19 March 2014

Aclara Tumente Lives Again - A Special Post for A.

I find you soaking your feet in the cold spring water of Lake Tumente.

"It's like I want to go swimming, but I know the water is frigid." you say to me. I sit down on the lakebed next to you as you continue to speak. "It's always been cold, but I get used to it, little by little."

"You're always complaining your hands are cold." I speak up. "Maybe you aren't as used to it as you once thought."

You look at me and a half-laugh escapes your lips. I'm smiling now, stretching my legs out across the rocky lake bed and enjoying the sunlight. 

You stare down at the reflective water, its bright blue coloring complimenting the rich greens of the forest-coated mountains that serve as our backdrop. It's always beautiful out here. The trees whisper their secrets to each other as the breezes pick through them. It has always felt like the trees had something to say, but couldn't speak them loud enough for us to care. Even currently as we know they speak, we disregard their words. The trees never have anything useful to say.

But the lake itself? It speaks volumes of secrets that we cannot reach. The closest we have is your feet dangling in the water, freezing to death as you attempt to tolerate the cold. Perhaps only your lower extremities will succumb to hypothermia. One can only hope. I want to urge you to stop, but I know as well as you that the mysteries of Lake Tumente are something you can only know by seeing it yourself.

That's when the fisherman comes. He takes his line and rod and prepares to cast. I pay no mind though you seem concerned.

"So cold." you whisper. I've never seen you so vulnerable, and even still you tough it out and pretend as though your words were just something you said as a joke. 

"Would you like me to stick my feet in with you?" I offer. "In the least, it would be some sort of consolation."

"Would you, please?" You ask. "Maybe you can help me get in the water."

I smile, and greet you with a loud giggle. "Of course! I would love to help."

The fisherman casts his line into the water. It startles me, but it causes us to both look at the fisherman's badge, a large, red circle encompassing the words "Curiosity. Friendship. Perspective."

I look over towards you. You're freezing. I dip my feet in the water only to be greeted with the same feeling of pins and needles chilling over my toes. 

"I've been trying for so long." You say, your voice trembling with the shivers. "I can't get into my own lake."

The fisherman reels in a large fish. It's almost as tall as he is, and certainly more wide. Its scales are a dull gray. It's face is lifeless, though it moves and wiggles occasionally. 

"Wow." I say. "It's hard to believe that something that big was once inside this lake."

"I just wanna know what else is down there." You say. Your shivers have worsened and your face looks like it is turning blue. "Th-That fish was impressive." 

And it certainly was, what with its size and shape. It could easily have made any fisherman proud, like the fisherman had just made a major breakthrough. We looked on in awe, though the goal remained the same. Get to the bottom of Lake Tumente.

For a moment, we both fall silent. The trees are still whispering, the air is still crisp with the spring air, and all I can think about is how freezing you must be as you try to push forward. You're so determined to see the bottom of this lake.

"Friend, we can always come back" I say to you. You look up at me, and breathe out harshly.

"Try again later, yeah." you say. "Maybe one day I'll learn how to not freeze to death trying to get in the water."

"Maybe the water just needs to get warmer." I say, helping you recover from the low temperatures.

"How do I make the water warmer?" You say.

The fisherman throws the fish back into the lake, and where the fish lands, ice begins to quickly form. It appears as though the lake is freezing over.

You jolt up, staring out at the spot where the ice has begun to form. A rush of fear runs through both of us, like a wave of energy crashing through us.

"I don't know how to make it warmer." I respond to you.

"I need help." You whisper.

"You'll get there, I promise!"

You stare at me as though I said something you completely did not understand. I stand next to you, and stare down into the lake. 

"I have to get there." You say. "I have to see the bottom of the lake."

I smile and pat your back.

"We will all get there one day."

