Red, blood red. It soaks through her white dress like spilled ink. She sends me a wild look, eyes bloodshot as a dying doe, "Help me."

She huals Bret up, her small frame dragging his dead weight like a hay bale. The red solo cup in my hand crunches beneath my grip.

"Now, help me right now, Blake." She loses grip on him as I lose my cup, stale beer splashing on my clay mud boots, "I can't carry him by myself."

Miranda is pretty, blonde, petite. Tinker bell come to life. Her lips are smeared from kissing, bold red. I gave it to her as a birthday present last year, when we were a little younger and a lot less stained.

White Innocence, stained red. Miranda's white dress, stained with Bret's blood.

Bret's eyes stare up at me, slightly amused. Funny, he's still in on a joke, even when he's dead. Dead. My stomach twists like a knife. Oh god, I'm gonna' be sick.

"Really, Blake? Man up." Miranda's sharp little accent cuts at me, her sharp stained nails clawing at Bret's chest for purchase.

My puke glints in the faint house lights, tinted red with the fruit punch that tastes like gasoline.

"We have to call someone, Miranda."

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do. We can't just-"

She comes at me like a tornado, fast and hard and full of destruction. Her open palm hits me clean across the face, the sound of impact ringing out in the silence of the woods.

Funnily enough, the sky didn't turn green when I met Miranda, it was as clear and blue as her eyes. All she's ever been was a natural disaster disguised as a girl. I should've heard the alarm bells blaring... but all I heard was my pounding heart.

The lights from the house cut through the trees in jagged lines, slicing her pretty face into black and red slashes. She looks as dangerous as her tone.

"Be quiet and move the body."

The body. Not Bret, not 'our friend', not even the human decency to call him 'Slob'. She always called him Slob.

He's heavier than I remember. He was always hoping on my back and wrestling me. He was lighter then. Maybe death adds a few pounds. All those skinny party girls in that house would hate to know the grim reaper is equivalent to a full thanksgiving plate.

Red Oak Lake, that's where she wants me to take him. Bret and I would throw firecrackers at each other every Fourth of July on Red Oak Lake. I still have a scar on my right eyebrow. Is that all I'll have left of Bret? A scar from a poorly timed throw?

"Go, go, go," Miranda stumbles on her own feet, hurrying deeper into the shadows of the forest, "you're doing great, Blake. So good, baby."

My chin wobbles, fat hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Bret is still warm. He'll be cold soon. Red hot to icy blue in twenty minutes flat. Alive and then dead. Like that, in a flash.

"... Blake, are you listening? Focus, for godsake." Miranda breaks past the thicket, into the clearing leading to the lake. "Go faster, we're right there."

Bret's eyes reflect the moon. He always pefered the night. Miranda stands at the edge of the lake, arms crossed. Her eyes don't reflect the moon. A void, more lifeless than Bret's eyes.

"Are you crying?" Her lip curls in disgust. She's never looked so hideous before, like a monster, "Jesus Christ, get a grip, Blake. Pathetic."

She killed him. We were kissing in the woods, warm lips and wandering hands. Bret jumped out of the dark, wearing a werewolf mask. Miranda screamed. Bret was drunk, teasing and laughing and she... she lost it. Took the beer bottle from his loose hand. Broke it against a red wood. Stuck it in his chest.

Bret looked at her, than at me, back to her. Uttered one word, one name, and then dropped dead.

Miranda stares up at me now, clutching at my hand as it tightens on her throat. Her face is turning red, red like her nails, red like the burning hot agony in my chest.

I blink away my tears. She claws at my cheek, snarling. I whimper, coughing up sobs. Miranda utters one word, one name... and the she goes limp.

She falls into the water with a splash. Bret floats in gently. They both sink the same. The water turns red in the wake of their bodies.

I sit down, jeans soaked in the cold mud. I sniffle, staring up at the moon. Red and blue lights glint off the lake's surface. Red, blue, red, blue, red red red.

I close my eyes. Their voices recochet off the walls of my skull. Bret's watery voice, full of blood. Miranda's voice, a choking rasp.

All I can hear is 'Blake, Blake, Blake.'

But all I see is red, red red...

Scott takes a deep breath, pressing his forehead against the door. The freezer cools his skin, which is freckled and heated from annoynce.

