"...Something has left my life,
And I don't know where it went to.
Somebody caused me strife,
And it's not what I was seeking..."
– Empty; The Cranberries

I was tired. I wanted nothing more than to sleep through this nightmare and wake up to my mother nudging open my bedroom door. Simon Devine, the ever-present pillar of strength to my left, laced his fingers through mine. He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. Our nail polish matched; chipped black was all the rage among the disaffected youth.

"You gonna be okay, Taxi?" He breathed in my ear and I shook my head. Myca Thompson, on my right, bumped her foot discreetly against mine to show her support. I did not return the gesture. Sitting between my boyfriend of two years and best friend of seven, I felt alone, encased in an unfeeling bubble of silence.

I leaned forward slightly to look past Simon and study his younger brother. Tobias sat with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. His black, shaggy bangs shadowed his closed eyes. I watched him, as speaker after speaker dissolved into tears, until he finally glanced my way. Neither of us smiled, but our stares held. The slightly haunted glaze of his gaze kept me grounded.

I was drowning in a sea of mourning relatives. They all watched me, the illegitimate daughter of Viviane Potter, and begged for a reaction. They wanted me to do something outrageous like scream, or cry, make a delicious scene of tortured teenage hood. All I wanted to do was sleep. Or euthanize myself with a nail gun. Both options were applicably nice.

A dry scream scratched its way up my throat as my mother – my mom, my momma, my mommy – was lowered into the ground. Simon wrapped his arm around my shoulders in his indirectly possessive way. With a blank stare, I watched as the first shovelful of dirt landed on the casket. A dirt clod exploded like a blood splatter on contact. Myca drew in a shaky breath and Tobias touched his index and middle fingers to his forehead in a silent, respectful goodbye.

Simon slipped his arm to my waist and drew me into his chest. Robotically, I wound my arms around him and hid my face in his neck. He rubbed my back, trying to soothe me, and told me it was okay to cry. I nodded and wondered if it was also okay not to cry. I scrunched the material of his thrift store jacket in my fingers and inhaled his cologne deeply. The heavy male scent curled in my lungs, like a constant reminder of his undying love.

Myca hugged me from the side, enveloping both Simon and me with her motherly arms; she was shaking and crying into my hair. I felt like I was suffocating in them both. Tobias lingered awkwardly off to the side, with his fists jammed in his trouser pockets. He had said his farewells and was ready to leave. Finally, we broke apart. Myca trailed one hand through my hair and squeezed my shoulder.

Simon kissed me on the cheek and rubbed his nose against mine. "Come on," he finally spoke as he once again took my hand in his, "let's go to my place." I didn't have the energy to argue. Myca came up beside me, taking my other hand. Tobias coughed in the back of his throat and trailed along behind us, dragging his feet and scuffing his funeral shoes.

No one talked as the November wind blew around us. Trees mirrored my feelings, as dead branches scraped at the clouds. I wondered if Mom could feel their scratches. Then I wondered if I even believed in heaven. I stared up at the sky, trusting my friends to lead me, and prayed for it to crash down on us. Birds fell silent as we passed, and I nodded a thanks their way. They started screeching in the dying sunlight when we reached the Devine house.

Tobias pushed open the screen door, letting us file by him before slamming it shut. It left an undying echo in the deserted street. My boyfriend told us to go on down to the basement, and he headed to his room to change. The basement had been converted, not too many years ago, into a teenage hang-out. There was a couch, a well-stocked mini-fridge, a guitar and amp, and a large-screen TV – all for the use of the Devine brothers and company.

Myca tucked her knees up under her dress and curled into herself on a bean bag chair. I sat down rigidly on the couch with my feet planted solidly in the carpet and my fingers twitching in my lap. From a random cabinet, Tobias extracted a candle (kept down there in case of a power outage) and a black permanent marker. Crookedly, he wrote the initials V P on the candle with his left hand and jammed it into an ill-fitting holder. Flicking a lighter out of his pocket, he ignited the wick.

