One of the most fundamental concepts of
the Community's societal system is that
antecedence must not be overlooked.
Everything has a place and that place
should not be disturbed at all costs.

-Priorities of the Community, page 1

~~~~~

I awake on the cold sand, twigs pressing into my back. Attempting to rise, I find myself wincing in pain before I can even uncover the scene around me. My eyes slowly flutter open, revealing the bright, sunny world. Birds circle around, something I haven't seen since I came here. I shield my eyes with the back of my hand, hoisting myself onto my feet after a few failures.

Scanning my eyes over the scene, I notice Calum is asleep, but Peter has left to go elsewhere. For once, the poor boy found rest without the discomfort of demons infiltrating his brain.

Why is it always so hard to find Peter?

I untangle my foot from my blanket, shaking it like my life depends on it. I steal a glance at Calum before planning to slip outside to search for the runaway, but I linger for just one more moment. I scatter the materials clinging to me across the ground and storm into the distance to forget the pain, a hard expression on my face, which must be queer to observe — but alas, it's only the three of us (or just me, seeing as I'm the only one here).

What could possibly live here anyway? I ponder this matter for a while, sticking to my trail of thought like glue that won't fall away as easily as humans — definitely not.

My ideas are extremely far-fetched. Reality is somewhat unclear to me. Something that can seem like the best thing in the world, something legitimate, will be reflected upon later as the worst mistake of my life.

The Evaluation selection flashes through my mind, when I believed this would be an honor — that watching my friends struggle to survive would be an undeniable prospect of becoming sixteen. I couldn't have known; I wouldn't have been so carefree about the whole thing if I realized that we would all be on the cusp of insanity merely a week later.

Calum stirs next to my foot, murmuring as his leg shifts closer to me, and I spring back so as not to wake him up.

Deciding to locate Peter, I swiftly shuffle away, leaving a storm of dust in my wake that swirls into the sky like a grand tornado.

After a few minutes of hopelessly searching the terrain and letting my mind wander, I spot Peter by a splintered log, his back turned to me. As I approach, I notice him rocking back and forth, hands on his forehead in deep thought.

Sometimes Peter's motions can be rather erratic, such as raking his nails up and down his skin, twitching nervously, and speaking in jumbled verse, just to name a few. I worry about him, but I don't dare confront him about it — it could mean injury for both of us.

"Do you have to pee or something?" I ask, squinting my eyes, mildly concerned.

No response.

"Peter?"

Suddenly, he bursts to life, catching me off guard. He wrestles me to the ground and I take in his ragged state: cheeks hollow from lack of nourishment (though it seems unlikely — the Community supplied us with plenty of food), eyes wrinkled with what looks like an eternity of fretting, hair poking out in every angle imaginable, and even his gaunt demeanor has made an unforgettable appearance.

White froth seeps from his mouth, occasionally dripping onto my shirt with a slight splash. His hair is a mess, with blood and dirt staining his face — his own, I assume. It appears as though he contracted a bit of the sickness Calum possesses, but I pass it off as a simple case of the natural order. Peter becomes more and more unrecognizable as my eyes chase the frenzied patterns dotting his skin.

I try with all my might to struggle free, but the more I do, the harder he tightens his grasps on my shoulders. Forcing them upward, I knee him in the stomach and he collapses beside me, gasping for breath exhaustingly.

I scramble to get up, sprinting away. My lungs burn from the exhilaration derived from my now depleted supply of energy, but I must keep going, no matter how hard it gets; I taught myself that a long time ago.

Peter soon follows, drawing a knife from his ripped holster on his arm. He tackles me, bringing the object to my face. My breath creates condensation upon it, and I must note that, for once, it isn't beautiful, reminiscent of the morning fog in autumn. I watch as the fogginess spreads like a virus to clear my thoughts from the everlasting pain to come. It seems to absorb my temperature as well. I feel my face drain of color as the sharp piece of metal nears my cheek.

"Peter, stop!" I yell, wriggling under his hands that pin me down. "This isn't you! This isn't the Peter I know!"

I become faint as I anticipate the blade's contact to my skin, now dirtied with sand and a bit of disgusting bodily foam. Peter connects the knife to a region just below my right eye and I release a bloodcurdling scream that neither Calum nor a deceased Snow would find audible in their positions currently.

The scar I can deal with. The pain, however, is a whole different story. It is like nothing I've ever experienced before, a burning sensation spreading throughout my whole body. At first, it seems like a simple jolt, like being pricked by a pin, that my only focus should be on removing Peter's limp body from mine, but soon, it turns to something else entirely.