He moves away from the door just in time for Ben to slam it open, swaggering inside. He's wearing avaitors and a hollywood smile.

"You're late." Scott growls.

"You're early." Ben remarks breezily, sliding off his jacket.

Scott's black hair is slicked back to his scalp, every strand glaring at Ben's gravity defying dirty blond hair.

"I'm on time." Scott uses the muscles of his bulky build to lift a crate full of vodka bottles.

Ben side-steps him, easily slipping bewteen the crate and the wall with his slender physique. He stays put on the wall, watching Scott move the crates. He's still wearing that Tom-Cruise-Oscar-Award-Winning-smile.

Scott pauses with a crate full of lemons on his shoulder, "Are you gonna' help, or just stand there looking pretty."

Ben presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, wagging his brows, "You think I'm pretty, Scotty?"

Scott scoffs, face like a sheet of freckled stone. He finishes moving their produce, alone. Ben's yellow-green eyes track him, silently studying.

Scott snaps his cool blue eyes to him, that familiar glare of annoyance back in place. It only makes Ben smile wider.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing."

"No, nothin' is what you've been doin' since you got here." Scott pulls out his black dress-shirt, checking for wrinkles, "Get changed."

Ben pushes off the wall, as smooth and graceful as a big jungle cat, "Trying to see me topless, big boy?"

Scott sheds his white tank, quickly buttoning up his work attire. He lumbers over to his backpack, pulling out a comb.

"Just get dressed, Ken doll."

He rakes the cone over his hiar again. Then, without asking, he runs it through Ben's hair. It nearly snags on the gel, but it looks a little more tame.

The silence that follows is defeaning.

Ben's delighted smile breaks the stilness, and Scott's answering red face is an entire conversation on its own.

"Did you just-" "Shut up." "-brush my hair, Scotty?" "I said, shut up." "I know you called me a Ken doll, but-" "Please, for the love of god, shut up." "-its no excuse to play with my hair, darling."

Scott steps away from him, gritting his teeth against mortification. Ben slowly buttons up his shirt, whistling a snazzy little tune.

"I hate you, by the way." Scott offers, moving to open the freezer door.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that, loverboy." Ben whispers in his ear as he passes him.

Scott glares as Ben's greeted with cheers of excitement from their co-workers. Ben laughs as everyone stands up straighter at the sight of Scott.

If he's a Ken Doll, than Scott is a G.I.Joe.

The red lines on the circus tents are blood red in the night, only made richer by the contrast of bone white lines. It's a warm night, but there's a breeze carrying a sweet smell and a lovely chill.

The sky is navy blue, as deep as the ocean and just as vast. The stars haven't come, probably never will. Better off, the darkness is more alive without light's cry for attention.

Vibrant green tree tops, shaking in the wind. Darker shades of blue tucked away in the corners, faint traces of purple in the air. The light is hidden away in the tents, fire and sparks and laughter.

It's empty on the rich dirt path, soft soil alive with bugs. Earth worms poke out from underneath the popcorn stand, the yellow letters like a muted sun.

I reach the peak of the road, the hill overlooking the whole scene. Dark without the light of the moon, but the colors glow against the looming shadows.

Like the darkness surrounding a Prima Donna in a spot light, only enhancing the beauty by darkening the stage. Just her, just the audience, just the colors.

With a sigh, and a wistful smile, I turn away from the tent and the trees and the lovely bugs clinging to night dew.

Tonight is brighter than any day could ever be.

Inside a crowded room but completely alone, watching them mingle like an alien species. Maybe they're not the aliens, maybe it's me, maybe I'm the one who's from Mars.

A young woman - short blonde hair, pretty brown eyes - bumps into me. It was on purpose. She's been eyeing me for half the night. I force a charming smile.

"Easy tiger, don't want to spill wine on that pretty dress." My voice is smooth and kind, not even close to how I sound when I'm working.

She laughs, head back and nose scrunched. She's cute, like a baby deer. "I'm sorry, I've got two left feet."

I raise a brow, only answering her after I've sipped my drink - water with an olive to pass for alcohol. I like to keep my reflexes quick. "Not from what I saw. You were like a ballerina on that dance floor."

"You're too kind," she places a hand on my upper arm, slides it down until she's got my wrist in her grip, "and much too handsome to be alone tonight.

