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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 22
- 23
- 24
Hey, Folks—Ghost, here. Welcome to Part two of ANLoL! This one's gonna be a rough ride, so I hope y'all're ready.
This chapter's got a few instances of 'borrowed words' - snippets from songs, books, or other media used to express Amber's emotions. I've credited them at the end and will continue to do so; usage does not imply ownership, I don't own any media referenced and don't get paid Jack diddly squat for the name-dropping. Also, several more instances of Scots/brogued speech in this chapter, defined at the end
Precautions: cursing, poorly-translated Scots, killer drama…that's pretty much it. The drama's gonna kill ya, folks…beware the drama.
Suggested Listening: AFI "This Time Imperfect," Queensryche "Eyes of a Stranger"

Begin Part II:
This Time Imperfect

22: Borrowed Words
May 23rd , Monday
The low ceiling of the Hashi-turned barracks seemed to close in on the brunette lying atop a lumpy cot. Moss green eyes drifted over to the crutches leaned against the wall – now, her only way of moving about – then to the hastily erected plywood wall separating her cot from the next. Behind the wall, Daron Williams grumbled about some nameless annoyance; nowadays, his grumbling was as constant a companion as the aching of her left cheek and right leg.
Amber's fractures weren't healing very quickly, surprise, surprise, and more and more often she was reminded of her old life. That life was full of pain, too – constant, endless, chronic pain, but she was happy. This life wasn't full of physical pain until Northpaw Jackson found her, but emotional pain seemed to be a staple. Miles above the sanctuary turned prison, heavy spring rain pounded the pavement, each concussion echoing down into the underground like machine gun fire.
Why didn't she just tell Donatello the truth about her world—that she came from a place where he and the rest of his family were fictional characters often preyed upon by perverse fans—instead of hiding it? The question always took her by surprise, but it really shouldn't. No matter how many times she asked herself that very question, her answer never changed…she couldn't. Secrets don't save lives! he'd reminded her bitingly. …just tell me the truth!
I'd share with you, could I only speak, just how much this hurts me. ♦
The remembered line seemed to come out of nowhere and for a moment, Amber wondered what its presence could mean. Ah, right…her journal—she included the lyrics in a recent entry. She hoisted herself into a sitting position, pausing to clutch her throbbing leg, then dug the spiral-bound book from beneath her pillow. Flipping through the scribbled pages was halfway between enlightening and depressing…did she whine that much in real-time, or was it just when she thought no one would hear her? She winced; maybe all of Mercy's recent bitching at her wasn't really that unfounded…
Suddenly, it hit her: what hurt most, she couldn't speak…but that didn't mean she couldn't share it regardless, even if it was buried in a lifetime of borrowed words.
"Ya really fucked'er up, ya know that?" Donatello didn't even bother replying; after a week of almost nonstop lectures, he was more than used to Mercy's barbs and accusations. The blonde was still angry with him and wasn't letting him live down the feud…a feud that wasn't improving in the slightest unless one counted the lack of active fighting. Amber still wasn't speaking to him; he was still avoiding her. Between the two of them, they were a right mess.
"I mean it, Brainiac!" Mercy snapped at him, shoving herself between him and the console of the Shellraiser. It didn't really need repairs, per se, but installing a new salvaged stereo was at least keeping him out of the Lair proper—and away from a certain crutch-bound brunette. "Dammit, I ain't heard Glen Devon's bitchin' since Amber's funeral—now I'm hearin'im practic'ly every time she opens'er friggin' mouth!"
The revelation gave him pause and he backed away to inspect her countenance. "Glen Devon?"
"Her ma's dad," Mercy answered, scowling. "She calls'im Grahn'Dah—Scotch immigrant, Amber tailed'im like a lost puppy, ya kin barely un'erstand'im most'a the time…any'a this ringin' a bell? When I first met Amber, she talked like the rest'a her ma's family…took on that twang'a hers so she'd fit in better." Don shook his head, leaning heavily on the driver's seat.
"I take it she can slip under duress?" he muttered staring through the mess of tangled wiring where the stereo used to be. "That certainly explains some things…" Bastart…Ah told ya...ya dinnae… He shook off the memory; she withheld information, she read his log uninvited, and then she blew up at him over it. Perhaps he should have been more courteous, but he wasn't the only one at fault!