It consumes my whole ambition, marking black dots as it skirts my vision hastily. My nerves all react dramatically, as if in a theatrical production teeming with boisterous syllables echoing through the auditorium. It seems to paralyze me, putting an end to my plan of overthrowing Peter.

Taking my hand, I dab at my wound, gasping at the dark red color of the blood. The only occasion I had encountered it in my mouth was when brushing my teeth furiously, but somehow, it blankets my tongue with its horrid texture rather quickly. The bitter, metallic taste fills my whole mouth, sliding down my throat. It's the most repulsive thing I've ever had the misfortune of detecting.

The liquid leaves a sinister trail down my face as it scours my skin for openings to seep into. I remind myself, in this moment, of the terrifying horror movie villains that plagued my childhood — I never wanted to be like them, at any cost.

Coughing and hacking rupture my ability to fight back, to escape from the excruciating feeling correlated with cuts, so I push Peter's hand away, utilizing all of my remaining strength to complete a task so simple, so ordinary. The knife falls to the ground, but he continues to persist, making do with only his fists.

"Peter," I whisper. I gaze softly into his squinted eyes, filled with so much anger and hate, and I hold his trembling shoulders. "You're not insane. Not just yet."

Peter's whole body shakes, like a vibration expelled from a cat's lungs as it rubs against you, though his actions are not so tender.

I bring him close, desperately needing the comfort of another human being just as much as he does.

And it feels nice. For once, it does. For once, I don't have to be conflicted by the touch of someone else, folding my body to take up less space and to avoid them. For once, I allow myself to breath in what is truly Peter Sparrow, mixed with a bit of environmental accent. I don't writhe in his clutch, I don't lean on him wholly, and I don't speed up my breathing in an act of anxiety. What we have in this moment is a mutual bond that is only broken when one half denies the benefits of holding someone so close to oneself. But we need each other, therefore the ties shall not be severed.

"Oh my God," Peter whispers. "Oh my God." He takes his hair in his hands, holding on tightly as if binding them permanently to never let go, to never be able to harm anyone ever again; he's had enough. Tears begin to flow like a river down his face, partially clearing the mess of nature's substances. "I'm so sorry. Y-you'll never forgive me..." Peter's voice breaks and he lets out a mangled wail, cutting through the cool, morning air.

"Peter, it's okay." I wipe away the remaining blood off me, though it continues to run down steadily, disproving my previous statement. "See? It's only a cut."

"It's going to scar."

"Then let it scar!" I howl, throwing my hands in the air.

Peter pauses, his eyes crinkling with sadness. "Scars are proof that you've lived, that you've touched the world as much as it's touched you. But I don't want yours to be from your worst memories. I don't want you to be reminded of what happened here. I don't want you to look and the mirror and think about me. Because I am no hero; I am a villain; and I deserve to be discarded."

These are not my worst memories. These are occurrences that lived to see the day, just as I shall. Peter may have done a number on me, but that's only physical; he's going through a lot more on an emotional scale.

If I ever do glance back at myself in a mirror (though I doubt I could stand to witness my form that aged too early from the tumult of conflict), it won't be depressing to find that the scar left from a few years prior is still marked prominently on my skin. It will be refreshing. The joyful connotations will flood back, bringing a bright, glowing smile to my face. I don't want to forget these memories.

I want to tell the stories of Snow Leclerc, Peter Sparrow, and Calum Zabel to my children so that they may rest peacefully with the knowledge that they are safe. I want to be able to think about my friends that guided me along the rough time in the Dome. I want to leave this world with the understanding that, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much effort I put into obliterating these times, I simply cannot. I am protected by my remembrance.

I, of course, don't remind Peter of any of this. Sometimes silence is best uninterrupted, and a pending concern is most appropriately left in the midst of being unanswered.

"I'm a threat to you, Florence," Peter croaks out. "I'm insane. You can't persuade me to think like you anymore."

He's so transfixed on that simple opinion that he refuses to see the brighter side of things. Calum and I can help him make it through without being damaged completely. I will stay awake singing lullabies throughout the night until he drifts into sleep, forfeiting my own rest. I will offer the remainder of my food to him when I notice even a simple wrinkle in his motivation. I will make sure he never feels alone, even when his mind strictly informs him otherwise. Peter Sparrow is not insane as long as I'm around.

After catching a glimmer of pain in Peter's eyes, I say, "Hey...you didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

A glimpse into silence.

"No."

More silence.

"I think I have to leave," Peter speaks up suddenly.

I jog up to him, grabbing his arm so that he twists to me. "You're not leaving. After all that time I spent into calming you down, you're staying here."

"And why is that?" His jaw is clenched, his eyes stern.

