Chuck Scarberry eyed his reflection in the mirror with distaste. He'd always hated how young he looked, always hated the round boyishness of his own features. He wanted to look more like a man, and just about the only thing going for him was the fact that some girls like cutesy guys. He'd never been much of a social butterfly, he only had a small circle of friends and they were more than enough for him. Of course, it was the start of a new year at a new school. Not all of his old friends were in the same classes as him, and he knew with dismay that he may very well end up drifting apart from some of them, maybe even all of them. It was alright, though, because for all the dreariness that thought entailed, he'd be able to make other friends. He was sure of it.

His eyes were a stark blue, his hair a ruddy brown, reddish in some lights. He was lanky. He was a growing teenager, it was to be expected. At the moment he was in the P.E. locker room, washing his hands. He'd gotten mud on them, had gotten mud pretty much everywhere. Who knew the coach would take them outside to jog laps the day directly after a night's rainfall...the older kids said that was exactly like the coach, whose name was Green, to do. If he could set dodgeballs on fire and hurl them at the student body, he would. Chuck smirked. He could picture it.

He dried his hands, and instinctively made to leave before he recalled that he'd left the restroom sink on. It was a problem he'd always had. He switched it off. The locker room was empty sans himself. He'd yet to collect his backpack from his locker. Every once in awhile he felt the need to recede from crowds and retreat to somewhere quiet and not usually disturbed. This time, it had been in a shower stall. He sat back and not quite thought, merely felt. He felt the steady security his grades gave him concerning his future, he felt the satisfying feeling of a good conversation with one of his friends, he felt the relief of hearing the last school bell, informing him he was done until the next morning.

Now, he felt the lock move under his fingers, saw the locker swing open, revealing his camo bag inside. He wasn't quite perturbed by the fact it was open when he was sure he'd zipped it, he had a handful of friends, yes, but he had business-like acquaintances as well, mostly in P.E. They were a network of boys who traded items they needed with one another, and Chuck partook in that system. He did this by sharing his locker combination with some boys. No one had stolen from him yet. He'd received a lot of deodorants, body washes and shampoos in exchange for things he didn't want or need.

Whatever helped his parents with money, he would do it.

He shuffled through his things, expecting to see what he usually saw: a binder, loose papers with pencil scribblings, notebooks, but his gaze snapped onto something he did not anticipate. He blinked several times in the span of seconds as he focused on it. It was a book. Ornate, red and black and green. It seemed old, appeared old, held a presence out of place amid his mundane property. Whose stupid idea was this? He demanded no one. It seemed like some piece of merchandise from a popular TV show or movie someone purchased at Hot Topic.

As he pulled it out in his confusion his fingers brushed something else; cloth. A strange sort, like nothing he'd ever experienced before. A burst of annoyance, Whose stupid idea was this?! Who put these pointless things in his backpack? For what reason? Much less mindful of any uniqueness this time, he yanked out what he'd found, and came face to face with...a mask.

It was black, a blackest black, with bright red lines zigzagging this way and that way, in a deliberate pattern. He couldn't fathom what it was, and was increasingly angry. None of this made any sense. He slapped the mask on the cold ground and snatched the book, slamming it open. The pages had to be laminated and full of some pseudo-Necronomicon bull. It wasn't. It was in an Asian language. Shaking his head at it all, he closed the book—then found it refused to close. It was that simple. It would not budge.

The pages he stared into flashed bright, and he collapsed, limp.

Chuck walked.

He trudged through the mud, uncaring of the way the wet dirt clung to his feet and pants. He barely felt any of it. It was over. It was almost over. He'd never have to do this again. He didn't know what burdened his heavy steps more, that it wasn't over yet or that someone else would have to deal with it after it was, and he wouldn't remember any of it. It won't be your problem anymore, he told himself, and it will be your life to live. What life? His education had gone down the drain. He had no friends, his family didn't know what to do with him. He was alone and without a future.

He stopped walking.

The park was active and full of life. It was 10:00 a.m. on a Thursday in the very cusp of summer and fall, where summer break and the Louisianan school year began to meet. Tonight, or tomorrow, the next one would be chosen. His facial hair felt greasy and unkempt on his face. He'd gotten his age-old wish, he no longer possessed a childish demeanor. At times, people his own age had came up to a teacher and asked them why a grown man was roaming the hallways, to be shocked when explained to that the 'grown man' was just another student. That was a summer ago.

Four summers, four years ago.

He stiffened suddenly.

Two boys sped across the field of the park, the shorter one shouting something Chuck couldn't hear from his distance. He thought he could hear the taller boy cackling, but he wasn't paying attention to that. He was stricken by the fact that such a carefree, oblivious child, would be subjected to everything he'd been. He didn't know this boy, didn't know his name, and already, he pitied him.

Lines which only Chuck could see encircled the boy, as well as the words, THIS ONE.

Chuck was free, but at what cost?