"Ya should'a heard the fights she an'er Ma used to get into," Mercy grumbled settling into the driver's seat. "Louder'ey got, less ya un'erstood, I swear." For a moment, she just stared into space remembering the world she came from—and, though Donatello couldn't know it, fights with her own mother, a woman more prone to violence than reprimands. "Donnie, you gotta work this out," she pled weakly. "It makes me sick watchin' you two—you were inseparable, now ya can't stand each other! She waited a whole lifetime fer you, ya know…don't let that lifetime tear ya'part like this."
"I'm not the one keeping secrets," he reminded curtly; touchy-feely time was officially over. "And no, I don't know that—I can't know anything about her that she won't tell me, and she's hardly told me a thing!"
"You've known'er five months, Donatello," Mercy pointed out seriously. "Yet you know more about'er'n I knew after five years. She's distant at best—emotional attachment ain't her greatest strength, an' she's bad about hidin' behind music an' small-talk—even if ya manage to drag somethin' out of'er, it ain't stuff that matters to'er." The blonde huffed out a frustrated breath, blowing her uneven bangs out of her eyes. "If ya don't ask, don't push, an' don't pester'er, she ain't gonna voluntar'ly let ya see past that bullshit she hides under…keep pushin', she'll get it eventually."
Clearly done with him, she stood, clapped him on his carapace as she stepped over his crossed legs. Strange how he couldn't detect any of the pheromones Amber always reeked of around him; the absence made him wonder if Amber truly did see him that way. He couldn't forget the feel of her lips on his, the salt of her tears, and the faint perfume of coffee and Scotch whisky just beneath the salt. As he stared off into space, Mercy shot him a half-assed smile from the door of the cab. "Fer the record?" she added honestly. "Yer not the only one gettin' yer ass chewed…sometimes bein' a friend means tearin'em a new one when they need it."
Donatello wasn't sure he wanted the kind of friendship Mercy offered.
A cleared throat sounded in the doorway of the lab, startling Donatello out of the blueprint he was inspecting. Amber hovered just beyond the threshold, avoiding his eyes and staring out at the lines of lockers along the living room wall. "Need something?" he asked turning bodily to face her. Finally, she met his eyes…and let go of her right crutch just long enough to dig through her pocket and toss him a key.
"I read your journal without invitation," she reminded bluntly. "It's only fair to offer the same courtesy." While the genius stared, puzzling out her meaning, she gracelessly turned to the kitchen. "Five-Fifteen." By the time everything sunk in—including that those were the first words she'd spoken to him since she kissed then slapped him—he could hear her struggling through loading the dishwasher. After so long of working herself to death during the day, she was really struggling with being bound to the crutches. At this rate, Don worried, she'd push herself too far and get hurt.
Before he even realized he'd made up his mind, Donatello found himself standing at the line of lockers, staring down at number 515 and the gleaming brass padlock securing it. After all, he reasoned, she'd all but ordered him, and perhaps the contents of the journal would help him understand her better. He couldn't come up with a single reason why he should care, but he couldn't find a reason he shouldn't, either. Armed with the large spiral-bound notebook from the locker, he retreated to his bedroom to read, never noticing the pair of tired green eyes watching him from the kitchen.
One of these days, and it won't be long, he'll know more about me than he should—all my dreams will be understood. Remembered lines from another life echoed through her thoughts unbidden. Heaven help my heart! ♦♦
Perhaps Amber should have fallen in love with a hot Russian chess champion instead of a mutant turtle.
By the time Donatello reached February's entries in Amber's journal, he'd become torn between horrified by the few details of her last days, suspicious that she either was a lyrical genius or didn't have a single original thought in her head, and concerned over the multitude of secrets she was clearly keeping. Between admissions of horrors he'd never see, she'd filled the pages with snippets of what he presumed were song lyrics, quotes from remembered poetry, literature, and film, awkwardly poor sketches and scribblings, and references to the world she left behind. Legions of injured neighbors staggered through the pages like B-movie zombies. Toppled trees splintered a battered, bloodstained landscape. Vultures circled, wind howled, rain poured, and lightning flashed, and amidst it all, the sky hung with clouds split in a menacing, cackling grin—a grin the troubled brunette had repeatedly scribbled across empty pages, probably without even realizing what she was drawing.