"Who else would I have to annoy me?"

"Leave me alone, Florence! I don't want to hurt you!" He wrenches free of my grasp, biting his lip to choke back tears. Eventually, they begin to cloud his eyes and he looks off to the side.

"Then promise me one thing."

Peter glances down at the ground, avoiding my question for as long as he can.

"Promise me you'll come back."

He collapses to the sand in a fit of hysterical crying and I soon follow, bringing him close to me once again.

"Don't go," I mutter into his hair.

"Why does it mean so much to you?"

And then it hits me: why Peter detaches himself from others, why he is so unadaptable, why his mordancy travels with him constantly. He's afraid of commitment. He's afraid that someone will become so dependent on him that he'll feel responsible for them. He fears letting them down just like he believes he let down his family. Peter Sparrow is not a villain, not truly. Peter Sparrow is so concerned about other peoples' self-esteem. Peter Sparrow is caring. And I finally see that.

"I really don't know," I reply, standing and brushing off my clothes, partially stained with blood and Peter's surmounting froth. "You're a pig."

A part of me regrets changing the subject so abruptly, but I can tell he's uncomfortable with the current one.

"Yet another inspiring thought by Florence." He wipes his tears with his short sleeve, regaining his composure, and clears his throat, continuing. "Hmm, well, that was lovely. Shall we get back?"

The jocular nature returns just as speedily as it had retreated. The air seems to become easier to breathe, the clouds parting to reveal a beautiful, blue sky overhead.

However, an ominous presence settles overtop of me, though only in my own mind. It tells me how Peter dismissed his troubling emotions immediately after we had resolved them, like some sort of survival skill. This must be one of many.

I nod, taking a deep breath before strolling with him back to our camp, paying particular notice to the thinning leaves dotting the ground. I smile sweetly, thinking about how I used to cup them in my hands to breathe in their scent as a commencing ritual in autumn.

My cut starts to act up once again, sending a rush of electricity through my body. My head swims with pain, but I press my fingers to it, streaking blood across my face, occasionally whimpering when it flares every so often.

"What are we going to do about this?" I gesture to the bleeding gash.

"I thought we decided to let you bleed out."

Rolling my eyes, I devise a solution. "The bush's leaves are sturdy, from what I can tell, and I can use part of my shirt."

"As long as you don't use Giuseppe's," Peter calls back, flinging his arms around his body wildly. "It's the only one he's got."

While I have the opportunity to remind Peter that I only have one set of clothing (and that Giuseppe needs none, for he is inanimate), I refrain from doing so. I'm deprived of energy, and I can only guess he is, too. The thought of putting him through another trial doesn't even cross me.

"Why does that disgusting doll appeal to you so much?" I mutter, narrowing my eyes in a peevish fashion. My question is masked by a pleasant countenance, but I soon come to the conclusion that Peter's love for Giuseppe means so much more than a distracting fetish. In the past twenty-four hours, I've discovered things I never knew possible, the horrors sprouting from Peter Sparrow's mouth.

The truth is, Peter is secluded from people, because he knows the gruesome things they can do. He tried once to get close to someone, but was pushed away to freeze in the pommeling weather.

He's so infatuated with Giuseppe because that's the only thing he has to hold onto. Years and years of reaching to simply take someone's hand have led him to desire the most prosaic of things. While the fact that Giuseppe is merely a stuffed figure and cannot provide any valid consolation is only a troubling afterthought to Peter, I now can only pretend to detest the doll, because Peter needs him desperately. And I cannot take that away.

"Because he's Giuseppe," Peter responds, his voice cracking with ambivalence. But I know. I understand.

By the time we reach our campsite, a frantic Calum is awake and poses in a worried stance, tapping his foot nervously.

"So are you guys lovebirds now?" Calum teases, though a ring of uncertainty and anxiousness sprinkles his words.

"Absolutely not," Peter gasps.

"Florence!" Suddenly recognizing my presence, Calum dashes to me, wrapping his arms around my trembling body.

I wink at Peter as if to say, "No one's hugging you," but he only counters with a ferocious scowl.

"Hey, Calum, come here!" Peter winks back at me. "Hug me, you egg!"

"Peter, I—"

"Bring it in, my small children! Group hug!" Peter curls his arms around Calum and me, still in an embracing formation, squeezing tightly.

I slide my hand out from under his chest to avoid being crushed, but I loop it around his back right after. It feels peculiar, not as strong as I suspected. During our long walks, Peter never falters, not even once. His form never hunches, he never complains, and he always sustains an appearance of strength. Yet his back, in truth, is so weak, quivering at the slightest touch.

At first, I suck in my breath when Peter's fingers grasp my arm, but I soon wind down with a prolonged sigh. I'm safe here in Peter and Calum's clutch. We're going to make it through this. All of us. I'm sure of it.

