The charcoal stains my knuckles and cheeks the same way Sylvester Stallone had been scourged black in one of his action franchises. I guess dreams do come true after all.

Sitting here in front of this canvas board for about eight hours now, I wouldn't be surprised if this is indeed a part of my dream. My eyes are threatening to shut out the black on the palette and go back to the visions of field lights, but I have been successfully keeping them focused on the lighthouse I am painting. To use the word painting is not entirely accurate, because I am way past watching those diy online tutorials about brush use and stroke techniques, and have resorted to make use of the only good body part I know as of now— my mucky hands.

If this was anytime back when the hot breeze of summer hit me through the sheer curtains of my room, I would have picked all the colours I could get my hands on. But lately, I have come to appreciate the wide range of black and all the possibilities it can depict. The moment I began to swirl the gritty charcoal on the canvas, a sense of calm coursed through me— beating the adrenaline I have craved for, my entire life. I know it sounds ominous, but it has made me realise I am good for a thing or two more than just kicking asses out in the field. Therapy's played a part too, no matter how bad I wanted to resent it.

In fact, I think I am going to sketch out a meadow for the next.

"George, you have got parcel," my mother announces out loud before entering my room with a pizza box like brown package in hand. I almost get excited at the prospect, but that feeling dies down as soon as I spot the pill bottles in her hand. She tries to be discreet about it, but there is no other way to say that I am screwed with these tiny, pale blue gems for the rest of my life. I get that I am supposed to take proper doses if I don't want to drag around wheely for years to come, but these things are no good for my upper body workout.

I don't know if I have gotten back to the meticulously carved lines on my chest, primarily because the only time I take a look in the mirror is while brushing my teeth and at times, bothering to wash the remnants of powdered charcoal off my face. But I do feel a contraction developing in my back every time I put the canvas aside and do a two minute stretch. It's not even about trying to keep a souvenir from when none of this had happened, but more about keeping a part of me that I have been embracing since I was eight and when I used to order those toy rubber dumbbells to keep fit.

"Don't forget to take these or I might have to keep tabs on you," she warns with a small smile and leaves the package along with the bottles on my bed.

I wouldn't worry about my mother checking on me every two hours though, the way my father does. He has been particularly splendid ever since I have been out of the team and in the house for the majority of time. Now he can try and shove brochures of internships at prestigious companies, right in my face. I almost paid attention to a couple of them, and that was my much needed cue to find a hobby, so that he can go back to gnarling at my interests. However, my happiness was short lived as I caught him observing one of my latest pieces sitting on my desk. I wouldn't go to the extent of saying he is coming around, but at least I have managed to keep his constant sighing at bay. Something which reminds me of the time I can't... I don't want to go back to.

With a final look at the half full moon at about a forty degree angle from the peak of the light house, I set the palette down and pick up the piece of cloth dumped on the side. My palms are still stained, but it is good enough for me to gobble these variety of pills and tear open this package I hadn't been expecting.

The box opens to a stack of dried grass and an envelope encased in the middle. I am wary of it, but am just as quick to pull out the letter, or rather the card from the envelope. The first thing my eyes spot on the shimmer of the card, is enough to make my heart drop dead.

"Rachel Stinson invites you to her 20th birthday bash.... let yourself loose... but there is a set of instructions to follow; the white cross is your gift to wrap and the embodiment of gold is your place to stack. Do as said, but keep in mind this isn't a gag.

"Fuck!" I blurt out, a gasp leaving my lips the very next second. Just in case, I read the part of the instructions again and try to figure out the joke hiding somewhere beneath this blackmail, apparently?

The invitation itself is a little unexpected, considering I haven't talked to Rachel ever since the time we went to the pastry cafe and later had a rather short confrontation. With the baggage of our earlier misunderstandings and then her involvement in whatever happened to Avon— as informed by Emma— both of us seem to think it is for the best that we keep distance for sometime. That might be her reason, because mine is the sheer lack of guts to face the mess I have made and talk to her about everything; our relationship, our past relationships, and especially, if some of them involve missing high school students. That is the term I am sticking to, for I can't let the real one slip in front of anyone. Not even the girl I love.

Although, my plans seem to be crushing down as I take these words and their meanings... and correlate them to the spooky events we have been facing since Kylie's demise. If I am not wrong, these frail sticks of grass actually belong to, let's say a farm on the countryside or by the outskirts of cities. I have even drawn one of these structures some two or three weeks ago. And as for the creepy invite, I feel like I have heard the mention of white cross before. I cannot put a finger on it though.