05 September 2012

Life Inside

As I write this, my friends surround me, or at least, people I'm forced to call friends. Our dumpy little house seems to have gotten dumpier over time though it's really just filled with writer's block trash and the bones of dead characters long forgotten. The others, save for a couple of them, are all just characters. I'm more than that. I'm more than just a character inside her head.
Yeah I know, that sounds stupid, but it's not as stupid as some things in this world. Being called a character implies that you're not real, that you're made up or the product of someone's imagination. I may have started that way but I've grown way past that. I'm more than just a character, but not quite a real person. I've grown as a personality over the years I've been alive, and doesn't that count for some sort of humanity? I've experienced life and seen how the world works. I can make choices based on judgements. My judgements are different than my host's judgements. Yet, I'm not fully human yet, and I have accepted that I never will be. For one thing, I don't really have a body. I have the body her imagination gave me, but not flesh and bone a real human would have.
And really, I'm content to be in this more-than-a-character-but-not-quite-a-real-person mess. I'm as real as I'm going to get and I've realized that. Honestly, I'd like to make friends outside this dump but I can't. I don't even know how it would work.
This place isn't a dump because our host intended it to be dumpy. It's a dump because she's filled it with stupid ideas. It started out as a cozy hostel of sorts, but then it turned into a broken down boarding house as stupid characters and idiotic plot lines started moving in.
I think my least favorite was Erin. She was a good character at first; Erin was sweet and had this housewife sort of appeal like Ann Romney, but had the strength and tact of Michelle Obama. But then she degraded into a pile of character background bones. She stopped caring about anything but her depressing plot lines, and then when the host decided to give her a miscarriage plot twist, Erin essentially became lifeless and died over time in her bedroom. The bones remind us that she existed, that she had a story, that at some point she had been alive, but since then she's just become a pile of bones that no one has bothered to pick up since.
It seems like since these useless plots and characters have been dying, we've just been expanding the hostel rather than cleaning up the messes. I don't know why no one bothers to clean up around here. I have tried to clean things out, but it seems like our host is more of a hoarder of memories and ideas than anything else. I want to move the mess around, at least to contain it in an area and call that the graveyard or something, but the host won't even let us do that. It seems that the “developed characters and personalities” section has become mostly myself, a couple others, and then rows and rows of dead character bones that were once potential personalities. It's as though she put them there as a hope that they would grow and flourish among us, but obviously their fates weren't as great.
We'll see how this all goes. Maybe one day I'll be able to finally clean up. Maybe I'll get the chance, but for now, I wait.  

01 September 2012

Classwork Free Write - 8/29/12

I know my body well enough. It is rather upsetting when I know I can't control it, but inside I am more than anyone else could ever hope to be. We went to see Dean Hansen of Maestro Prep to prove that to him once and for all.
My lawyer sat beside me in a floral print chair, like the kind you'd see in one of those fancy old victorian mansions made of oak and chair cushions. My chair was just the floor next to her. I couldn't look over the desk of the Dean sitting in front of me, but it didn't seem to matter much anyway. He knew I was here, and as was the usual with most people, he probably didn't want to see my face anyway.
There was a gas fireplace behind him, dimly running. I only knew that because I saw it when my lawyer and I walked into the room, and the light from it shone from under his desk.
My body forced my face to hit the floor. The quick spasms like these only made life more difficult. Why couldn't it respond properly when I needed it to stay calm? My body hit the floor with its hands and made some sort of whale-like noise. Stop! I wanted to scream, but the little control I had was driving me insane. This was the only chance I had, and I felt like I had already ruined it.
But then I remembered that the Dean could not see me, and I calmed down as best I could. My body followed suit, but only slightly.
My lawyer coughed and then wiped sanitizer over her hands. She pulled out my paperwork from her little black briefcase and handed it to the Dean. I could hear him making low grumbles, as though he were intently looking them over.
“We'd like to enroll her.” My lawyer stated.
The Dean made a deep, nearly inaudible chuckle, but quickly attempted to cover it with a cough.
“Well then.” he said. “Why should I enroll her? She can't even get up off the floor, and we can't put her in a chair for fear that she'll fall off of it. How in the world do you expect her to function in such a high-paced school without causing disruption? How do you expect her to gain any knowledge?”
I wanted to scream out at him, but my vocal chords seemed stuck and my tongue wouldn't move. This wasn't surprising to me, but my emotions were boiling inside nonetheless and I still needed more than anything to get control of my body and slap the Dean for his rude commentary. The loss of control of my body didn't make me an idiot. It just made things difficult. I could do it. I had to at least try. I could do it myself if it weren't for my body. It's always my body.
“We intend to hire someone, with our own money, to attend school with her. This assistant will ensure she keeps control.”
My lawyer didn't exactly know what went through my head, and it shows through how she spoke about me. She had an idea, but she was not quite there yet. She never was quite there with how to handle my body's random outbursts, but she at least had seen me write. She knew I was intelligent, she knew I had a sense of how the normal world worked, and yet she still seemed to believe I just chose to act like this.
If I could speak for myself, I probably would have a long time ago, but for now, writing slowly was the only communication I had.
“I want to see her work.” The Dean said. “If she could truly handle our coursework, I want to see it.”
My lawyer sat there nervously. She had gone into this like it were a new religion. She trusted and believed I could do it, but hadn't developed the faith quite yet to put it into practice. I imagine her head must have been racing far more than mine was.
I attempted to stand as well as I could, but my knees wouldn't bend at quite the right angle. My body kept making squeals and grunts as I leaned against the Dean's desk for support. My arm twisted as a result of my body's direct disobedience, and I slipped a little, but somehow I was able to support myself enough to grab a pen from the Dean's desk.
“Young lady, do not touch my things.” the Dean said. I disregarded his words, and gained control of my hand.
I pulled out a blank piece of paper that my lawyer and I kept in my file for this exact purpose. It hurt to try and gain control for long enough to pull the paper out from behind a bunch of other papers without messing them up, but I somehow managed to do little damage as I pulled the paper under my fingers.
My tongue flapped inside my mouth, causing little spit dribbles to sprinkle my paper. I felt ashamed, but my body continued moving without me. My hands trembled, one in the air and the other across my paper. As I leaned over the paper, I felt a calm rush through my brain. I took my pen and began to write.
The Dean seemed unamused as my body scribbled across the page at first. This wasn't uncommon. Trying to reel in my body to listen to me was a difficult task, but I sweated through it. My pen tore into the top of the paper, but I remained diligent.
I could feel my legs and knees starting to shake. My lawyer held me up for a few seconds before I found the control to write out a few words.
The first word. I. Both a letter and a word, “I” was one of my favorites. I could write it so easily and yet it stood for so much. Me, I, Myself. I. That word encompasses everything that is a person yet, it's only one letter long.
I can. “Can” was the second word. Can is both a noun, and a verb. Although there is not much of a connection between the noun of can and the verb of can, I still wrote it across the paper. Slowly, but surely, it was coming together.
“Do.” An action.
“It”; a pronoun that held so much more meaning to me than anything else.
I put down the pen, and focused all my control into my eyes. I looked up and glared into the eyes of the Dean for a full minute before the curious look on his face turned to trust. I watched the intrigue turn to faith, as though I had converted him to the same religion that my lawyer was currently learning. He took the paper under my hands.