"It's so she can find her way back," he murmured with a shrug as he set the memorial on the coffee table next to the couch. "Sorry," he said quietly. I wanted to reassure him that I wasn't offended by his make-shit eternal flame. It was the kind of thing my mother would've liked; she appreciated the awkward kindness of the youngest Devine. I tried to smile, but Simon came thundering down the stairs before I could fix the expression on my face.

He looked more relaxed, in a baggy pair of jeans and an old Alkaline Trio tee. It was one I had given him for Christmas two years ago. He leaned over the back of the couch to hug my shoulders. Burying his face in my neck, he inhaled deeply and hummed. Myca dug her fingernails into her scalp and Tobias tried to send me a message with his eyes. He twisted the lighter around in his fingers, alternatively igniting and extinguishing it with a solid click.

Simon tightened his grip on my shoulders fractionally. "Let's go to my room." He led me upstairs by the hand; my skirts rustled dryly against my legs as I walked. Something about all of this – sneaking off to my boyfriend's house for an illicit coupling while my visiting family ate cake and told stories about my mother – seemed ridiculous. Tobias and Myca were still in the basement, probably staring at but not seeing the TV while they pretended to know no better about what Simon and I were doing directly two stories above their heads. I, myself, was pretending to know no better.

Even that sick fuck who was too strung out to see the light was red was pretending to know no better. He continued to pretend when he rammed into us and sent my head slamming into the glove compartment and then my mother was sent flying like she had wings but she didn't really have wings so she flew and flew until she fell and –

"Hey," Simon locked the door behind us and smiled at me. I shrugged and stared at him through a curtain of stringy, unwashed hair. "I'm really sorry about your mom." I closed my eyes and shrugged again. Simon made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and put his hands on my shoulders. "I love you," he whispered and pulled me against his chest.

Through the whole act, I never said it in return. I didn't resist as he guided me gently to his bed. I didn't fight him as he settled himself between my legs and kissed me and bunched my skirt up to my waist and hitched my knees over his hips. I allowed him to pose me like I was a mannequin – a sex mannequin. He was tender, moving against me and breathing in my ear.

My arms were sprawled limply over my head and I stared at the ceiling beyond his shoulder, trying to erase the image of my lovely mother's cadaver on the freeway.

It took him ten minutes and he didn't wear a condom so he had to pull out before he could actually finish. I turned away as he slipped into the bathroom to take care of himself. I lost my virginity on the day of my mother's funeral. I didn't even feel anything.

Simon came back from the bathroom, flushed and slightly out of breath. He sat down next to me on the bed and tried to pet my hair. After a moment, he lay down and curled into me. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world, Taxi Potter." Five minutes later, I left. I felt like I should be crying, or having some kind of fit, but nothing came.

Myca was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She trailed after me as I shuffled down the sidewalk and took my hand. "Did you do it?" Her voice wasn't accusing, but I almost wished it was. I shrugged and stared down at my feet. Simon and I hadn't even removed our shoes.

"Taxi?" I glanced at her – took in the motherly glint of her gaze and nodded unenthusiastically before focusing back on the gray cement. "How was it?" She whispered, like a child, and when I didn't answer, Myca let go of my hand. I continued to walk without her.

Myca Thompson was molested when she was nine years old. It left her both terrified of and captivated by sex.

My aunt was waiting for me when I got home, still wearing her baggy funeral dress. She and my mother had been identical twins so it was a little difficult to look her in the face. She motioned for me to take a seat in the chair opposite her at the kitchen table. I wasn't even sore from Simon – it was as if it had never happened. I couldn't even picture his face as he held me.

"Taxi, honey, we need to talk." I felt blank inside, either from the sex of the funeral – it was hard to determine. She reached across the surface of the table to cover my hand with hers and smiled. Her expression became strained and almost forced when I didn't reciprocate. "Your father didn't come to the funeral," she paused and waited for a reaction.

I gave her none.

"And no one has heard from him in almost ten years," she stopped again. I focused on the grain in the table, trying to memorize it. "So, we've all decided it's best if you come with your uncle and me. To live in New York." I shrugged and slipped my hand out from under hers. "We have the room," Auntie continued, "because Jackie's at college in Cali." She said it like she was a native. "That's why she couldn't make it today." The lame excuse rolled off my shoulders and landed somewhere on the floor. "Anyway, we're leaving for the city in a few days." She waited until I looked her in the eye before finishing, "does that give you enough time to pack?"