I pick up my phone lying on the table by the bed, lathered in grey from the time I ventured in acrylics and left a memory on batman's cape on the case behind. A quick google search for white cross gives me a series of results to go through, but luckily, all of them point at the same thing I had my hunch on. Meth.

Now that I am reading it, I remember Mia using this term while talking to a dealer, I guess. Not only did she mention it, she tried to offer the rest of the gang some as well. I refused, but my drunken state was fascinated and told her to put the number of her dealer down in my phone. As far as I remember, I have never deleted a number from my contact list, only added a couple more. So, there is a chance I still have that contact in my phone and it can be used to enquire.

Should I do it? There is also the possibility that I am making too much out of an invite and what could be nothing more than a practical joke. If it is indeed nothing to worry about, that's good, but what if I am supposed to take this for what it says. There's no point in putting everyone's life in danger because of a theory I am not even sure about. I need to do this.

I pull out my list of contacts and type in the letter 'd' in the search bar, hoping to get some fruitful results. The name 'dealer' pops out amongst the rest, and I tap on the call icon before my fingers get a chance to tremble. The ring goes on for a while before it is replaced by a mixture of noises in the background. "Hello?"

"Name?" The person on the other side sternly asks, almost making my hands slip off the phone case. Part of the reason might be the crumby paint.

"George," I try to be firm, but it comes across as a whimper.

"George Bailey? You can stop by in an hour, your package hasn't arrived as yet. Remember the rules."

"What rules?" I ask, but the line goes dead along with my voice. I try dialling again, only to hear the automated voice informing you that the person on the other side is busy. Seriously, what kind of rules?

***

This is definitely grander than I thought. So, I got a text from the dealer, informing me about the address of the place I am supposed to stop by, but he still did not tell me anything even vaguely related to the rules. I guess they can make a few expectations for their handicapped customers.

To be honest, my biggest worry isn't how things would go down here, but the task of getting out of my twenty four hours on surveillance house and driving all the way to The Village has been the real struggle. Now that I didn't have a choice, I finally took the bubble wrap off those crutches, and after a few failed attempts and a bruised knee, I was able to work it through the door and to my beaut rotting in the garage. The rush I felt while sitting in the driver's seat, not only proved my adrenaline theory wrong, but mercilessly crushed it as I drove past the buzz of NYC on a Saturday night.

As for my parents, they think one of my friends picked me up for a study session at his house and I haven't been able to stop laughing ever since they agreed. This accident— as most people know— and the cumbersome aftermath of the tragedy, has instilled an unreal amount of trust within them. I am not saying I am glad to be exploiting it like this, and for something I am being forced to do, but it is to be kept in mind for future purposes.

Even though I haven't essentially been to places drugs are dealt with, I certainly did not expect a two storey flat to be the place. If it weren't for the shadiness of the activities taking place over here, I wouldn't think twice before using it as the ultimate house party destination. I can totally picture a couple beer bottles, cigarette butts and, maybe, a bonfire taking place in the backyard of this house. We can take rounds of alternating between roasted marshmallows on sticks and drags of pot.

Maybe sometime later, I tell myself as I scurry through the gates and to the creaky door of the flat. When relentless knocking obviously doesn't get me in, I drop a message to the dealer, hoping he would get to it before my legs give up. He takes his sweet time anyway, but lucky for me, my upper body keeps me intact and not scrambling on the front porch.

"Name?" The same stern voice calls out from the other side of the door.

"George Bailey. You told me to come in an hour."

He doesn't say anything back, just flings the door half open and lets me in. I assume I must follow him, and we enter the living room where a couple guys— some of them my age and some in their thirties— are sitting on the couches and counting bundles of cash kept on the coffee table. The guy who let me in, orders the bulky one of his men to frisk me and check for any potential substance I could use against them. Their search is futile though, so futile that not even my phone is found.

"It's here," the cheap impersonator of Dwayne Johnson flashes my phone at me. When did he take it? "You will get it once you step out."

He doesn't even let me argue as he leaves with a bunch more phones in his hand, leaving me with these accountants. "Meth?" A guy with a red baseball cap asks, and when I nod, guides me to the kitchen. I hear some snide remarks about my ability to walk as I pass by the rest, and almost show them the finger until Baseball cap apologises on their behalf.

He is one of the few who seem to be my age, and, in all honesty, a little too innocent to be partaking in this business. In fact, if you put a pair of thick rimmed glasses on his face, I can almost guarantee that I have seen him. "You brought the cash?" He asks, pulling out a steel container and a transparent packet full of pills on the kitchen island.