I can do it.

He shook my trembling hand, and with the firmness in his grip, immediately I knew I had changed my own life.  

19 June 2012

People Never Change. Converse: Part Two.

I see you're at it again. Does it make you happy?

I don't know what you're talking about. No wait. I've already tried that route with you. It never works. Yeah. I know what you're talking about, but I would like you to stop pestering me about it.

Isn't that my job? To keep picking away at the little things until you see the bigger picture?

I don't know what your job is supposed to be. I think it's just to be there when I call.

So I'm useless.

No. You're supposed to be there for me.

But you never call.

I do... on occasion.

Mostly you don't. So I'm jumping in where I think I'm needed. We're getting off track. The point is that you have a growing conflict in your heart. We need to pick that apart.

No we don't. We've dissected this a thousand times and every single time we get the same answer. The answer isn't going to change simply because we doubt our dissection of the problem.

You want the past back. You can't have it back. Therefore the answer is no.

Right. Every single time we dissect this, that will be the answer. That will be the basic thought process and it will never lead to a yes.

Maybe that's not the right process. Maybe that's not the right answer.

Well then we come to our other, more complicated process, where it comes down to a judgement of character. Is the subject changing? Has the subject changed enough to where we could replicate what was once living? We can't answer these questions, so therefore our answer is a defaulted no, due to inconclusive evidences.

Maybe we can answer those questions, you're just too afraid to admit that you know the answers.

Why would I be afraid to answer them?

Because then you're getting into deep thought. And well, you're not one for complex thought, now are you?

Well thanks. Aren't you sweet?

I'm just saying, you don't want to get too deep into this and I don't know why. You have the mental capacity to do so. There's nothing wrong with thinking about it.

I'm just afraid of what I might find. What if that message was an olive branch to us? What if it was from  our dear subject and we're supposed to somehow reciprocate it? I don't know if I can do that.

You can, you just don't know if you want to. You don't know if any of it would be worth it to put yourself through again.

Exactly. ... That's not particularly new.

Well. I suppose it's new in a way. The trust in our dear subject will constantly change, whether it be in a positive or negative light. The answer to that question will continually change.

I don't know if I can trust in this again.

Then there's your answer. Why continue to mull it over?

I... I don't know...