~~~~~

I'm sitting alone on a boulder — yes, alone.

Calum is off indulging in isolation. I asked if he needed anything, or if he wanted me to stay with him, but he told me it was imperative that I leave. He could barely talk behind tears, though his rapid speech and racing thoughts were still present. Generally, I would've stood my ground and planted my feet in a place where no one could redirect them; I would've assisted. But something about the way Calum's eyes shone told me otherwise, so I decided to refrain from disturbing him.

And, Peter...well, I don't know where Peter is. Although I still trust him, what happened earlier this morning won't be so easily subtracted from my mind. I'm not going out to look for him again.

After spending a few minutes picking at a particular spot on my knee, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps being marked into the scalding sand. I look up to see Peter trudging over, a sheepish expression cast over his face.

He draws near, though still not saying anything to me. I watch attentively as he pulls himself onto the same boulder, eventually settling down when his side is parallel to mine.

We sit in silence for a long while, listening to the wind rush around our ears. I pretend not to notice Peter's eyes straying over to my face, then quickly returning to the ground as if he'd done something forbidden.

"I'm sorry about...you know," Peter eventually confesses. He reaches his thumb to my face to trace the scar right under my eye, but he retracts his hand after a few seconds, sadness clouding his eyes.

I grasp his hand, still on its descent back to Peter's lap, so I stop its journey and adjust so that my fingers are on top of his. "It's okay," I smile, and I mean it wholly.

Peter recognizes how close my hand is to the holster on his right forearm, and his eyes follow down the length of the leather, ending at the tip of his longest knife, the one I understand to be the thing that marked up my face this morning, which, now that I look closely, is also the knife he held against my neck the first time we met. He locks his gaze with mine before slowly drawing out the blade from the fastener. Clutching the handle in his hand for a prolonged moment, he offers it to me with unsurmountable shyness painted on his face.

"Why are you giving this to me?" I inquire, endeavoring to meet Peter's eyes, but he only turns his head to the side to avoid me.

"I figured you wanted to keep the thing that inflicted so much damage on you," he responds, his head still faced in the opposite direction.

At least to me, it sounds odd to hoard the very object that caused you so much pain, but in this sense, it doubles as a memory of my friends, of my time in the Dome. Most people would refuse to even touch it, though some would oblige, then proceed to bury it or destroy it. I, however, wish to possess it forever.

I reach my arm out slowly, tracing my fingers over the texture of the blade nostalgically before finally taking it, closing my fist around it to seal the deal. "Thank you," I whisper.

Peter shrugs half-heartedly. "I don't want to keep it anyway." Shame manifests shadows upon his face, so, once again, he looks away from me, embarrassed.

I now realize that Peter's giving me the knife because he can't bear to have it with him at all times, not because I somehow need to remember him. I doubt he wants me to; after all he's done, the grief it's brought him is enough to last a lifetime.

"Hey," I coo softly, taking Peter's hands another time, "try not to think about this knife anymore, okay? It's not going to make things better, only cause you stress. I don't want to see you like that, not again."

The frustration that stress evokes isn't the only issue — I'm talking about how his eyes sag with tiredness after a night of screaming and sobbing. I'm talking about how his skin is red and peeling from him spending his day picking at it because of anxiety, yet never considering dermatillomania because he doesn't want to classify himself in a place where he feels he doesn't belong. I'm talking about how his cheekbones, which used to be so perky and full of splendor, are now sharp lines across his face, things that could cut diamonds, if not with their blade-like qualities, then with the tragedy that is associated with them. I'm talking about how he used to be so witty, responding to every comment with something equally, if not more, clever, but now, he lacks the liveliness to even utter anything. I'm talking about how he is a shell of a human being, and how he will never have the privilege of forgetting our experience.

