The next morning, I wake up suffocating, gasping, and wheezing, beads of sweat trickling down my face and hands feeling in my dimmed bedroom for something to hold on to. I don't know why I feel like I'm about to roll over and croak, shivers running over me like the extreme twist of a shower knob. First, I feel cold, then so hot that I actually stumble out of my bedroom and into the hall bathroom, turning on the shower and falling over.

The water is freezing cold, causing my eyes to tighten and goosebumps to appear on my skin.

It isn't enough though. I still don't feel...pure, manly, clean.

Still gasping, feeling like a hot iron had been shoved down my throat, I turn the knob for hot water, hot, blazing water.

This works.

It burns the monsters dancing circles upon my skin, sets fire to the battle scars, and drowns out the scream that escapes.

I stay in the shower, clothes soaked, brown hair hanging in my face, until I feel clean. Or at least as close to clean as possible. However, even when I step out, grabbing on to the sink for support and look in the mirror, I still see the claw marks. They decorate my face, across my left hazel eye, zig-zagging through my bruised lips and curving under my chin.

Someone screams, the voice scratchy like nails in my ears, and for a moment, I find myself thinking of the sun girl. Her smile stretching over her face like the sun on a Summer day, delicious and enviously perfect. I thought about what she'd said; that no one could make the decision. That the only person who had the authority to decide whether life was worth living was me.

I wonder what she would think if she had seen what happened the night before, heard the whoosh of balls rolling across the pool table, heard The Wolf growl, saw me set fire to my skin...

Would she think this was worth living or would she load the gun herself?

----------------------------------------------------

It takes the social worker two hours to realize something is wrong and when she does, disappointment oozes off her Southern Belle accent like honey off a beehive. Ms. Harley, who prefers to go by her first name of Elizabeth after a nasty divorce with her wife, goes by an unspoken motto; 'If they're not murdering you, everything's fine.' Pretty much how everyone thought in the system because no one cared unless you were dead on the floor in a bathroom and your school picture was on the news which, unfortunately happened to way too many kids I've known.

I don't tell Elizabeth about The Wolf. Not even when he finally stops doting hospitably to go to work, leaving us alone in the den itself. Elizabeth sat right on the grey IKEA sofa, nibbling off of The Wolf's chocolate chip cookies despite repeating several times she was breaking her smoothie diet, and I keep my silence.

Eventually, after eating nearly the entire plate of cookies on the coffee table, murmuring over and over again, "Oh dear, I shouldn't have," Elizabeth stands up and smooths the wrinkles on the hem of her plaid black pencil skirt. She rests a hand on my shoulder, obviously feigning her annoyance, and says what she always does. "Lucky, I'm here for you. Whatever you need, I'll be right there to help...now have you been taking your pills? You know you need to take them, Lucky, or your emotions will get all out of order. That might be why you feel so on edge."

She orders a fresh prescription of blue pills from the nearest CVS, promises to pick them up and deliver, and then orders me to take what I had left. Then with a final half-hearted hug, she saunters out of the beautiful, teal house, heels clicking loudly as she exits.

I always feel angry when Elizabeth comes over even though I shouldn't I be. It wasn't her fault that I couldn't speak up, the words rising and rising until they dissolved right on my tongue, or outspoken by something neutral like, "I guess I'm okay." It was like this with everyone, anyone who wanted to help, anyone who noticed something wrong, anyone who was obligated to care. I always got so close but then let it go, letting it fall so far away that I couldn't grasp the words again even if they were tangible.

I take Elizabeth's "advice" and down the blue pills with a water bottle. They were supposed to be my "happy pills", supposed to lift my spirits, make things brighter again, fix the chemical imbalance long enough for me to take another dose (and they also occasionally make you feel even worse, sometimes to the point where you kill yourself but apparently it only happens to one out of five patients so safe enough, right?)

I had taken them that night on the beach, the night I actually tried to gather up the courage to do it.

But this time, my "happy pills" just make me restless.