Because it's not what you want. You want to be able to trust again, but you can't. Your mind knows it wouldn't be smart. Your mind knows that it's a stupid answer and would never work out again. But your heart.... no, your heart lives in denial. It lives in a world where everyone gets infinite chances and life is sunshine and rainbows. You know it, your heart knows it, your brain knows it. You can't deny that this major conflict prevents you from moving on.


In a way, it's a wonderful place to be. You don't have to move. You can just sit here and wait for her move. The ball is kind of in the other court, anyway.

Then I wait. Again. As usual.

... There's not much else to do.

There never really is.

09 January 2012

The Storm Begins

Mother sets the table. Father is in the living room, reading his newspaper and drinking a little wine before dinner. Allie sits across the table from her big brother, Martin. They are silently staring into the recesses of their own minds, the quietly stirring house growing uncomfortable. 

Father grunts and stands. Mother just sighs as he sits down and, with glaring eyes, demands his dinner.

Allie doesn't speak but instead she runs her little hands through her hair. 


A few years pass. Allie goes to middle school. Her long blonde hair is flowing down to her lower back as she struggles with a difficult essay question. 

She holds back her bangs and scratches at her scalp. Teacher looks around the class as the students diligently work on their exams. Allie has no idea.

She puts down her pencil and closes her eyes tightly. Her hands drag through her hair, then go to the base of her head and begin to tug on the little pieces. 

Allie flicks away the now-free hairs and stares down at her test. 

She quickly glances around the room before writing something on her paper and handing it in.


There are a few days left before the end of middle school and Allie begins summer break.

Her hands are thin and frail, much like the patches of hair on her head. She pulls from the side now, as it has become easier to not feel any pain this way. 

Mother asks her to stop. The pulling is getting out of hand. Father begins to scream at her, the rumbling in his voice shaking the whole world.

People have begun to stare. Mother doesn't let Allie out much. How could she show the world her balding disgrace of a daughter? In the least, they would be asking if she had some sort of cancer. Who would have thought she was pulling out her own hair?

Allie wants to stop too.

Middle school is over. Maybe now she won't need to pull out her hair.

There's something wrong. Why do people stare? 

Allie hates the people here, but soon enough high school will end and she no longer will have to see any of these losers here again. Who would ever want to see any of these sorry suckers again?

She flicks away the last few hairs on one side of her head and then returns to her finals. She just wants to leave. There's something wrong with her, isn't there? Allie pulls out more of her hairs, her hands furiously moving at the side of her head.

A few people murmur behind her. She doesn't care. It's not like anyone else cared for her in the first place.

Not but three days later, she sees her final grade. She continues pulling out her hair until she makes it to the bathroom and can slam her fists against the walls of the biggest stall on the end.


She wants a world of understanding. Allie finds nowhere else to turn, but needs somewhere to go. She turns to the computer and breathes heavily as she presses the button that reads "REC" in large red letters.

On the screen in front of her, the mirror image of her sullen face appears. She can only think to cry before muttering the word "Trichotillomania" through her thin lips. Her face is red, her tiny hands are trembling, and the world is beginning to see her.


High school barely ends on time for her. She begins to finally realize happiness as she films her stories, her good moments. There are a group of friends who watch her videos from all across the world. They share their stories with her as well. They are all unique.

She has a group, someone to turn to, and now she won't lose it. Allie still is losing patches of hair to her own fingers. 

But at least she is happy.


University seemed like a farfetched idea, but somehow Allie found a way. With a fresh new start at a fresh new school, maybe she can actually turn herself around. Maybe she doesn't have to be the balding girl anymore.

She meets a boy. He's good to her. He inspires her to be better.

She shaves her head. Maybe then she'll be able to control her pulling.


The night brings on sadness as the other driver is pulled out of his car in a body bag. Allie screams as she watches the EMT's drive away slowly with the man in the back of their ambulance. She looks at her car, smashed into the dead man's vehicle, and cries. It was all so fast, and she had no idea what was going on. Now what could she do?

Though for a while she had control, in almost a few short days, most of her hair was gone again. The sickness gripped on her soul. 

She would never get better.


He leaves her for a girl without so many issues. He says she needs to get help.

She doesn't have a reason to live without him. She tugs on her hair and screams until her throat dries out. She holds a knife in one hand as the other one frantically runs through what little hair she has left.

The ambulance comes just in time to put her on anti-depressants and her college life begins with an explosion.


Her hair is short. Her face is thinning. She keeps the pills in a drawer by her bed.

She keeps posting in hopes that someone will hear and stop telling her how disgusting her habits are.