I'm talking about the terror of witnessing death right in front of his eyes.

I remove my hand from his, in fear that I will impulsively hurt him, so I use my words instead of my body. "I don't want to see you gone," I choke out.

Peter nods, and we spend the rest of our time in silence.

~~~~~

"I had the weirdest dream last night."

Calum and I trudge to the nearest boulder, marked prominently on the side of the road, which is basically just a path I drew with my foot while I was waiting for time to fly, by the building where Peter sits in a corner, rocking back in forth like before. I don't want to disturb him, considering what just transpired, earning me a long-lasting scar, so I allow him to continue to lose his mind (but in complete comfort!)

"Oh really?" I challenge, sliding onto the rock. "What was it about?"

Calum heaves himself onto the boulder, planting himself a considerable amount of space away from me. I have to assist him in his endeavor, for his strength has diminished mostly. He tucks a short strand of hair farther behind his ear before beginning.

Calum's stomach growls immodestly, causing him to give me a fearful stare, as if to say, "What the heck was that?"

"It comes with the sickness," Calum clarifies.

"So should I be expecting more of those?" I ask; he nods.

"I dreamt that I was some sort of medieval peasant. You know, from before the Community came around. I'm sure you read about them somewhere in your pre-Community textbooks in school, or something from the restricted section of the library."

Growl.

Calum laughs, attempting to continue to the climax. "So this goose dressed in a tuxedo made his way through the crowd, hopped onto the stage, and, somehow speaking English, shouted, 'It's courting season! You know what that means. Round up your pelicans and bring them to a feast!'"

"So did you bring your pelican to a feast?" I interject.

"I didn't have a pelican," Calum murmurs quietly.

Growl.

"Aww, but it's courting season, Calum! You have to have a pelican!"

"I didn't have a pelican, okay?" he snaps defensively.

"Buddy," I laugh, placing a hand on Calum's back, "you messed up."

"I was still saving up for a pelican," he tells me brashly.

"I could've wired you the cash, or we could even share the pelican."

Growl.

Calum came to me to tell me about his strange dream, and now we're suddenly considering purchasing a pelican together to court with it.

It would be great fun to get a pelican during courting season though. It would be quite the adventure, trying to avoid being swallowed inside their huge beak.

"What if I don't want to court with a pelican?" Calum finally pipes up.

Is he serious right now? He literally doesn't want to court with a pelican? Is he okay? Where is he coming from? Who is this guy?

"How about you don't introduce such negativity to this environment, okay?" I reply, eyes ablaze with alarm, giving him a slight shove.

Growl.

"Have you had any dreams lately?"

The joking manner of the conversation suddenly shifts downward, heading down a dark road.

I gulp, trying to avoid his quizzical stare.

"No, not really."

"You're lying, aren't you? It's relatively evident. You should really try to mask your emotions better," Calum chuckles softly. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me. I know how it is with privacy."

Growl.

"You're such a figure of relatability," I cut in, creating a distraction to put a pause on his previous question.

"If you knew what it took to understand everything, you wouldn't aspire to be what I am, Florence." I can tell he hopes I ignore his comment.

I really don't want to disclose the information on my dreams with him, but somehow, Calum telling me that I can share with him compels me to reveal my secrets.

"Well I had one dream."

"What was it about?" Calum asks, completely interested. "You can go slowly if you want. I know it's hard to get things out sometimes."

Even the way Calum leaves out his advanced vocabulary words develops a safe environment, showing that circumstances don't rely on being professional, that it's all right to pour all my opinions all over him.

Growl.

"I didn't see anything, but I heard voices."

"Go on," Calum beckons, his pupils expanding with infatuation.

Should I tell him? He seems trustworthy... I'm just not sure I even know myself the meaning of the dream.

"They were arguing... They were arguing about what to do with me."

"What to do with you? As an Evaluation Candidate? That would explain why you haven't contracted anything."

"Yeah, as a Candidate. One was hesitant, saying that it's cruel, what they're doing. The other disputed that it's necessary for the Community's growth, essential to survival. She said that she had lived, now I must. But...it sounded like Director Damon."

"Director Damon? She was a Candidate?" Calum gasps.

Growl.

"It would explain why she's so avid about the Evaluation."

I can imagine Director Damon twenty-four years ago, still fairly young, pinning up a poster of Director Cadent on her wall of the previous Directors, squealing emphatically on her quilted bed as she pores over the new, brief information pamphlet on the Evaluation and what's to come, assessing it over and over until her eyes dull with tiredness and her parents force her to go to bed, laboring to hide the jealousy rooted inside them as they observe the ordeal, without the faintest clue that she would be chosen for the first Evaluation.

"Last year, it wasn't so fatiguing to be in the Evaluation. I heard about it on the news, and it was nothing like this year. New Director, new rules, I suppose," Calum spectates, recalling when he viewed the highlights on the television. "I don't remember much though."

The Evaluation is rarely spoken about at home, with the only announcements being significant to the Community's progress, something that could assist the Citizens that the government is so fanatic about. It's always been a bit of a touchy subject.

"Do you think all of us are going to die?"

Calum's eyes twinkle with trepidation, casting them to the ground as he considers the scenarios the Community has planned this year. "I don't know what kind of experiment that would be, killing us off like that, like we're just characters in a story and the government's the author. We're vital to their exploration."

Growl.

Calum clearly knows much more about the Evaluation and the Community than I do, though it seems instinctive, like he's required to learn the rules in order to merely survive.

I don't dare ask him, for I'm sure he obtained this information at a great risk to his safety. He's most likely not supposed to know this stuff — someone could've died acquiring it.

"But, of course, if Peter and I perish in here, that obviously wouldn't account for all of the Candidates. You're still alive and well.