"I guess."

"Taxi, honey," she replaced her hand on mine and curled her thumb under my palm so I couldn't escape. "I know you miss her. You had such a close relationship with my sister; I did too." Another scream was building inside me. I swallowed hard and struggled to breathe. My aunt's pity was suffocating. "Maybe we can help each other heal."

"Okay."

My response was avoidant, and she picked up on the tension in my voice. "You look so much like her, you know." That meant a lot, coming from my mother's twin. The urge to flee hit me hard in the chest and I bowed my head. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry," Auntie cooed and I ripped my hand out from under hers. Seduction, I could handle, but pity was too much. The chair flipped over hard as I ran to my room.

Midnight found me lying on the floor of my room. I was curled up on my side and my throat burned. One arm was tucked under my head and I tried to think about how it felt when Simon was inside of me. All I could picture was the path of cracked ceiling. I gave up and drummed my fingers against my carpet. I wondered what my mother's voice sounded like.

My aunt and uncle were asleep in the guest room down the hall. I could hear their quiet breathing and distantly hated them for the ease that they found sleep. I sat up and drew my legs to my chest. Loosely, I laced my fingers together and rested my hands on my bare feet. I was still wearing the dress from the funeral. It was wrinkled, but familiarly so, like a disfigured, childhood teddy bear. I rested my forehead on my knees and fantasized about my mother dying and what it would've been like if I had been in her place.

I fell asleep early that morning thinking about blood and head trauma.

Auntie looked ready to burst into tears at the sight of my day-old outfit and rumbled appearance. "Taxi, why don't you take a shower?" She pleaded not unkindly, and I complied. "You'll feel better, and then I can help you pack." She guided me to the bathroom, where a fresh pair of towels sat conspiratorially on the counter.

Before I continued in the ritual of cleansing my body, I shuffled to my room. I picked out clean underwear, a faded Alkaline Trio shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. All were black, even my under things. Auntie poked her head around the corner as I padded back to the bathroom, arms laden with replacement clothing. Her eyes narrowed at the choice of color, but said nothing. I should have known; my cousin was partial to green and yellow.

The water was supposed to be warm, but it felt icy cold. Shivering slightly, I adjusted the temperature. My arms and chest turned bright pink, as I cooked myself alive in the shower, but all I felt was the frigid chill. The hope of my exhaustion washing down the drain with the soap suds was lost with my drooping eye lids. The shampoo and body wash helped to rejuvenate me only a little.

Wiping at the mirror, I inspected myself in the steam-cleared streak. My hair – now clean – still hung around my face, limp and dead. My eyes held the ever-present haunting shadow and the skin surrounding them was deathly pale. Not all the make-up had been removed, but it didn't matter. I was just going to apply more.

Deciding that mirrors were highly overrated, I went about redressing myself. The clean material was refreshingly rough against my raw skin. Auntie was waiting for me when I opened the door. It took most of my self control not to push her away when she hugged me. She wore the same face powder as my mother.

"There now, don't you feel better?" I shrugged; the urge to talk was once again not present. "Come now, let's go pack up your room!" Her cheerful voice was betrayed by the pain in her eyes. A small stack of flattened boxes was waiting for us upstairs. We spent the first hour or so going through my wardrobe. Eventually, Auntie got discouraged by all the dark colors and decided to hunt down Mom's old family photo albums.

With my radio playing softly in the background, I folded blouse after t-shirt after pants. I made a pile of old skirts and dresses to donate to charity and felt oddly satisfied with my good deed for the week. The rest of the work was mind numbing and repetitive. I used my set of personal journals and notebooks to strengthen the bottom of a cardboard box. Carefully, I stacked my collection of novels like bricks on top of them; I made sure to pack in such a way that no cover was folded and no page was dog-eared. All of this writing (my own and that of great minds before me) would carry me through the next few hellish months of adjustment.