Ah, there it is. I smile again, taking another sip. She watches my throat work down the water, lip trapped in her teeth. Tempting, yes, but not an option. It would be wrong, she wouldn't know what I was. What I do.

"I would love to spend the night with you love, but," Her big brown eyes ask me to not disappoint her, but I'm not a magnanimous man, "I can't."

She's pouting. Her wine glass is almost empty and her lips are stained dark red. It would be wrong in more than one way. I don't bed drunk girls.

"Why not, handsome?" Her grip tightens, bringing my hand closer to her body, my fingertips grazing her waist, "Do you think I'm trouble?"

I set my drink down, pressing my lips close to her ear. She leans in, a sigh leaving her lips. Can she hear the smile in my voice? Or does she just hear the low rasp of a haunted man.

"I'm the one who's trouble, love." I twist my wrist, easily breaking her hold, "You're far too sweet for a dangerous man like me."

She gasps, probably thinks it's a joke or an elaborate way to get into her knickers. I step back, turn on my heel, and walk away without a single glance back.

I take long strides to the loo, taking off my tie as I move. My target entered the bathroom three minutes ago, just before Doe Eyes caught me.

If he's not in here I'll have to waste another hour subtly tracking him again. That would be highly inefficient.

It smells like mint and puke in the loo, but it's quiet and dark. Empty expect for one man. Richard Ghee, mid fifties, bald, heavy-set, and one minute away from being dead.

He doesn't react to my presence, like a sheep who doesn't recognize the wolf. I jam the door, tying the handle to the bathroom stall lock.

Richard only acknowledges me when I slide off my blazer. He eyes the quick rolling of my sleeves, zipping up his trousers like I'll leap for his private parts.

"Woah, easy lad, I don't want to have to hurt you."

I don't smile, I don't glare. I'm ice cold. He seems to notice something isn't right, beady eyes shifting to the locked door. Sweat beads at his temple.

The sheep just caught a whiff of the wolf.

I'm swift, quiet, clean. No pain, no hassle. One man who caused so much pain is gone in seconds, and I've got half a million in my bank account. Easy.

A gun for hire. An assassin. A murderer - All just names for a job that makes my skin tight when a beautiful girl wants to know me. No one can ever know me, or they'll hate me.

This is why I'm a Martian, just wearing human skin. I slip out of the window, and glance up at the crisp night sky.

Mars is up there, maybe I wouldn't feel like an alien there. Maybe it would feel like I'm not a monster.

I hold onto that thought as I slip into the night, trying to forget about Doe Eyes and a life where Earth still feels like a home...

The field outside my window goes on for miles, an endless wave of gold wheat that crashes against the shore of a barb-wired fence. It glows in the setting sun.

Cornflower blue sky. Sharp white clouds. Cool summer breeze. Honeyed sunset.

I count the crows gathering around my scarecrow, screaming their jagged songs into the darkening sky. There's seven... maybe nine. I've lost track.

The coarse rope knotted on my wrists tugs, shifting over tender skin as I press closer to the cool glass. My hot breath fogs it up, the whole image a blurred water color painting.

Heavy boots pound up the stairs, followed by a knock on my door - He doesn't wait for an answer, just walks in.

Austin stands into my room, hat clutched in his hands, hair matted to his skull with sweat - It's the same color as the field.

"Do you-" He stops, looks away, wringing his hat in a white-knuckled grip, "Do you really have to be tied up, Marry."

His words struggle free from his throat like they had to claw past the tightness of his jaw. My fingers itch to sooth the lines around his mouth, the stress in his eyes.

"Yes." I sound steady, sure. I'm a better lair than I thought.

The sun falls, darkness crawling into its place. The field is shifting in the growing wind, the sound like that of a rattle-snake. I hate rattle-snakes.

Austin steps into my space, his body like a furnace. I lean back against his stomach, the knobs of my spine pressing into the icy chill of his belt buckle. He runs a hand through my stringy black hair, setting his palm on my thin shoulder.

"We just won't go to sleep, Marry," His southern drawl cradles the words, my name like an old country lullaby, "we can stay up all night."

I scoff, a nasty sound dredged up from the twisting pile of black snakes in my stomach. Austin tenses, on edge. I twerk my wrist against the rope, gritting my teeth against the fresh wave of pain.