Restless and tired all at the same time.

During my meeting with Elizabeth, The Wolf left a hefty breakfast on the kitchen island counter; sausages, bacon and pancakes with two plump strawberries on top. He even added whipped cream, his sugary apology, as artificial as his remorse.

I don't touch any of the food, downing another water bottle instead and grabbing my sketchbook(and then coming back for the strawberries because they looked so good that it'd be a shame to pass them up.)

I escape outside to sit on the porch made of glossy wood banisters and intricate stone masonry. Paradise was alive this morning, minivans rolling out of their driveways, kids biking their way down the middle of the street, and Mr. Tanner, one of The Wolf's church friends, walking his dog as he yapped away on his phone. He doesn't wave at me, just shoots me a condescending glance.

I know I shouldn't but I flip him the bird. It doesn't make me feel better.

The police had returned to Paradise too, three of them were parked in front of the Burnsbys' white tudor house, a clash against the leafy green lawn and vegetable garden Mrs. Burnsby used to slave over on sunny weekends. The yellow caution tape that hugged the home had been cut as officers and men and women bearing badges filed in and out, carrying odd things like laptops, a broken TV, and a gardening hose. None of the citizens of Paradise come to watch the Burnsby house this time, all keeping their heads to the stone sidewalk and going about their merry way.

Along with the police party was the Orc, sitting with his knees to his chest on the lawn and head buried in his arms. It was strange to see him that way, so motionless and...human.

I'm not sure whether its the pills or just complete, utter boredom but I stand up and cross the street towards him, ducking under the yellow tape.

He looks up when I approach and suddenly he is the Orc again, snarling under his breath, except he's wounded. A gash near his chest that one wouldn't notice, unless they were wounded too. "What do you want?" He snaps, fists shaking.

I shrug, asking myself the same question. "I don't know, you just looked-"

"I don't have time for your smart ass remarks."

"I'm kind of out of smart ass remarks if you haven't noticed," I admit sheepishly. "I'm kind of out of everything right now."

The Orc gazes up at me, brown eyes hard and solemn, and then they soften. Not in a relaxed kind of way but in a way of acceptance. Then he buries his head in his arms again, a slight rock to his form as if he were trying to comfort himself.

Just the sight of him, so broken and vulnerable on his own lawn, reminds me of a distant memory. One tucked away in a folder in my archive of memories titled; School. There was a drawing of the Orc in my sketchbook too, except he didn't look like how he did now; snarling, incredibly strong and fists like knives ready to claw into flesh. He was just a boy, a dorky boy with a lopsided grin and pimples that earned him the cruel nickname Pizza Face.

Pizza Face lived in the happier side of Paradise, grinning his lopsided grin on the first few pages of my sketchbook in front of the Burnsby house.

But Pizza Face has been dead for awhile.

I sit down beside the Orc and he lifts his head up again, tears glistening in his eyes. "She did it," He said, his voice so low that it came out as a whisper. "She got Dad's shotgun and..." He trails off, sniffing violently. "Now I don't have anyone."

The Orc starts to cry then, loud and uncontrollable, shoulders shaking. I still jump when he slightly leans into me. His touch was familiar but I hadn't felt it in so long that it was just strange. It wasn't the Orc crying on his lawn over his parents, it was just Pizza Face. Just Miles Burnsby.

It feels natural to put my arms around him and he cries into my shirt as I stare up at the sky, so blue and cloudless, the sun shining down like a ray of bliss in its purest form. It's weird to think Mrs. Burnsby would be out right now, watering her garden, gossiping with Ms. Gordon about The Wolf that lingered in the beautiful, teal house. Mr. Burnsby would probably be taking the dog to his weekly checkups at the vet and Miles would be somewhere with his group of friends drinking hardcore liquor.

"You have me," I say quietly when Miles stops crying, still in my arms. "I mean, if you want. I can be a little depressing."