"No one said anything about cash."

"His bill has been settled, Presley," one of the accountants calls out from the living room. His response makes me more alert about the situation I am caught in, and the potential repercussions it could lead to.

"Alright then. This is your order," he pushes the packet to my side, observing me closely as I pick it up and slide the package in my jeans.

"Have we met? I think I know you from..." his voice is drowned out by the blaring siren noises invading the flat. The noise is soon accompanied by a flash of red and blue sweeping across our faces, and enough to turn Baseball cap's eyes to a blinking sign of caution. "Holy shit," he grits through his teeth, signalling the couch leeches to take shelter before the engine of the police van dies down.

"What is happening?" I play dumb until Baseball cap pulls me by my arm to where is ducking down. The pain encompasses my calves the very moment the tapping of shoes makes its way to the living room. From what I can gather, at least two or three cops have raided the flat; one of them being of a higher post, ordering the rest to search through every nook and corner of the two floored property.

Drawers are rattled, tables are turned, couches are being teared apart to sponge and springs, but none of it seems to instil the reality of the situation, until one of the guys is caught by the cops. He is heard begging, rambling, even sobbing for a while, but that doesn't stop the police from dragging his ass to the van with empty benches on both sides. Empty as of now.

While I am aware of the danger looming on my head, I don't expect my heart to take a turn for turbulent until calculated footsteps approach the kitchen island we are hiding behind. Baseball cap is conveniently etched on the corner, while I am sprawled out with the extra weight of my crutches in tow. If anything, I will be the one to be caught as soon as they take that one more step. But, maybe, they won't find it necessary if what they are looking for, is baited to them before they can go out and hunt.

I contemplate on the devil's speech, but am forced to take action when their shadow takes over the polished floor. Taking advantage of his diverted attention, I give Baseball cap a slight push to the left, or rather to where he can be seen by the cops in open sight. "Oh, no," he rises to his trembling feet, painting my conscience guilty  but keeping it out of prison.

He tries to run past the cops, inspite of their warnings to surrender himself, leading to a cat and mouse chase throughout the house and out on the porch. I look behind and peek just enough to witness the scene myself— silently hoping for him to escape freely and put my betrayal behind— which he does, or at least attempts to do. The sight of the red of his cap running past the yard and the sound of the gunshot being fired, both happen to make me flinch at the same time.

The turbulence of my heart mellows down to playing dead as I make sense of the past couple seconds. I go back to lurking behind the island, pushing my hands against my ears as one of the cops uses a megaphone to instruct his team to call for an ambulance. To take away a body. The restraint of my legs forces me to risk getting up from the floor and taking the crutches, while they are busy back in the yard, examining the dead for the possession of drugs. They ruthlessly scourge through his clothes, trying to prove their deadbeat diligence, when they should be running after the rest of the gang that's driving away in a jeep as of the moment.

In the midst of them handling an unjustified encounter and cursing the ones who got away, I make my way to a room and slide past the windows on the other side of the house. Luckily, my car is parked on the other side of the street, so I won't be suspected of being in the flat, or even trying to be, with all the baggage I am carrying along. By the time I do make it to the silver oddity on the street, the police is done with their investigation and loading the body in the ambulance standing next to their van. His cap rolls off the stretcher and onto the road, being stamped around by the paramedics and the police officers. I almost take a turn to pick it up, but the bulge of the packet in my jeans reminds me of why I can't.

"I am sorry," I mumble before driving past the blaring sirens of the police van. I am just as deadbeat as those cops.

***

The cool evening breeze takes no time to switch over to a snow storm as predicted by the weather forecast— but taken lightly by the ones pushing through the ballistic bleeding of the snow threatening to obliterate their minimal clothing while they try to find shade in one of the clubs of Manhattan. It seems a little over exaggerated, but that's what my racy nerves are discerning of the view as I near Daniel's lounge and in simple words, my eventual doom.

The mixed feelings I earlier had, with regards to Rachel's reaction on my presence— unwanted at that— have been submerged past the guilt and shock I am comprehending since the past hour. While guilt as a feeling has unwillingly settled itself in my mind and in my heart, the shock value of the recent events had begun to wear off our infamous lives. Now that I have made it past the doors and into the land of confetti, I hope the shock isn't reinstated. At least not as strong as the last time.