"I've tried that, and it didn't fucking work." His fingers draw away, mistaking my anger, placing the blame on himself, "Nothing fucking works."

The anger bleeds out, exhaustion flooding the emptiness in my bones. The delicate skin on my wrists gives way to the rope, a trickle of blood traveling the path of my arm.

"Every night I wake up under the same crooked tree." The wind picks up, the scarecrow tilting in the force of it, the birds taking flight, "I'm naked, and there are voices... yelling things. Terrible things."

It's fully dark out, night has fallen. My heart has crawled up up up, pounds away in my throat. The trickle of blood becomes a steady drip, a steady flow.

"And there's a hangman's noose on the tree, and-" My voice cuts off, like a scratched record, "and there's a shadow, hanging in the noose. It's a woman."

And I'm not in the attic anymore, Austin's warm body isn't pressed along my back anymore, the wind isn't trapped behind a glass anymore - I'm naked, alone, beneath the Hanging Tree.

A scream is trapped in my throat, my wrists free of the rope, bloody and mangled. No color, just black and white. Shadows circle the tree.

'Hang the witch!' 'You'll hang just like her!'

The woman, the ghost, sways in the wind. Crows circle above, seven, maybe nine. I dig my fingers into the dirt, claw at the soil to wake up. Wake up.

The mob gets closer, blocking out the fields of wheat. She's not in the noose anymore, the rope twisting towards me.

'Her blood flows in those veins, Witch. You'll hang for that.'

I look to my palms, covered in dirt and blood. Blood tied to the Witch, to the dead, to the shadows. I smear the rich dirt and thick blood down my chest, breathing to the ruthless chants of the phantoms.

'Hang her... Hang her... Hang her...'

I press my hand to the tree, a bright streak of red against the black bark. They're louder, closer. I press my head to the tree, and the scream trapped in my throat breaks free - It sounds like a hundred women, the bloody gargled screams of a hundred innocent women.

The chanting stops, silence stretching out in its place.

I'm alone, on a hill, under a tree.

The sun has just begun rising...

The fields are gold again.

A bleak grey sky stretches past my car window, a watercolor splotch of a day. My legs ache. The radio has been on for so long we've heard repeats.

Mom doesn't mind, hums along to Bon Jovi like he's live in concert. Suits her, this lack of concern or worries. She's prettier like this, her eyes look brighter.

My shoulders feel smaller, cramped and rounded, like the world is shrinking around me. The world is only as big as Mom's two-door car.

My eyes feel light without sparkling eyeshadow. My lips feel naked without glossy lipstick. My waist feels unsteady in Dad's old Radiohead T-Shirt instead of a tight dress.

I spread my toes out against the carpet of the car, the crumbs from breakfast-lunch-and-dinner crunching beneath my bare foot. I hated high heels.

"We're almost there, look." Mom nudges me, smiling so hard I can see laugh lines like tattoos on her face, "a new life just waiting for us."

A newer, better life in CaterTown... that's what the welcoming sign says, anyways.

Moving into the new house is a blur, like the bleak skies that moved past my window. Diner is a blur, sleep is a blur, waking up is a blur.

Life becomes a watercolor, melting into itself until glitter and lights fade and I'm not a queen or a princess but an outsider to my own skin...

I tug at my cheek, naked without blush. Poke at my eyelid, pressing purple spots into my vision.

My mirror reflects a healthy young girl with average grades and a great smile, but it misses the insides. My insides are twisted up and constricting like a python.

No makeup to hide the desolation in my eyes.

There's a knock at our door. Mom can't answer it, she's out with... who is it today? Steve?

Mom is busy trying to forget dad's affair by sleeping her way through CaperTown. It's ok, we all have our own way of dealing with loss.

I press my fingernail into my plump bottom lip, trying to flush the blood to make it red. Mom threw out all my makeup, said I didn't need it anymore. Who am I if not a pretty face and a tight dress?

Another knock. They won't go away. If it's a cookie scout girl I'm going to rip my hair out. I can't have sugar, I need to keep my figure.

But it's not a cookie scout, or a girl. It's a boy. About my age, shaggy hair and an apple pie smile.