"Considering the endless possibilities, the Community might dispose of us after they're finished with their experiments. They're manipulative. They don't care about us — they only care about their 'growth' and their precious 'Citizens'. We were Citizens once. Now what?" Anger blazes in Calum's eyes as his jaw clenches furiously.

I've never seen him this livid. I've only seen him breaking down in tears, but never so hateful, wishing death on everyone that put him here.

"We didn't deserve this. We definitely didn't ask for this. They chose us, warped the concept of the Evaluation to seem prideful, but it's not like that at all. The similarities of valor and the Community are almost nonexistent."

Calum, though he hides much, is the most truthful person I've ever had the pleasure of encountering. He informs me about the horrors the Community is planning under the radar. The Citizens are oblivious, and he recognizes that, even revels in it. Calum's waiting for the right opportunity to strike at the heart, surprise the people.

His theory is that once the Citizens discover the insidious motives of their government, they will be equipped with the proper anger to fight back and overthrow the Community who has plagued them for so long.

"To be quite honest," I start, sighing as I recall the pathetic details of my younger self's aspirations, "I was the most excited person you've ever seen when it came to the Evaluation. I was obsessed. I was so determined to become a Candidate that it was all I would think about. It was a superior motive to raise my grades to perfection."

Calum stares at me in shock as my joints tense, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. I smile self-consciously. He soon remembers that it's "impolite to stare", so he lowers his gaze to ponder this disquieting piece of news.

"I suppose you're a fitting example of how uninformed the Citizens are. It's tragic, really. Perhaps it's useful to have someone like you on our side. You know what it's like to have utter trust in the Community."

Growl.

The way this comes out, it sounds malicious, like Calum's subtly dropping hints about how disgusted he actually is about my preceding status.

On the other hand, it sounds merely like I'm an enterprise, like my only worth is to be useful to him. I try not to let that affect my judgement, that it's not what he meant, but somehow, I can't seem to stop myself.

"Yeah, I suppose," I murmur, running my thumb over my fingers as a distraction.

"I sounded rather impetuous, didn't I? I apologize, Florence. I speak quite rapidly and out of order, paying no mind to what's coming out..."

"It's okay," I respond.

His apology seemed sincere — though filled with an excuse — but I can't help but blame myself for being so ignorant, enough so to spawn that comment.

But that's all I am — blameful. I take the fall for other people's mistakes, but they never do anything about it; they only sit there and watch as I tear myself apart, because at least it's not them, right?

"Except I know it's not," Calum says, looking me in the eyes no matter how hard I do my best to squirm out of his stare. "You just say that for kicks."

Why does he have to know everything about my life?

"Yeah, so what?"

"It's not healthy for you." His eyes are hard as granite, as cold as ice. He means business, and part of business is maligning.

So I accept the challenge. "Says the one who has intermittent mental sutures."

Calum seems hurt by my comment, the color draining from his already pale face, his eyes softening with dolefulness.

Immediately, I regret ever letting those words fly free from my lips, or even thinking them at all. I must mend all that is amiss, or whatever it is that someone had said before. "I'm sorry."

"Now it's my turn to say, 'It's okay.'" Calum lets out an artificial chuckle.

Please don't, Calum. Please don't submerge yourself in the same denial that I have for so many years. I hate seeing you like this.

"Please don't use that term." The corners of my mouth lift in an uneasy expression to convey my mistrust.

"Believe it or not," Calum starts, "that phrase isn't exclusive to you. I've had a few encounters with it myself — I hate it."

"Don't we all?" I laugh nervously.

Growl.

The thought of Calum using that term so externally nonchalantly while crumbling on the inside is heartbreaking, though nevertheless unsurprising; it shouldn't have to be, though.

We are coated in silence for a moment, until Calum suddenly speaks up. "You know, I'm not even sorrowful about Snow," he declares quietly. "I should be, but I'm not."

My eyes wrinkle with confusion. "I thought she was your best friend."

"Best friend?" Calum draws out the two words like they're a foreign entity. "I've never had a best friend before."

My breath plummets like a rock off of a cliff, landing with a thud of hard recognition. He's reminded me many times that his disorder prohibits much social interaction, let alone allowing him to enter a state of bemoaning. Snow was the closest thing he had to a friend — at least that's what I perceived — but now he writes her off as a casualty. My stomach twists in resentment.

"I know it sounds harsh, but..." Calum trails off, collecting his words. "Snow was a lifeline to me, only that. She guided me through the struggle of my parlous days, but beyond that, I'm not sure what she is to me. I have no idea what a friend looks like, but, and correct me if I'm wrong, she didn't conform to my procrustean standards."

Listening to Calum describe Snow in the way he's doing so currently gradually begins to unwillingly indoctrinate me against him. I acknowledge that he cannot control his symptoms, but it's nevertheless damaging to my views of the deceased Candidate that we all appreciated so dearly.

"I'm sorry, Florence. I know you liked Snow, but these are just my opinions. I'm not encouraging you to change yours."

I sigh. "I'm not blaming you for anything" — Calums eyes switch around — "I'm really not. But maybe you should, instead of expressing your stone-cold and detached views on someone, either keep it to yourself or learn to appreciate what you were given." The form in which my words soar out makes me sound like a cruel and insensitive being, and a bit like Mrs. Curtis, but he needs to hear it, regardless if it's harmful or not.

"I, um...I think I'm going to go now," Calum suggests, slowly sliding off of our boulder. He steals one last glance at me, perhaps to collect our words and provide me with closure, before turning his back completely and trudging away.

"It needed to be said," I amend, not sure if Calum will be able to hear. For someone who absolutely scorns excuses, they would seem to be all I'm saying now.

"I understand, Florence," Calum responds, marking his defeat and my victory, but I can't help but feel a twang of regret.

