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Compared to my room, -excuse me, used to be my room- their room is quite bland. Oh well, at least they still have carpeting. The walls are painted a soft green which makes the room appear larger then it really is. There is a bed in the middle with white comforters piled on top of it, and a few small chairs scattered around the room.

I lift my head and glance at the pictures on the wall. They're all photographs of natural scenery; places that we've been, places that they still want to go. It kind of sadens me in a way. After all, my pictures used to hang up there.

I sigh and attempt to relax in a plain, wooden chair that's positioned by the bed. My head tilts as I try to make out the words that are being hurled at each parents. It's easier said then done, seeing as the floor and walls muffle the sound.

"Kate! Listen to me!" My father's booming voice is heard first. "You must get over Emma. She's never, never coming back."

That's untrue. I'm right here.

But I can't stop the tidal wave of guilt and hurt that crash over me within a few seconds of his voice. It almost sounded like my father was angry with me, that he blamed me for everything that happened to mom. Which, I have to admit, is true. That doesn't mean that I have to like it though.

Mother says something in a pained, low voice. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to hear exactly what it was, but I heard the pain. In that instant, I wanted to leave. I wanted in desperately. I wanted it like I wanted my old life back with my parents and friends. But I can't. So much was caused by me leaving, whether my fault or not, that I can't do that to them again. Even if they don't realize I am here.

They continue with their argument but by now, I've refused to listen. Words are exchanged, and eventually, mom comes into the room. Tears threaten to flow free from her icy-blue eyes and strands of light brown hair, pulled into a ponytail, had came loose. Large sobs shake her body as she runs to the bed. She didn't notice me. Of course not.

I wish it would stop. I wish that my mother would no longer feel the gut-wrenching despair and sorrow that I was causing her. Heck, I wish my wishes came true. Just one or two, not for me, but for my family. Was that so wrong?

As I continue to watch her with a heavy heart, she begins to slowly calm down. The curses directed at my father become less frequent as she drifts off to sleep. I manage to catch her last spoken words before she is dragged under.

"Emma--" my mom begins slowly as if she knew I was here, "--where did you go?" Her voice still contains that dreadfull pain. She often asks me this, thinking that I'm not here and no one is watching. I never answer, of course. But maybe today should be different. Maybe it would be a small way of apologizing for these last few years.

I frown slightly, and concentrate. That's all it takes to pull myself together, to become a solid being again. My hand slowly reaches forward and I find myself hesitating to touch the person that had given me life. Hm. Whyis that? I don't spend too much thought on it though. My hand continues to reach forward, pushing through my doubt and hesitance, and stroke the back of her hand.

"I didn't go anywhere." My voice is little more then a whisper, tainted with sorrow. "I died."