He moves a large distance away from me then, almost as if he were embarrassed, and follows my gaze to the sky. "My Mom left a note, you know. She said she was so unhappy that even breathing hurt. How did I not know? How did we-"

"Don't blame yourself. Sometimes people are just tired and...and they hide it because they think they have to be strong." I interrupt, trying to imagine Mrs.Burnsby struggling inside to just get through the day. She had always seemed so content with her life; the symbol of suburban goals and dreams. This is probably psychotic but it was kind of comforting to know someone else had been suffering too, that someone else had known what it felt like. I felt less alone.

"What if they aren't trying to be strong?" Miles asked, his voice dissolving into a whimper.

I purse my lips and the question rears the head of a lone monster. "Then maybe they're just afraid, afraid of what people will say or how they'll see them."

"I wouldn't have seen Mom differently. She's my mom."

"Sometimes our minds trick us into thinking otherwise." Although I knew my mind wasn't tricking me. If people knew, if people knew about what happened in The Wolf's den, what I let happen, I already know what they'd say. What they already say.

Miles laughs, breaking the silence. It's not cruel or prickling like the Orc's laughter. It's light and whole-hearted as if someone has just cracked a joke that's taken the breath out of him. "You know, I forgot why we even stopped hanging out. You're pretty chill."

I grin but it sounds so fake that I wonder if Miles notices. "We stopped hanging out cause you came back from Summer hot and with the most biggest head I've ever seen," I reply. "And apparently, I was quote, too Glee Club-gay, lame, and a pop-tart fag, end quote."

Miles laughs again. "Well, you are a pop-tart fag and that hurts my rep!"

"You'd think using a hurtful slur would ruin your rep but society is backwards." I retort and it eases the sting of the phrase, 'pop-tart fag.' A long time ago, in the happier times of my sketchbook, I used to think I was gay...or something that certainly wasn't straight. Girls were pretty and guys were easy on the eyes too. With Miles Burnsby being my friend, I'd told him how I felt and we'd locked pinkies (because we couldn't come up with anything cooler than a blood oath or a fist-bump) and promised to never tell anyone.

Now I was nothing, not straight, not gay, not bi. Just mangled pieces of The Wolf, of that night and all the others. No one looked pretty anymore, no one gave me those cliche' butterflies eveyone talked about, no one made me feel a spark. I was just dead, one of the walking zombies of Paradise, waiting for a bullet.

Miles' grin slips off his lips like an abandoned promise, like that promise he'd broken. Like the friendship we'd forgotten, its' bones laying tarnished somewhere in a graveyard we couldn't seem to reach. Not that Miles had ever went looking for it anyway, he'd been the one to abandon it in the first place and over the course of one, blazing Summer, he had transformed into the Orc.

"This is probably going to be really shitty to say but well, I guess I'm a pretty shitty person," Miles started, shifting uncomfortably. "It wasn't even about you being gay or whatever. The truth is you just got really fucking boring, Lucky. You started moping around all the time, being rude to literally every person that tried to talk to you, and started doing that cutting thing which is really weird and emo, by the way. Having a friend who's always snarky and depressed is kind of a downer with the crowd and, well, I had to do what's best for me. To not be the brainy Pizza Face anymore, you know."

There's a brief silence, nothing but the sound of boots stomping on the porch of the Burnsbys as officers shuffled back and forth, carrying out the tarnished bones of the Burnsby's American Dream.

Miles sheepishly hangs his head a little. "Sorry...sorry about everything."

"It's okay, I get it." I say although it's a lie. It hadn't been okay to see the only friend I'd had in Paradise distorted, twisted from sunflowers to weeds and thorns that curled around the streets of Paradise like deadly poison. It had been easier though when Miles Burnsby was just the Orc, a hollow creature that stalked the woods, just another monster I had to avoid.

But now I realize Miles Burnsby hadn't ever really disappeared, he just found his place in Paradise; being the Orc. He found a place that he could etch himself into and took it the first chance he got. I had a place too. I didn't like it but it was a place nonetheless and it almost seemed as if I couldn't escape it, not even when I had the gun in my hand....