This woman, Donatello realized begrudgingly, was full of secrets, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know all of them. She was also quite possibly off her rocker even before she developed PTSD, but for whatever reason, that realization didn't surprise or repulse him as much as he thought it should. After all, he reasoned to himself, his entire world was crazy; why should hers be any different?
One thing really worried him: from the very beginning of the journal, she frequently touched on their friendship—or, more specifically, her end of the friendship. Strange words and colloquialisms he didn't recognize littered all the journal entries but these were rendered practically indecipherable from them. He suspected this was a subconscious effort to confuse anyone who read without invitation.
Dee's a'thin' I ever 'spected,• one entry read vaguely.
I never 'spected a speccy in breeks,• but Lord'a mercy, what a change! Those een'a his…I'm sure he's not the slightest of how much they cannae hide.• An', of course, the first time he brought me home, I nearly cowked on'is gutties…didn't even buy'im a drink first.• Smooth, O'Brien…real smooth.
It only got stranger from there, and even more riddled with what seemed poetry or song lyrics.
How many times must I live this tragedy?
How many more lies will they tell me?
All I want is the same as everyone –
Why am I here, and for how long?
I raise my head and stare into the eyes of a stranger –
I've always known that the mirror never lies!
…I remember, now…♦♦♦
God, this is real—I keep wakin' up 'spectin' to hear Gran'Da fashin' at Da• over some stupid bullshite. My old life…it's gone, I really died! But…if I died and was reincarnated…how can I still remember Donatello? More an' more, this whole situation reeks of a bad fanfiction—but if I was stuck in a fanfiction, wouldn't I be pure badass? I'm still FAT dammit!—I'm e'en• trippin' over stuff as badly as usual! Infinite power an' sadism ain't the half'it! Here I am drookit an' gantin'• over a man who barely knows me, an' he's probably into waists! Even if he wasn't put off by blubber, how could I tell'im? How can you put a lifetime of memories into a single conversation? Pandora, I am not—I ain't gowanna open that box'a worms!•
A lifetime of memories…Donatello stared through the pen-smudged page, torn between concern and confusion, and feeling incredibly stalked. It would seem his family did, indeed, exist in her world, and they had something between them…but what was that something? Just outside the open door of his bedroom, the woman in question hobbled out of the kitchen only to freeze at the sight of locker 515 standing open. Don watched silently as she collected herself, silently worked up her courage, then—finally—turned to meet his eyes through the doorway.
She waited a lifetime for you. Mercy knew what Amber was hiding, that much was certain, but he knew better than to ask her; she had odd views on friendship, and for all he knew, she might try to throttle him for it. He waved Amber in. Maybe, this way, he could get some answers.
"Ya need something?" she asked warily, hovering in the doorway. "You've got your answers."
"No answers," he admitted lowly, gesturing to the salvaged desk chair nearby, "just more questions." Amber gratefully sank into the seat, propped one crutch between the chair and bed, and kicked her cast-bound leg up on it.
"I never promised it'd make sense," she pointed out. "The whole point of a journal is to get your own thoughts out'a yer head, not to share'em with others—you never expect any eyes but yer own to see'em, so ya don't censor what ya write. It's gonna be unpolished—deal with it." He blinked at the unsympathetic words, and it was all she could do to not glare back; did he think that just because she was normally easy-going and sweet as sugar that she was always like that? Everyone had their off days! Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and she wasn't just scorned…she felt betrayed.
"How's your cheek?" The question pulled her from her brooding with a start, and she avoided his eyes. If not for her broken cheek and leg, she could almost convince herself the past month had never happened—that they were still awkwardly close friends and she could just dive headfirst into his arms without worry of being pushed away. The pain reminded her, though—things weren't the same. It was hard enough letting him in in the first place. She handed him her heart, he didn't understand or accept it, and she wouldn't—couldn't—leave herself open again.
"Hurts," she admitted. "I'll be fine. Pain's just a reminder y'ain't dead, an' I've had worse." The brunette almost seemed to squirm in her seat. "Thanks." Her tone gave Don the impression that she'd rather have swallowed a live Banana slug than exchange pleasantries; how things had changed between them… "Look." She sighed, finally meeting his eyes defiantly. "I'm not good with words—I've never been good with words—but borrowed words or not, I mean every damn one. Savvy?" He nodded, too-intelligent hazel eyes boring into her own.
