Trigger warning: includes self-harm and suicide, you have been warned, proceed with caution.

His eyes were fixed somewhere in the pitch-dark night on the other side of the cold, frosty glass; the pane shuddered as the storm howled outside; there was not a star to be seen nor a light. He was not looking, in fact. He sunk as deep as he could into the soft green armchair in the corner of the lively common room; the other children were playing and chatting, but he paid them no attention. The room was bright with the cheerful yellow glow of the blazing fire. But he could not be bothered to see the light; warmth pressed against his neck, begging him to go be with his friends, but the wintery void beckoned to him; and void is always stronger than warmth.

His stomach buzzed with the insects inside, but he did not want to let them out tonight. He went on staring at nothing, thinking about nothing, and caring about nothing. The fire in his blue-gray eyes, once warm, lively, and happy, was extinguished the moment they found her body- or what was left of it, at least. By the time they'd gotten there, she was merely a pile of bones wrapped in ivy. At that moment, the truth crashed down on him and shattered his heart, souls, and mind. Now he felt nothing. Before, there'd been a small sliver of hope; now he no longer believed in hope; hope was a fairy tale; something completely fictitious.

Slowly, the others went to bed and he was left alone with the dying fire. He glanced at it; the heat was making him sweat, but the fire was cold; everything was cold; without her, there could be no warmth; he'd been falling for her so hard for so long, she had become part of him; losing her was like having his heart torn out of his chest. He hadn't been able to function; his memory was always fuzzy around the edges these days; except her; he could feel her untamable brown hair between his fingers, he could count the thousands of freckles that dotted her face, she said his name in that sweet, girlish way she always did, she wore that smile she always reserved only for him; the one where her mouth became almost a perfect half-circle, her silvery laugh echoed through his ears, they both leaned in and he felt her soft lips against his own and breathed in her Earthy smell.

When he opened his eyes, he stopped smiling; she was gone; she was dead. He stood and walked to the kitchen. He rummaged through the cupboards for a minute before finding a full bottle of a very strong alcoholic beverage. He uncorked it and poured the bitter liquid down his throat. Tears poured down his cheeks as he gulped down so much he could no longer taste it. He wobbled and crashed to the ground, the now empty bottle shattering in his hand. He stayed there. He didn't want to move. He stared at the blood in his hands and the small shards of glass still embedded in his flesh. He pinched the wounds, making them bleed. This brought him great satisfaction.

He woke the next morning with a splitting headache. He was in his own bedroom and his hands were wrapped tightly in bandages. Beams of pale sunlight danced across the floor. He cried. Another day without her.

"H-Hugh..." He heard a small voice say.

He turned his head and saw Horace standing over him, wearing nothing but boxers and socks, cheeks red, puffy, and wet.

"Please don't do it." He whispered.

"Do what?" Hugh sat up, his head throbbing.

"D-don't hang yourself. Please." The younger boy's bottom lip trembled.

"Excuse me?"

"I-I had a dream last night... You hung yourself... Please, please, don't kill yourself; we all love you and it would tear us apart if you..." He sat down on Hugh's bed.

"Could you please leave?" Hugh laid back down and pushed his eyes with his palms. "I have a major hangover."

"I'm not leaving until you promise you won't commit suicide." Horace crossed his arms.

"Fine, I promise." Hugh groaned, turning to lay on his stomach and bury his head in his pillow.

Horace didn't leave; he merely sat on his bed, watching the other boy carefully.

A few minutes later, they were called to the breakfast table. Horace whispered something in Miss Peregrine's ear; her eyes went wide with shock and horror; Hugh knew he had just told her about his dream.

Consequently, Hugh thought about suicide constantly all day. Around four in the afternoon, he was feeling particularly depressed; he'd seen the neighbors planting tons of pretty flowers in their garden to which Hugh's window faced. He closed the blinds tightly and leaned against his headboard.

His eyes wandered as his mind swam in cold, dark waters. He didn't see anything until his eyes found Horace's underwear drawer, where, he remembered, the younger boy kept a small sewing kit. He walked over there, his brain not controlling his actions; he was being controlled by icy cold darkness and the desire to feel pain. He dug through the drawer and pulled out the sleek black box. He opened it and selected a long needle, put the sewing kit back, and walked back to his bed with the needle.

He sat down and pricked his left forearm with it. Blood trickled from the tiny tuncture. Pleased with the pain, he pricked himself again; several times until his skin was raw and bloody. He decided to stop before anyone saw; he tossed the needle in the trash can and went to the bathroom to wash the blood away. His arm twitched and smarted, but he didn't mind.

When he sat down for supper, he was wearing a sweatshirt. He thought the others might find it odd, since it was July. But, fortunately for him, no one said anything. He hoped they hadn't noticed him occasionally rubbing his arm where he had pricked himself. He didn't speak much; just listened to the others talk about things he couldn't be bothered to care about.

He excused himself first and wandered up to his room, a wave of depression washing over him. He laid face-down on his bed.

Suddenly, someone put their hand on his back. He looked up and saw Miss Peregrine, looking down at him more worriedly than he could ever remember her being.

"What do you want?" He snapped into his pillow.

"Mister Somnusson told me about the dream he had last night... I've been keeping an eye on you today..." Her voice was calm, but she still seemed on the verge of tears. "I didn't want to bring it up in front of the other children, but... Please take off your sweatshirt. Now."

Hugh felt his stomach tie itself in knots of shame; he crossed his arms tightly across his chest; he wouldn't let anyone see. Especially not Miss Peregrine.

"Mister Apiston." The ymbryne said firmly. "That was not a suggestion."

Hugh's cheeks grew wet and he sent three bees out of his mouth and stung Miss Peregrine; she let out a startled yelp. "Hugh Apiston!" She said shrilly. "You will take off your sweatshirt this instant!"

"No!" Hugh hollered, jumping off the bed and going to the closet, pulling his brown suitcase from the shelf.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

"Away from here!" He looked at her with angry red-rimmed eyes. "I hate you!"

"You don't mean that." She said kindly, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

He swatted her away. "You can go to hell!" He screamed, throwing some clothes into the suitcase.

As Hugh turned to leave the room, Miss Peregrine panicked; she didn't know what to do; she'd dealt with many things in her life, but never something like this. Before her body could ask her brain, she smacked Hugh right across the face.

Hugh stopped in his tracks and looked at her, shocked, pale, hand on his cheek.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked even more on the verge of tears than she did before; not only had she never hit a child before, but when she began caring for peculiar children, she'd made a pact with herself to never harm them.

He pushed past her and left the room, scowling.

"I'm sorry..." Miss Peregrine choked out after him, but he was out of earshot.

Several of the others asked Hugh where he was going; he didn't answer; he kept walking. He stepped out into the street where he broke into a run, not looking back. He ran down she sidewalk through the people going on about their normal day.