"Hey, I'm your next door neighbor." I blink at him, regretting my oversized shirt and boxers. "My mom held me at gunpoint to make me give this to you. It's a pineapple cake. We wanted you to feel welcomed to our neighborhood, and to never be shy to ask for sugar or milk if you need some. We have a lot, my Mom never stops baking, our house smells like a bakery. Hold up, are you ok darlin'?"

It's a pineapple cake. My favorite fruit is pineapple, use to eat so much my tongue would be raw for days. It's a cake, though. The last time I had cake was my fourteenth birthday, couldn't have sugar after that.

"Hey, did I say something wrong? Was it the gun point thing?" He shifts the cake, the yellow glaze catching the light, "Shit, I knew I shouldn't have said that. Y'all are from up north, probably ain't use to gun talk. I'm sorry darlin."

His voice is soothing, young and naive and sweet. Just like I was before I had to squeeze into a size 0 at fifteen. Without thought, chest light and giddy, I reach out. My finger tip catches the glaze, a tiny chunk of pineapple coming with it.

I suck my finger clean, a laugh smashing into my chest. It's so good, so sweet and forbidden and god, life could be filled with pineapple cakes and adorable southern boys.

No more makeup, no more hiding the imperfections.

"Ok, yeah, you wanna' check if it's good. I get that." He laughs, head tilted like he's trying to figure me out, "Do you want it?"

I giggle, throwing my head back as a bigger laugh slams into me. He joins in, confused but happy to play along with my sunny breakdown.

"Yes, yes I want the cake." I grab the platter, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, "I want a sweeter life."

My hands are steady. I want them to shake. I want them to tremble and crumble and be broken. I want to smash my fingers until they quake. They should be shaking. I should be uncontrollable.

"What happened?"

I can't even place the voice to a name. It's familiar. I can't lift my eyes to check. My hands are still steady.

"What the fuck happened?" The voice is angry, harsher. I should respond.

"He sacrificed his life for mine . . ." I laugh to hide the crack in my voice, the pathetic whimper building in my throat, "after all I did . . ."

Someone tries to push me aside, away from him, but don't move. I'm steady. I grip his bloody shirt, warm with his fading body-warmth. My fingers creak with how tight I hold on.

"Get away from him." The voice is loud, screaming.

Another voice starts up, softer, tone wet with tears, "He must've forgave her, he must've if he died for her."

He shouldn't have. I betrayed him, rotted our trust with my greed. He should've let me die, let me burn in hell. He would never do that, though, because he was the good-hearted one.

He was my moral compass.

My hands start slow, a small tremor before my entire body starts spasming. I constrict with loss, with grief. A sob breaks through the tightness in my throat, shattering the silence that had settled over me.

Pain, that's all I've ever known, and that's all I'll ever know. Pain is all I'll ever have.

So I wipe away my tears with a bloody, steady hand, and laugh. It sounds like shards of glass scraped against my raw, tired vocal chords.

"I knew he was stupid, but I didn't think he was stupid enough to forgive me."

There's yelling, again, and gentle shushing sounds. I don't hear much else, I'm too busy laughing. Or crying. I can't tell anymore.

"I'd be careful if I were you..." Her voice drags across my ears like glass, shards of something sharp and painful, "One wrong move and our planet gets wiped clean."

Heat sizzles to life on my cheeks, in my chest. Anger is boiling hot, scolds my stomach and the Toothpaste-like breakfast I had earlier.

"Do you understand the stakes, Soldier? Or are you conducting yourself with your usual level of incompetence."

She calls me 'solider' in her tight, cold British accent. It's a nickname meant to degrade me, to condescend me. It doesn't work, most of the time.

I wipe away a bead of sweat that's gathered on the scar above my right eyebrow, the one I got in Training. Millie was in my class. She hated me then, still hates me now.

"You're not helping." My voice is low, lower than I thought it could go.

She scoffs, leaning harder into the doorframe, looming over me. Her tight white tank top shows off her slight, wiry frame.

My hands are steady. Red wire. Blue wire. Green. Yellow. Black. Red. My pliers hover over them.

I'm the only other Technician on the Spaceship, Millie does some mindless button-clicking job in the Cockpit. Why is she even down here?

"I wasn't lying, you know." She picks at a nail, at the long sharp nails that gave me my deep, pink scar, "If you fuck up, the Spaceship will fail, and the Earth will implode without the oxygen we're pumping from-"

I cut in, my vocal chords slamming together like loud, angry percussions, "From the oxygen filled planet near the massive Nebula, yeah, I know."