"Mercy said something interesting earlier." She tore away, her cheeks pinking. "She said you 'waited a lifetime' for me." Mercy, Amber thought venomously, needed to learn to keep her damn trap shut.
"Don't." Amber clenched her fists. Push him away, she reminded herself, push him away before he gets too close—it'll happen again, mark my words! "Don't even go there, Donatello. I tried telling ya—ya didn't believe me. I'm not playin' that foo—farkin' game again, ya hear? I—I can't do it again!"
"I don't recall you telling me anything." He stared her down accusingly. "I do remember you slapping me." Amber choked up; she had to get out of that room.
"Words," she repeated as she stood and got her crutches situated, "are not my friends—I can never get them to cooperate without hours to arrange them. Actions speak louder anyway, an' yer focusin' on the wrong action." Just when she seemed intent on running away—as she always ran away—she hesitated on the threshold. "Fuck the words—fuck the writing—fuck it all—if you need answers, you'll get'em from what's leftover. Not that it'll do ya any good…you won't trust me, an' I sure's Hell ain't gonna trust you again."
"Braids." She froze. Somehow, Donatello managed to stand, approach her, and make it close enough for his breath to send goosebumps down her spine, all without being noticed…damn ninja, she thought weakly. Her lip shook—her eyes burned—her heart cried out for him. Right before his hand could clasp her tensed, drawn shoulder—to push her away, or to pull her back?—she lurched forward, out of his room and out of his company, with a hoarsely whispered,
"Stow it."
Raphael growled under his breath as he surveyed what was left of the kitchen. Daron's plants swarmed every available surface—ivy on the cabinet tops, bamboo on the table, herbs on the counters, potted ferns hanging from makeshift rope harnesses…how could anyone get anything done with all those plants in the way?! Shuffling footsteps in the doorway caught his attention and he turned about with a snarl that faded upon seeing his company.
"Boo," Amber grumbled hobbling over to the sink. "Think Mercy's got enough plants in here? I mean, granted, Leo can't reach the toaster to kill it, but still." Mercy's plants? Raph blinked at the realization. Perhaps…he could get used to them, given enough time… He watched silently as the brunette leaned against the counter, rummaged under the sink, and produced a bottle of Scotch whisky—already half-empty—then commenced digging through the glassware cabinet for a tumbler.
"Sit," he ordered bluntly. A moment later he joined her at the table and passed her the bottle and a pair of bouillon jar 'glasses.' "Ya look like ya need a drinkin' buddy."
"Don't matter," she mumbled, staring through the amber-filled bottle. A month before, she'd have gone slack-jawed at the idea of Raphael voluntarily subjecting himself to her company. While she and Donatello drifted apart, though, she and Raphael grew closer, and in moments like this, he was the one she sought out. "Never works," she admitted regarding the alcohol, "jus' reminds me'a when shite made sense, 's'all." He shook his head at her and pulled the bottle and glasses back over.
"Say when." Amber watched the level in the glass rise, then grumbled her answer just before it reached the rim. "Dis place's turned int'a a nuthouse…Donnie's bitchy an' yer bitchier, da place's overrun by green stuff, Mike an' Leo's always out some damn place, dat twerp Daron keeps swipin' da last Dew…da fuck happened here?" She stared down into her glass, gently swirling the liquid.
"Too many people in too little space is part of it," she admitted. "I wish there was another option…Daron's not the most agreeable, but Hun's got a mark on'im now…with Northpaw in max security, Mercy's safe, but if she stays at Daron's place, Hun'll figure out they're connected." Her eyes were troubled. "She says she wants to do recon—get into the Dragons so y'all have someone on the inside."
"Ya know dat's why Kimbuh's d—" Raph stopped himself just in time, then amended, "Dat's why she joined…she tol' me it was ta make sure Daron wasn't in danger, but Hun an'is bookends didn't hold up dere end'a da deal. Blondie ain't gotta snowflake's chance in Hell'a gettin' out'a dere alive."