~~~~~

"Where's Peter?"

Well that does seem to be the most frequently asked question, right?

Calum and I sit down on the nearest log together, tapping our feet in anticipation in a synchronized fashion, though purely on accident; at least that's my belief. Calum probably has a game he enjoys playing, trying to match the actions of others to keep his mind busy.

He breaths out slowly, trying his best to reserve his energy.

Recently, Calum's health has diminished to the point where he coughs between every sentence and can barely move. Every time I try to feed him the sandwiches packed in his bag, he spits it back out, or throws it up entirely, much to my displeasure. However, I've been fortunate enough to escape his projectile vomit from splashing my clothing.

"You know, I think he really likes you, cares about you, more accurately. I don't suppose he's one for liking people," Calum comments, grinning slightly. "Want to know how I figured it out?"

I nod slowly, half in shock and half in disbelief, pondering how he could have concluded such an audacious theory in the short time that transpired in between me reading the poems and resting on a tube of wood. "I'll be glad to disprove your theories," I drawl as I watch Peter emerge from the building with Giuseppe stuffed in his waistband.

"Dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin are the chemicals for happiness and other such things, but an excessive amount of any of them can cause paranoia, schizophrenia, or insanity. However, I doubt the effects were quite as bad, considering his state.

"I merely assumed that his recent outburst was cause for such conclusions. He's been happier lately. All of this is also just a possibility, of course. Probably impossible, but you know me — so doubtful. My theory, however, is that the Community mimicked the effects of an overdose on these chemicals as an 'aha' to us, as a joke."

My eyes drift over to Peter, spinning around hysterically, Giuseppe tightly clutched in his hands. He sure looks like he's enjoying himself over there.