"Lucky, are you-have you been okay?" I turn to see Miles looking at me, really looking at me, some kind of realization in his eyes as he asks.

The question startles me. I hadn't been expecting it from him nor the grave concern that rang in his voice either. Miles Burnsby was asking because he cared, because he genuinely wanted to know. The last time Miles and I had talked was in middle school, nearly five years ago.Yet here we are again, sitting on the Burnsby lawn, after years of smart ass remarks and hate-filled punches (mostly from Miles because I couldn't fight to save my life.)

I realize I want to tell him, Miles of all people. I want to show him the scars, the bruises, the wounds that seethed upon my skin. I want to tell him about the night on the beach, where I'd talked to a girl that I'm now not even sure existed, and nearly killed myself. I want to tell him about The Wolf's den.

And I almost do.

But Miles leans forward at that moment, moving so close that we could kiss but I don't think he's actually going to - annnnd he does. It's not intense or anything, just a simple kiss that's warm and the literal definition of an 'Oh, so that's what it feels like,' moment. However, it was clear that that wasn't what it was for Miles. It was some kind of release, a relief being lifted off his shoulders if only for a few minutes.

Then he pulls away slightly and I start to think that if I'm a pop-tart fag, so is Miles.

I'm not sure how long the kiss would have lasted and will probably never know because we were interrupted by a girl jogging towards us, dressed as if she were about to make a trip to the beach and long, blonde hair in a tight, high ponytail. Her blue eyes were watery, dried tears on her face. "Miles, oh my god, I heard what..." She trailed off when her eyes rested on us, registering exactly what had happened.

Miles Burnsby had just kissed the Foster fag of Rolling Hills.

"What's going on here?" She demands, almost accusingly. Just behind her, I could see Miles' friends parked in a red convertible in front of the Burnsby crime scene, their expressions mimicking the girl's in front of us now.

Miles quickly gets to his feet and he's not Miles anymore. He is the Orc, an arrogant smirk on his face as he chortles. "I was telling this fag to get off my lawn and he just kissed me!" He exclaimed, turning to me now with a look of pure disgust. I realize it isn't disgust of me but disgust of himself.

Words slip out of me before I can think and suddenly I'm on my feet too. "Funny because you kissed me first! Either accept who you are or get the fuck over it!"

The girl gasps. "Wait, Miles, don't tell me you're gay!"

The Orc's face turns bright red and his fists clench. "You're fucking delusional, disrespecting me right in front of the house my parents died in, you sick bastard!"

He charges and knocks me to the ground before I even realize it. The Orc roars, slashing, beating, and clawing until old wounds seethe and new wounds form. Yet I don't feel the blinding pain I should feel. I don't feel anything at all, just the agonizing pain of the Orc himself. It wasn't me he was trying to kill, arms around my throat and pressing down until I was gasping for air that I wasn't even sure I wanted.

The Orc was trying to kill himself.

But something stops him because he loosens his grip, eyes wide as if he has just made some kind of discovery.

Two police officers move to tear the Orc off of me but he gets up himself, fists shaking, and still wearing an incredulous expression on his face. For a flicker of a moment, I see him, what the Orc truly is. A living shell of what he used to be, before a shitload of life stabbed him right where it hurt, and he had to find his place, do what he had to do to survive.

I think he sees me too because he mutters, "You're not even worth it," and backs away, ignoring the girl still jeering in front of us, and pushes his way through the small crowd that had come to watch the spectacle. The crowd swallows him whole before dispersing, no one asking if I'm okay.

Not even when I roll onto my stomach, suffocating, wheezing, and gasping for air.

In that moment, I decide I truly hate the Orc but not for ditching me for high school popularity or because I was "too boring" for him. Or even for just hating himself. I hated him for this very moment, for putting his hands around my neck and tightening his grip.... and not doing what I no longer had the balls to do.

xxx

Sorry for the lack of author notes on this story. I kind of just don't know what to say :( 

Thank you to those who read <3