"You're nominated," Amber muttered before finally taking a sip of her Scotch. "She won't listen to me…maybe she'll listen to someone without ovaries." Raph hesitated a moment, hiding his uncertainty behind a sip of liquor and a cringe at the strong taste. Despite his best attempts to stifle it, he coughed, half-expecting to belch fire. Already he regretted his choice to forgo his usual beer in favor of her favorite poison.
"Dis'll rot a hole in ya gut, huh?"
"No Drambuie, no ice." Amber shrugged noncommittally. "Takes practice. Been drinkin' it so long I hardly notice the burn anymore…jus' tastes' like Home."
"Kimbuh neva said much 'bout her home…jus' that'er dad was a violent asshole an' she ran off—dat's 'bout all I know." Raph glanced furtively at her over the rim of his tumbler. "Yer her counterpart, right? Maybe ya know somethin' I don't." Amber thought it over a moment.
"Counterpart, yes," she admitted, "doppelganger, no. The more time I spend here, the more sim'larities an' difference I find b'tween us—we're more alike'n I appreciate, but we lived differently." Amber shrugged. "I learned not to pish—piss off my Da an' relied on Gran'da instead. Fer whatever reason, Kimber didn't do that—maybe her gran'da wasn't around — an' her da was straight violent instead'a just unhinged. My Da almos' got me fired from my first job — had'im join me for lunch while I was on break an'e decked the cashier fer screwin' up'is burger."
"An' Leo calls me a hothead," Raph remarked sarcastically. "Least I neva beat da shit out'a someone 'cuz dey fergot da mustard."
"Nope. Ya did nearly break my wrist fer runnin' into ya, though." For a moment he felt like a complete heel; then he realized she was smirking at him. No hard feelings, he realized, or she wouldn't be teasing him about it. "Gotcha. Point remains, Kimber an' I're like two sides'a the same coin…we lived accordin' to different principals an' had different trials. I valued knowledge, she valued freedom—I lived fer others, she lived fer'erself—I lived in fear, she kicked its arse."
"Dat sounds like'er," he admitted. "She wasn't much'a a fighter, but she neva backed down. What 'bout dat Mercy?" He feigned disinterest, topping off her glass; how had she already managed to nearly drain it when his lungs still stung from the first sip? "Ya don't expect green thumbs ta come wit' a temper like dat."
"Merse's probably the most loyal person I've ever known, Raph…she just has a funny way'a showin' it." Amber cringed. "She grew up in the sticks, surrounded by crops an' livestock, an' plants're the only escape she's got now…they don't allow cows at dog parks." Green eyes lit on the previously sad Christmas cactus placed stubbornly under a fluorescent light; the poor thing was nearly killed off by a walk in the cold, but after so much time in Mercy's care, it was positively thriving. "But you weren't asking about her hobbies, were ya?"
Hazel eyes—so similar to Donatello's, yet so vastly different, she mused—avoided hers, set off by—EGAD!—the beginnings of a blush. "Don't tell me," she sighed, shaking her head. "Yer serious?"
"Ya tell'er," Raph warned gruffly, "an' I'll break ya other leg." Despite his expectations, she didn't laugh. If anything, she seemed…sad…
"Raph, I'm sorry…I should'a said somethin' before now." Amber tried to wrangle her words into order. "Mercy…she…she doesn't do relationships. She has her reasons, ones I ain't gotta right to share, but she's never had any interest in men—or women. Love was a luxury she couldn't emotionally afford."
"She's neva said nothin'," he admitted, "jus' keeps backin' off when things get comfortable…was startin' to think it was me." Amber snorted.
"Raphael," she teased dryly, "if it was you, she wouldn't give ya the time'a day an' she certainly wouldn't insult ya. I see you two together all the time an' she's always callin' ya Asshat, so it ain't you."
"Lemme get dis straight." He fixed a hairy eyeball stare on the confusing brunette. "If she insults ya, she likes ya? What is she, three?"
"Don't ask'er, Hon—she'll tell ya she's two." Her lips split in a fond smile though her eyes shimmered. "Mercy's a smartass through an' through, but she don't let it show unless she's around people she likes an' trusts." Amber sobered. "Raph, do you really, truly care about her? I mean, as more'n a friend?" Before he could argue, she added, "'Cuz if ya do, ya got yer work cut out for ya. Ya gotta take it slower'n a crippled penguin an' ya'll need'a give'er space…an' you can count me in."