With the borderline pessimism by my side, I enter the party where everyone is recognisable to me, but the birthday girl herself. I spot her slumped in a corner, staring back at the bubbles popping up and disappearing in the glass full of champagne, looking shabby. I am at a lack of words since I have witnessed her make a scene out of a poorly tied shoelace, let alone ignore the droopy straps of her sequinned dress and the stains on its hem. What's worse is that I know this look, I have seen this look numerous times before I walk out of the girls bedroom. That one strand of her going awry, the zip of the dress caught between the silk and the label, the rogue cupcake purposely used as an aphrodisiac, and the full of the lips... I know it all. She does too.

Thanking god that I am out of her reach and sight, I try to scan the rest of the crowd, making sense of the riddle pasted in the invite. It said the embodiment of gold is the place to stack, so am I supposed to find someone laden in gold over here? Just as I am about to do the same, I realise my shoe had caught on something particularly shimmery on the floor. I take it to be a golden confetti until the length of the chain loops itself around my toes. I pick it up and observe the familiarity of the gold plated chain in my hand, taking it as a clue to the embodiment I am supposed to find.

The chain at face value seems to be nothing more than a lost and found piece of jewellery, but it is quite conveniently placed in front of this 'cold storage' as penned by the faded marker on the door. I stride ahead with my four legs and the chain enclosed in my fist, pushing the door wide open to let one of the legs drop down to the floor. The measure of the shock is unknown, but the pale of my face and the gape of my mouth— both in an unbalanced response to the air conditioning of the storage— are enough of an indication to tell me how I want to bury myself in a pit.

The guy who once was the source of my nightmares is now looking to be a part of someone else's, passed out on the cold floor, a spill of white covering his jaw. I want to say that he hasn't left us, but the stillness of his arms, unknown to the boy who was the dart board to this flying fists and soccer kicks, is actually the bare minimum symptom of his lifelessness. The moment the realisation dawns upon me, I shut the door of the storage and risk choking on the ball of fuzz caught in my throat.

The fact that I have seen two bodies today, but can only take one to the heart, makes me scrutinise my character and almost justify what I suffered as a child. I wished Brandon dead for years to come, but now that it is coming true in front of my eyes, I want to somehow reverse it. I pick up the fallen crutch and my cell phone alongside, getting the numb of my fingers to call for 911.

Although, before I can get through with the call, the latch of the door rattles on the other side, once again forcing me to make myself scarce. As I take shelter behind the shelves lined with crates of beer bottles, it feels like I am doing this for the umpteenth time today. The one entering the storage seems to be as taken aback by the sight, which isn't very off from the consensus so far, but there is something about the ragged breaths echoing in the room that sounds familiar. I squint my eyes to take a look at the intruder, and immediately recognise the pair of sneakers I tripped on to the first time I saw them. Emma.

I dabble between my choices of staying hidden and the one to come out in the open. The latter is risky, but I don't need to worry about being accused of something I didn't do. I can confine in with Emma, the same way she did when I asked her about Kylie. I owe her to be as transparent as she was with me. Deciding on the choice, I help myself get back on my feet and come out in front of the shelves. The broken beer bottle in her hand makes me flinch, but I stay intact as she tries to grasp the situation.

"What is happening, George?"

"Emma, I... I didn't do anything," I begin to explain, but the bottle slips off her hands and before I know it, she is running out in the open. The hush of her murmurs, ironically going on a loop about how nothing happened, travels along with her retreating footsteps.

I think of going after her, but the apparent urgency of my steps would only render the effort futile. I pull out the packet full of pills and hold it out alongside the gold chain, which should be hanging off Brandon's neck instead. This seems to be the right piece of puzzle, but I am not sure if it's supposed to be just left out here. I obviously don't have the energy to continue playing, so I might as well give in to my guts. What more damage will it do than what's already been committed?

Bending over, I leave the packet by one of the shelves and vow to never looking back at this moment as I trudge down to the entrance of the lounge. I realise I forgot something. Retreating back, I pick up a rogue tissue paper and scribble a 'sorry' on the surface. I find she's off to the open seating, so I slide it beneath her unfinished sunrise tequila.

There's no looking back once I'm out the doors and a very important piece of my life left behind for good. In my haste of leaving the scene, I bump into someone, but keep going until I am out in the monstrous blizzard. While the flakes block my vision to a sheet of white, I wonder what bad blood would the one trailing behind us, have with Brandon? Why Jacobs?

I flick off the thin layer of snow gathering on my shirt, and come across a russet strand of hair entangled with the collar. I dismiss it to be insignificant, but that's exactly what I shouldn't have done. Mia could have had a chance.