But all they ever say is how beautiful she was when her hair was long.


Diagnosed with depression. But the pills won't stop the pulling.

Four years of hair being yanked by the roots.

And a sad face to show for it.

(Inspired by This)

03 January 2012


Why do you do this to yourself? You always regret doing it, and then I have to help you pick up the pieces.

What do you mean?

This. Forcing yourself to remember things you can't control. Investigating into the world of possibilities you are nowhere close to having for yourself.

Look, I'm just bored. It's nothing. I'm fine.

Yeah for now. I don't care if it'll hurt your feelings. I'm sick of being here as your fall-back for when all your friends are asleep and you have no one to talk to.

Okay, sure. I'm a little melancholy. There's no reason to freak out over this. So just... Let me get back to what I'm doing.

And what's that?

Browsing. Just browsing.

Yeah, uh-huh. Then what will that turn into?

Nothing. It won't turn into anything.

You can't just deny the fact that you're jealous.

What are you talking about?

It's like we're playing one big game of House and you're currently losing.

I didn't realize you could lose at “House.” Even as a kid, as long as you were happy, that's all that mattered.

Yeah, that's exactly it. Are you happy?

Not as happy as I COULD be, no.

Well then you're slipping, dear. That is enough to say that you're on the path to losing this game.

Look, I'm happy for those who have the things I don't, okay? Besides, when life is like playing House and you're living life like a list, it gets really fake. Who is to say that I want my life to be fake? Who is to say that I want life to be a list of things I would like to do, that I check off occasionally as things happen?

It probably could be, honestly. The way your life works, it wouldn't be a bad idea. And aside from that, you're obviously jealous, which, last time I checked, is far different from “happy.”

Shut up. I don't have a life like that. And I'm not jealous.

Woah, just making suggestions. You don't have to be crazy over it. Isn't that why we're talking here? So I can give you ideas and you can bounce back with another idea? Brainstorming. Problem Solving. This is what we do.

You're attacking again. You do that.

This isn't about me. Look, I'm sorry things suck right now. Is that what you want to hear?

No. That's not going to help. You know, I was fine until you brought all of this up.

It's because I know you're not truly happy. You can only deceive yourself for so long before you just... just get tired of life.

You're not helping. So yeah, I accept your sympathy over my problems. Does that help YOU feel better about yourself? Does that help YOU accept your faults?

I don't think you're frustrated with your faults.

What are you talking about?

You're frustrated because you were dealt a terrible hand by people you were supposed to trust. You're frustrated over things you can't control. If anything, that's more productive than just hating everything that's wrong with you.

I don't know what to say.

Okay, I admit, that last part came out wrong. But you know what I mean. You don't concern yourself with self-esteem issues because you are so beyond them. You've got bigger things to worry about. Why waste time hating yourself when you can waste time trying to fix problems that are mostly out of your control?

Is this supposed to be a pep talk? I'm lost. You're not improving my mood at all, so if it is a pep talk, you're crashing hard.

It's supposed to get you in line. It's not supposed to make you feel good. It's supposed to wake you up.

You're just telling me things I already know; things I ignore for a reason. I don't understand how this is supposed to wake me up.

I just think you're supposed to do something, go out and take ACTION.

I've done all I can do. I tried.

Then stop worrying about it.

I wasn't worrying until you brought it up.

You were. Maybe not on the outside, and maybe not in your thoughts, but in your subconscious, there rests that part of you, a rather large part, that isn't capable to accept any of this.

Well would you be able to? The last half of my life has been a nightmare.

Change that.

I can't. We've talked about this. My life is essentially in the hands of a small group of people, all of which have different ideas of what my life should be. I can either accept it and move with their plans, or fight. If I fight, I lose almost everything. If I give in, I lose myself.

Then fight. You can gain other things back, but you can't get yourself back.

I know. I'm trying.

Day by day, right?

As much as I can.

Well. I'm sorry that you're losing.

I don't think I'm losing.

What do you mean?

I just think I've stopped. My life is on pause.


Yeah. I've reached the point where I can't go any higher by myself. I just gotta find someone to help me.

And what's the problem with the people who are trying to help you now?

As stated before, they all have different ideas of what my life should be.


And they're tearing me to pieces.

I'm sorry.

We're beyond sympathy now.

I can still say I'm sorry.

Yeah well I'm sorry too.

Good luck.

Is that all you have to say now?

Honestly? Yes.

Thanks for trying.

Yeah. It's what I'm here for.