Millie stops picking at her nail. She goes stock still. Almost seems like she's stopped breathing, too. It doesn't matter, she could drop dead for all I care.

I cut the black wire, replacing it with tacky glue that helps the electrical current - Technology has come a long way since 2020.

"You aren't allowed to speak to me like that, Solider." She sounds colder, like the ice queen she really is.

I stand abruptly, easily a head taller than her. She doesn't shrink into herself, but something flickers in her eyes. I don't read into it.

"And I'm not a soldier," I press closer to her, the heat of my body melting the ice covering her's, "And you're not the Captain. You failed that Test, remember?"

Millie's hand shoots out, nails as sharp as they were in Training, when we were ten years younger and we hadn't been floating in a dark, star-full wasteland. I snatch it before it can cut across my skin. Not making the same mistake twice.

"Let go of me you fucking-" She starts loud, and angry, and full of years of blood curdling hate.

I squeeze her wrist, tight, pressing it into the wall, pinning her. The wild beast spilling from her lips dies out, only a soft, mindless sound left in her throat.

"That's enough, Millie, just stop." I ignore the blackness seeping out in her eyes, her pupils swallowing all the color, "It was fun when there were no stakes, but the stakes are too high now."

She tests my grip, tugs a little. I dig my fingers into the soft, pale skin of her wrist, and she sags. It's as if she's a puppet, and I've just cut her strings.

Millie's dark, black hair falls in soft waves down her chest. Her cheeks are a pretty peach color, lips parted to release small, soft sounds.

Mille would be beautiful if she wasn't such an asshole.

I let go of her, easily ignoring the feeble whine that pushes past her soft, pink lips. I step back. Away from the heat, from the years of familiar give and take, pull and push.

I clear my throat, facing the hallway out of the Electrical Circuit room, back to Millie, "Don't distract me next time I need to save the world, yeah?"

She scoffs, but it lacks her usual bite, "Sure thing, Peter."

I Ignore the flutter of hearing her call me 'Peter'. I Ignore how nice she smells, how warm her skin is, how pretty she is, how sharp witted and playfully cruel.

Ignore, ignore, ignore... maybe one day these feelings will go away.

Humid, loud, and packed. My heart is squeezing in my chest, tight with panic. Too many people, too much noise. A drunk, slurring girl knocks into me. I'm drenched in cheap beer. Air, I need air.

The sound of the party roars like an amphitheater until the back door slams shut. Silence rings in my ears. The air is crisp, like a clean slap across my face.

I sit down on the backstairs with a deep sigh. The forest stretches out in front of me, daunting shadows painted on the night sky. Haunting, but pretty.

"I should've known I'd find you here."

I scream, a shrill embarrassing sound only the dogs can hear. Mark startles, screaming in response. When we both fall silent, only the crickets fill the space between us.

He looks... good. Healthy, just as blonde and cute as before, but healthier. Maybe I was making him sick.

"Sorry about that, my nerves are shot." My voice barely carries across the canyon between us.

He laughs. Mark is always laughing. "Well my ears are shot, too. Now we match."

Mark always had the sense of humor. I was the glum one, always the shadow on his sunshine. It's easier to see his shine when I'm not blotting it out.

"Yeah... I'm sorry-" my voice chokes out, like his eyes caught me in a chokehold. "I'm glad you're still you, Mark."

He doesn't laugh, just smiles. That smile use to bloom a thousand flowers in my chest, now it merely puts me at ease.

"I'm very glad you didn't change either, Kelly." He sounds genuine, which is new. Mark never use to sound genuine, everything was always a joke.

I laugh and hope it doesn't sound as hallow as it feels, "I really hope I've changed. No one wants Kelly from a year ago."

"Sure they did, I was just too busy getting in your way."

I blink, because it's the only thing my body will do. Anymore than blinking will send my nervous system into shock.

Mark's hair looks like a halo in the warm back porch light, small bugs flitting around him like sparks, "I use to hide you from people, unintentionally of course. I'd be big, you'd be small. I'd be loud, you'd be quiet."

I open my mouth... nothing comes out. He smiles again, gentle as a lapping wave after a storm.

"You deserve to be front and center, and I was hogging the limelight."