After a minute of staring her down, he finally responded. "Ya serious, ain't'cha? Ya think—ya think I gotta chance?" He winced, suddenly glancing out the door as though hearing footsteps nearing. Amber didn't comprehend Raph's reaction and jumped upright when the blonde herself stormed through the kitchen into the utility room, covered head-to-toe in potting soil, mulch, peat, and clay dust and gently cradling a naked jalapeno plant like a newborn.
"God-fuckin'-dammit!" Mercy snarled as she yanked out stashed supplies—a large basin, another planter, a more securely tied harness, a ladle, bags of dirt, mulch, and peat moss—and proceeded to replant the evicted vegetable with a gentleness that didn't match her loud temper tantrum. "I TOL' Mike that hanger wa'n't tight enough! I TOL'im it was gonna slip if any'un bumped it!" As she worked on repairing the damage she continued bitching and griping but drifted further and further from intelligible complaints and into random expletives too slurred and butchered to discern their origin. Raph stared wide-eyed across the table at Amber, who shrugged.
"She's a lil' protective'a the green stuff," she stage-whispered.
"I heard that, Dillweed!" Mercy snapped, ducking her head around the doorframe long enough to shoot her friend a venomous scowl. "'at chucklehead Mikey' better be protective of'is BALLS, 'cuz I'm'a smash'em!" As though finally noticing his presence, she quirked a smirk at Raph. "Oh, hey Asshat." Without further ado, she returned to remedying the situation. Wide Hazel eyes met amused green ones over the table.
"That answer your question?" Amber teased lowly snagging the bottle to top off his glass. "This one's on me—you'll need it." She paused only long enough to finish off her own glass and hobble it over to the sink, then grabbed her other crutch and beat a swift retreat. In her wake, she heard Raphael's voice crack halfway through asking Mercy if she needed any help. One lost his first chance at love, the other was given every reason to fear love…by God, Amber thought with a wry smile, if anyone deserved a happily ever after, those two did.
Locker 515 was shut again, but unlocked—an envelope addressed to her was wedged underneath the door. Swallowing her pride, Amber hobbled over to investigate. Inside the envelope was a key—a surprisingly good copy of the one she'd given Donatello—and attached by a piece of twine, a note:
"Borrowed words are better than none."
Maybe, she considered as she collected the journal from the locker again, maybe they could eventually work things out again. Maybe with enough time and talking, they could—
Her train of thought was derailed completely by the edge of a lavender sticky note popping up between the pages. Nervous, she flipped back to the marked page only to be confronted with a post-it flag pointing out a sentence—I'm still FAT dammit!—and another pointing out the word blubber. Her nose wrinkled in irritation but the words scribbled onto the sticky note above smoothed it and made her want to melt.
It is not the size of the hips that matter, Donatello's neat print confessed, but the size of the heart. Big can be beautiful if the inside isn't ugly. For a single moment, Amber wanted nothing more than to run back to him, confess everything, beg his forgiveness, and snog him senseless. As she had for a week, though, once that moment was over, she forcefully reminded herself of what had happened. To the best of her admittedly pathetic ability she offered him her heart—finally gave in to her longing for him—and he didn't believe her. He didn't trust her, and no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't trust him until he could return it.
This turtle, she realized yet again, was going to kill her…if not with love then with a lack of it.
UP NEXT: Mercy, Amber, and Donnie figure out that The Truth Can Hurt
Borrowed Words
♦ AFI - "This Time Imperfect"
♦ ♦ "Heaven Help My Heart" - from the musical "Chess"
♦ ♦ ♦ "Eyes of a Stranger" - Queensryche
Glossary
A'thin - everything
A speccy in breeks - he wears glasses and pants
Een'a his - eyes of his
E'en - even. NOT Scots but rather one of Amber's unholy mash-ups of twang and brogue
Cannae/Dinnae - cannot/do not
Cowked on his gutties - puked on his shoes.
Fash at - fuss at
Drookit an' gantin' - wet and 'ready to jump him'
Gowanna - going to, or, 'gonna'
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A New Lease on Life