I sat on my knees next to the filled box for a moment, tracing my fingers over the slightly raised cover of A Clockwork Orange and I found myself wondering if there was a library in heaven, and if they carried Anthony Burgess. Shaking my head abruptly, I folded the flaps closed and moved on to organize my CDs. I was halfway through my substantial musical library when Auntie knocked on my door softly.

"Taxi," a myriad of spices and other sweet scents floated in with her voice. She was cooking – it was a nervous tick of hers, Mom used to tell me, to cook when she felt emotional. "Simon's on asking for you," she offered the phone with an oven mitt protected hand. I took it from her without blinking.

"Simon," I greeted as she closed the door. I could hear her retreating down the hall, back to the kitchen and her recipes.

"Hi Taxi Cab!" I sighed at the childhood nickname. Myca used to call me that when we were in elementary school and she let it slip maybe a year ago. Since then, he'd use it in conversation when he was feeling particularly jubilant. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay."

"You're not sore, are you?" He asked it quietly, almost shamefully. If I was in the business of emotions, I'm sure I would have felt touched by his concern. I shook my head, and he must have heard the rustle of my hair against the mouth piece because he picked up talking. "That's good. I really wanted your first time to be, y'know, special." It was, Simon, it really, really was. I always wanted to lose my virginity the same day my mother was buried six feet under.

"I'm okay."

He glossed over my repetition with ease. "Do you want to come over tonight? Momma's making Italian and she said you could stay for dinner. I think she wants to just have one last night with you, y'know?" Mrs. Devine was rather fond of me, as far as mothers are for their eldest son's girlfriend, and her cooking really did live up to her surname. Then I caught the underlying suggestion of his tone. He wanted a repeat of yesterday afternoon.

"I can't."

"Oh," he sounded genuinely disappointed, but he tried to mask it. "That's cool; you probably have packing to do, right?" Somehow, my boyfriend inherently knew that I wasn't going to be staying in the suburbs of Kingston – I don't remember explicitly telling him that.

"Yeah."

"All right, well, I guess I'll call you tomorrow, or something." I shrugged and he cleared his throat. "Bye Taxi." I heard him inhale nervously with shaking breath. "I love you." I didn't answer and he hung up before I formulate an appropriate response. Finally, I settled on telling the empty dial tone, for the third time, that I was okay. I held the phone to my ear, clutching it in my numb hands until a ringing came over the airwaves.

A recording of an overly cheerful operator informed me that no connection had been made, but if I so wished to dial a number could I please hang up and try again. The voice thanked me and hung up. Dead quiet reigned again. My response was a choked, almost pleading whisper.

"I'm okay."

I felt tired again, and my head was fuzzy with unbidden thoughts and a dull pounding bass line. I crawled to my mattress and tried to burrow under the sheets. I pulled a blanket over my head, leaving my feet uncovered and I buried my face in my pillow; my breathing was heavy in my ears. The constant rasp of inhaling and exhaling lulled me into an unsettling sleep.

I dreamed I was wandering through the car crash scene that stole my mother's life. The larcenist of a crime scene. I picked over the broken glass; I saw myself unconscious in the front seat. A bruise was already blooming on my forehead and a trickle of blood dripped from my hairline. The driver's chair was empty and a gaping hole was chewed out of the windshield. Crystals of glass glistened on the dashboard like a jewelry display.

I wanted to walk around the front of the crushed vehicle to see my mother but Simon caught my elbow. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He picked me up and unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped his fly and we made love against the side of my mother's totaled car. Even though I couldn't feel anything, I was moaning and there a shock of blush across my cheeks. His arms braced me and I crossed my ankles behind his back. The whole time, my mother was dying not feet away.

(Scene)
End Chapter One)

I supposed you could say this is Deadly v 2.0. The original Deadly is still posted on my profile; I'm keeping it around for comparison sake, I guess. Some lines (and even whole paragraphs) were taken directly from the first copy. I've truncated some scenes and elongated others. Let me know what you think of the changes – specifically one very, very big one.

I don't own the lyrics used in the beginning, and I don't own the turtles four. Taxi, Myca, Tobias, Simon and all other related folk are mine. I will fight to keep them.