Oh. That's... something. I smile, and it feels real. It feels just as warm as Marks hugs use to be, how warm our bed was at night, how warm the sun was when I was a kid.

"You're not the villain, Mark." I nod, like I'm agreeing with myself, "Neither of us are. There's nothing to be sorry about."

He nods along with me, and laughs again. Good, he should always laugh. His laugh could cure a headache.

He hooks a finger over his shoulder, wiggling his brows like an old cartoon character, "Wanna' head back inside and find you a new man to lust after?"

And just like that, my heart doesn't ache when I look at him. Old wounds have healed, he's just a scar. A fun story to tell when someone asks.

"Oh shut up, I never lusted after you Mark." I shove past him, smiling at his burst of laughter.

Mark jumps inside, screaming right behind me, "Kelly Jones is looking for a hot blooded man, can anyone help her?"

A chorus of whoops and hollers ring out. I laugh along with Mark. The whole party feels endless, like tonight could be the start of the rest of my life.

Mark pats my back. feels good to have an old friend back.

"Once you do this, you can never go back. You understand?"

The seat beneath me is ice cold, despite the fact I've been sitting in it for five hours. My wrists hurt. The glare of the bright light above reflects of the silver table. The table separates me from Chief Harris.

He's a large man, tall, broad. Like an oak tree, aged and full of strength. His eyes leave no room for masks, or facades. I'm bare, his gaze piercing through the smile I hide behind. My is ass numb and my is heart pounding.

I try to give my signature smirk, something nasty and suggestive, "You sound like you're talking to a virgin before popping her cherry."

He sighs, a long, heavy thing that weighs down on me. He's disappointed in me. The thought skitters across my back like a spider, tickling some ancient need to make someone proud. I haven't felt that in a long, long time.

"You can make jokes all you want, Jonas," He wipes his eyes, tired, a wilted oak tree, "but the situation will remain serious."

I scoff, bouncing my thighs. My dirty, muddy boots smudge the pristine interrogation room floors. My nose is still crusty with blood. They handcuffed me to stop the wild, desperate flailing of my arms. I was lost in panic, drowning in survival mode.

"Hey," his voice is soft, a low, smooth melody meant to lull children to sleep, "just tell me what I already know, and I'll put him away. For good."

For good. He won't hurt me anymore. The idea sounds bogus. Sir, Father, Dad. He'll be trapped in a metal cell, just like he's trapped me in fear. Fear of his anger. He's always so angry. Mom left a hole, a hole filled with rage and despair and I've filled it. Filled it with tears, and bruises, and scars and blood and-

"Calm down, Jonas."

I gasp, pulling away from the thunder storm raging in my skull. My eyes are burning hot. My cheeks are wet. I hate crying.

Harris's brows are pulled down in concern, though his hand is clenched in anger. Anger at Sir, I hope. I'd be trapped, caught like a rabbit if he decided to use me as a breathing punching bag. Wouldn't be the first time.

I laugh, but it sounds more like a sigh of defeat, "Alright, Chief Harris," I lean down to my hands, wiping away salty tears, hissing at the sensitive skin around my eye, "I, Jonas Grove, am being abu... abused by my father, Nathan Grove. Happy now?"

He shakes his head, "No."

My heart drops and my throat locks up, he doesn't believe me? Sir will find out and he'll really kill me now, I won't be rescued, he'll let me bleed out on the cold, hard floor and-

"No, I'm not happy, Jonas."

A weight lifts off me, like butterflies have filled my stomach and rearranged my guts to better fit a ball of pure joy. He's being put away. For good.

Harris stands, leaning over to unlock me. I draw my hands to my chest, rubbing my wrists. He stares at me, at the blood under my nostrils. The purple blooming on my eye. He stares until he has the words,

"What are you going to do, now that he's gonna' be gone?"

The ball of light resting in my stomach bursts, rays of hope shining down on every heavy, dark demon hiding in my blood.

It starts as a giggle, then it grows, like a song, reaching the last chorus, throwing in all the horns and violins. I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Or maybe that's just the pain from a well aimed boot, whatever, details are irrelevant.

I can't stop laughing, not even to respond,

"Anything, I can do anything now."

He smiles, and it's like my future is finally something I can see. It's not shrouded in pain and a young death. I'm free. I can do anything and everything.