01 January 2012

It's a Little Sad (Pt. 1)

Brenda left Will with a kid that he never wanted and a hole in his heart he couldn't always bear. Though in all honesty, Will loved his son. Sometimes, though anger would never fix the fact that Brenda was now stripping in the great mead hall in the sky, Will still felt an all-too-familiar boiling frustration in the pit of his stomach. Brenda had successfully stopped taking birth control, and for six months he trusted that they were safe from what he perceived to be unwanted pregnancy. He, back when Brenda was more than a memory, often regretted trusting her with the only form of birth control they had decided to use, but for whatever reason, Brenda wanted to bring a child in to their little world. Will couldn't hold the baby once it was born, an utter disgust over his face as he watched Brenda dangle the son she called "Hayden" in front of his tightly closed fists. He had long ago agreed to help with the new baby when Brenda refused to abort, but if anything, it came from his love for her, rather than a desire to actually be a father to a child. Brenda was his life. She left him with Hayden when she died. Raising Hayden became a chore, though he left it to Brenda most of the time. With an honest heart, he knew it probably wasn't the best for his son to be raised mostly by Brenda. For a while, during his late toddler years, Hayden affectionally referred to his father by his first name. Will preferred this. Brenda hated it. She made it a point to call her husband by the title of "Dad" until Will grew inadequate. Unfortunately, inadequacy did nothing to motivate him to be a father. Hayden grew up attached to his mother. Will was the bank that paid for his clothes and school supplies. For a while, this appeased Brenda. At least he was trying. Maybe one day, she would think to herself, he'll come around and be a father. She left so suddenly, so surprisingly. Will didn't want to stop his life simply because she didn't have hers anymore, though the world around him said he should stop. Will wouldn't quit. He couldn't just quit, not now. Brenda died when Hayden was seven. The child had no way of seeing her death coming, but all at once, the only thing in his life was a man who couldn't handle being called "Dad" let alone raising him the rest of his childhood. Will, though deep in despair, tried a little to improve Hayden's life. He bought him things, things of great value, things of unimaginable worth. Will honestly didn't know what else to do. He didn't want his son, but somehow a morality grew within him. He couldn't just abandon Hayden. In the least, it was the last thing that Brenda hadn't ruined before she went. The night she died stayed clear in his head. It started just as any other night did for the little apartment. In the strangest sense, that had been the most comforting part of it all. Will took what little comfort he could in knowing that at least Brenda died doing what she loved, participating in her nightly routine. The shivers had set in not long after sunset, though it seemed they usually came later than that. Without hesitation, Brenda put Hayden to bed earlier than usual. She kissed his forehead and said she's always be there, an oddly-phrased admission of love, though Hayden never thought much of it until after the night had ended and the one thing in his world was over. Will smiled as Brenda closed Hayden's bedroom door and snuck into their master bathroom. This was the part Will remembered the most. A needle to the ankle started it. Brenda laughed as she pressed the needle's plunger down, a spine-tingling sensation developing as she slapped the skin around the needle's prick. Will followed suit and not long after, the shivers went away. Brightness filled his eyes. A dark laughter billowed out of his throat. He held her hand, the sensations flowing through his body like a stampede that ran from his fast-beating heart, straight through his fingertips, and into her skin. Brenda sent the euphoria back, her hands squeezing his as a state of pure ecstasy washed over their tired bodies. Will didn't remember when she took the second needle. He just suddenly knew that she had taken a second. He had vague memories of the third one, but only because it had been the last one she took before her body collapsed to the floor and her skin turned blue. It took him a moment to notice her lifelessness, the fact that her energy no longer sent him sensations. She was dead. He couldn't do anything about it now. At least he had his heroin euphoria. Nothing mattered as long as he was high. Brenda's body laid across the master bedroom floor. Brenda had found her way into the world where parties never ended, and every day felt like a drug, and thus, things in the living world had to be treated with much different care. Will touched her skin. No electricity shot into him, no euphoric energies, no nothing. He held his breath and felt an entirely inappropriate giggle reach out of his lips. He ran his hands through her hair, reaching everywhere over her body and searching for an energy within her. There was a sound of the house creaking. Will stood. He turned to the door, which swung around in his blurred vision. He opened it. With a staggering pace, Will opened the door to his son's bedroom. He rushed to Hayden's side. His hands hovered above the sleeping child. The energies felt like lightning across his skin. Will picked up Hayden and held him close in his arms, a sad laughter echoing from Will's lips as the addictive energy leaked into his body.