Does anyone. . ? Anyone, please? She begins to cry as her strength gives out. It burns. Everything burns.

She struggles weakly, but the splashes are growing louder. What is that? She thinks that she hears someone. . .

". . .hold on, honey! I'm coming-"

His hands grab her arm as she slips under again. Warmth. Strength. He pulls her onto his back and she clings to him in daze. Minutes. . . Years. . . He starts slowing down through the water, too. She hears him yelling some more, while the shore isn't getting any closer.

"Hang on, Scars." He slurs. "You're gonna be okay. . ." His head dips down and his whole body spasms underneath her.

More hands. More people. Where are they? Someone is trying to take her away. She tries to push them back, reaching towards Allen with wheezing sobs as he gradually sinks.

"No, no, no!" She rasps, with her tears hot and bitter on her lips. "Don't let him go, don't let him go!" She wails. "ALLEN!"

Reddish lights. Bluish lights. People are everywhere. Someone hauls her onto the grass and drapes a thick, dark blanket across her shoulders. She barely even notices. Paramedics are asking her questions. She barely notices that, either. Her wide, bloodshot gaze is on the water. He can't be. . . He can't. . .

Others eventually manage to drag out a pale, motionless body. She trips over the lawn when she tries to get up, her pulse sluggish, her breathing heavy with terror.

"Hey." Someone holds her arm, but she kicks them back.

"Let GO!" She growls, wrenching away. Expressions sway, moving past her in strange, slow motions. She notices the punk chick that he was with yesterday, aruging with some policeman and pointing in her direction. She looks angry.

But, Scarlett doesn't care. All she cares about is Allen. Parmedics are pushing on his chest, hooking tubes into his mouth. She hovers behind them with ashen cheeks and tears dripping down her chin. Please, wake up. Please. Why did she have to go do something like that? Why? He has to wake up, so she can tell him that she is so, so sorry. . .

Suddenly, he begins to shake. Gagging, the paramedics turn him onto his side, and he throws up water by the buckets. "S-Scars-?" He attempts to choke out, twitching violently.

She isn't thinking this time, either. She throws her body against his and buries them both inside her blanket, sobbing into his bare chest.

"I'm sorry." She whispers. Her hands are pressing close, closer, over his shivering skin, trying to convince her numb thoughts that he is truly alive. "I'm so sorry."

He holds her in his arms. "Shit, kiddo." He grunts, voice hoarse. "I'm not sorry at all. I thought. . . I thought I was gonna be too late." He bows his head, with his rattling breaths hot on her neck. "Fuck! Don't you ever scare me like that again, okay?" He hisses and squeezes her tighter. "Promise me, Scar."

"I promise." She mutters. His heartbeat is quick, strong, humming against her ears like a lullaby. He does. . . He cares. He wouldn't have gone in to save her, otherwise. He still cares.

She clings to him till she hears someone calling her name above the clamor. Someone who sounds like. . .

"Scarlett!" Dad yells. "Scarlett, where are you, honey?"

Allen nods down at her, his blue eyes dark with exhaustion. He lets her go and she runs to the tall man shoving into the crowds. Everything is spinning, spinning. His blue eyes still burn into her skull as she holds her arms out.

"Dad!" She cries. "I'm here!"

He snatches her up in the air, all heat and cigar smoke and everything that smells like home. "What happened? Oh, Scarlett, what happened?" He sounds like he might be crying, too, which only makes her cry harder.

"I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry that I wasn't there." He presses his lips to her hair, cradles her close. She can't remember the last time that he held her like this. She wishes that he would never leave her again.

She look past his arms, searching the others. Allen is still sitting on the grass, with that punk chick next to him, now. She looks angrier. Whatever the hell her problem is, Allen deserves better. He deserves so much better. . .

Across the expanse, his blue, blue eyes meet hers again. She tries to smile. He tries to smile, too.