"Dopamine is the happy chemical. Simple things such as eating a cookie could boost your levels. I do believe you like cookies, right? Lots of people like cookies."

I smile internally at his dubious comment, though, in truth, it's quite adorable to see him so full of helpful words, not harmful ones.

"Anyway, procrastination and self-doubt are linked with low levels of the dopamine chemical. I don't suppose his dopamine dosages were particularly high, considering the only way to make contact with Peter Sparrow is to have him tear himself apart."

Calum deduces things rapidly, way quicker than anything I've ever seen. He takes the wildest changes in Peter's personality and links them to outrageous accusations.

Sometimes it's hard to understand him, with his accelerated speech, always trying to finish his sentence, though it looks as though he's struggling to bring his point across, but whenever I catch what he's saying, which is, fortunately, most of the time, it's absolutely brilliant.

"Serotonin levels increase when someone feels important and decrease in the occurrence of depression or absence of a special person, or people in general. I doubt those with social phobia, including myself, have the same effect that regular people do. However, for those who have it, longing for a friend to reassure you could be cause for serotonin decreasing."

Social phobia? I taught myself about it by poring over the webpages dedicated to diagnosing and informing people who suspected the growth of the terrible disorder. I exhibited a few of the traits, frightening me enough to slam the laptop closed and try to forget about it, though it was awfully difficult to do so.

"I have a fun fact, though it's not that fun — it's somewhat intimidating. Abnormally high levels of serotonin in the womb will cause the child to be somewhat numb to its calming effects, and that's the leading cause of psychopaths."

My brow furrows in confusion. Why is he telling me this? I don't know much about psychopathy, but I wouldn't start with the causes, rather the synopsis of the condition.

"Oxytocin is released during, well... I doubt you did any of that stuff." Worry dances across Calum's face and I giggle at the mature content he's so afraid of. "But when we look at dogs, they get the same rush of oxytocin that we do when we see them."

I giggle. At the fairs at school, a whole herd of dogs marched around the field, just waiting for a kid's sticky hands to make contact with their varying fur types. I remember those times well, and hope to never forget them — I really love animals.

"Endorphins are released in response to alleviate the traumatic experiences of depression and anxious tendencies. Laughter can increase endorphin levels and it acts as a sedative.

"So there you have it."

Through Calum's spiel of uninterruptable ideas, I didn't dare interject, for I knew he wouldn't pause to answer my questions, or even think about them. I figure he's that way with talking.

Now it's my turn. "So, what, did he fall into a romantic comedy with the dome all the sudden?" I finally say, recognizing that he's finished.

"Florence." Calum's eyes are stern and serious. "He got worse after the time I left you two alone. So the most logical—"

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said shut up."

He shifts uncomfortably as tears spring to my eyes. I reach up to wipe them, pleading for Peter to keep turning and whirling quickly enough to blur his vision and shield him from this.

"I'm sorry, Florence. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy like that. I can be oblivious to emotions. But I think you helped Peter in a way that I can't even describe."

Did I hurt his feelings? Well I don't really care. I've always hated being confronted with pressing matters, primarily after the heated games of Truth or Dare, where my friends would ask me about any school crushes. I would always respond with a negative answer and they would taunt me, because they thought I was hiding it. With grade schoolers, it's you've admitted it, or you're lying.

"It's okay." That seems to be my response for everything ever since I can remember. I let people off the hook for their mistakes by simply telling them that I'm all right — which is an expectation, not necessarily a truth.

Someday, I hope I will be able to have the courage not to say, "It's okay," but, "I'm okay."

"Can we just...not talk about this anymore?" I sincerely plead.

Calum nods in understanding, and I feel a burden being lifted off of my chest. It's wonderful how he seems to know just what to do, even after messing up. "I don't want to hurt you. Or Peter, for that matter. I was just inquiring."

"You don't need to apologize, Calum. I'm okay, really. And you should be, too. There's no point in worrying about something that's already resolved."

I can tell my attempt at reassurance sparked a cringing feeling in him, but he's always been better at saying sorry than I have, so I decide to drop it and hope he isn't affected as much as is noticeable.

"What a helpful affirmation," Calum responds,removing himself from the log and walking away, past Peter, past the building,past my unintended judgement. Past all those things his abhorrence loves toplay with. 

~~~~~

A/N: this chapter was full of angst lmao

if you angloosed, plaes vote, comment, share, etc. thank you, sweaty babies

~Dakota