17-YEAR-OLD NICK BENDER LOOKED AT HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR.     The mirror was a little warped from all the steam bending it, making him look a little more deranged than he already was. From what he could see—and more so feel—was a busted lip, broken nose, black eye, and an ever growing bruised ego. Lucky for him, his hair covered the scar that crossed his eyebrow (Frank had thrown a bottle and shards had been flying but that wasn't really the problem right now). Bringing the already bloody scrap of toilet paper to his lip, he hissed at the contact.

     Part of Nick wanted to lie to himself and say that this was normal, that some fathers just weren't built to be fathers. But none of it was normal. Nick wasn't normal in every sense of the word. From having been one of the tallest kids in his class to also being one of the gay ones, he was made to be picked on. Some could not care less about his existence while others couldn't help but acknowledge it—and Nick couldn't pick which one was worse: to not exist or to exist for everyone else's benefit. The undefeated loneliness was a whole other thing and a half. And to come "home" to someone who essentially wanted nothing to do with him? Even if he made up half of his DNA? Cherry on top.

    That day had been the last straw. Nick could've sworn on his premade grave Frank wouldn't have been back for another hour when he started making out with one of his classmates. The classmate didn't matter, it was a one-time deal, anyway—he had just wanted to know what it felt like and Nick was the only one available. Maybe it was Nick's fault for thinking that anything he had going on with anyone would fall any deeper than a baseline makeout session but he did get throttled by his father from time to time, so he couldn't really blame himself for his bar being a little low. But lo and behold, Nick's teeth were sunk into his classmate's neck, careful not leave a hickey, when Frank came thundering through the house.

    Nick blinked back the rest as he zoned back into what he was doing. Images flashed between his ears and he flinched, dropping the toilet paper into the sink. That was when he started feeling it—the tightening in his chest, his airway closing up. He brought himself to the floor and brought his legs in before bringing his head in between his knees, willing himself for the pain to subside.

    Fast forward to Nick being dropped off at his grandfather's (on his mom's side—Grandpappy Lewis, Frank's father, was dead—may he rest wherever) trailer, suitcases by his side and neighbors getting a good view of the masterpiece Frank made on Nick's face. Luckily, Nick had realigned his nose before they left or he would have looked real ugly (he shouldn't have to know how to do that). Grandpa Phil was sweet, threw his arms around Nick, not even questioning what happened to his face. Frank didn't stay to chat, he had left the second Nick's other suitcase hit the ground.

    Nick took a look around the trailer park, his hands shoved into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie. He made brief eye contact with one of the neighbors, big, brown eyes and a wild mane of dark curls that surrounded his face. He paused for a moment, slowing his movements as he took in Nick's eye and nose. His finger circled his right eye and Nick shrugged, shaking his head—his universal sign for I don't wanna talk about it. Curly nodded before he hopped into his van and drove away. How he had the license to drive that, Nick didn't know. Or if he had a license in the first place.

  It was quiet. And oddly enough, it made him a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was always this quiet, maybe it was the calm before the inevitable storm. All he knew was that he was the main character in a horror movie waiting for the jump scare.