I was stuck.
Life had suddenly turned upside down—for the worse. And, sitting here, watching Max from across the room . . . it was painful. Like I was posed, sitting on a tack, but unable to get up. And that's not just to say that Max is a pain in the butt.
I was stuck in the middle. Or maybe I was stuck on the outside this time. I wasn't sure.
Seriously, I've been upset before, but never like this; just the thought that, this time, Max might truly hate me, burned inside desperately. I couldn't even allow myself to make eye contact with anyonefrom my family. Normally, Angel or Gazzy would come to me for comfort, as well as Max, but, tonight, everyone was huddled against Max, and I was left to stare into the fire and pretend that everything was fine.
Deep inside my head, I knew everything wasn't. When I'd come "home" alone, there had been questions, and my answers had been bated and muddled from shock. My eyes had prickled from unshed tears, and my hands were sticky from drying blood. When everything was explained, they'd said it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't have done anything. But now, seeing them all talking quietly, leaving me to my own tortured thoughts, I knew they thought different.
They couldn't throw me out of the group, could they? They wouldn't do that, would they? I was Max's secondhand man, and we needed each other. Or would I leave? Maybe I won't be able to take this, as I was already feeling outcast. . . .
My family had always teased me, calling me "The Emo Kid". That was practically my label. Tonight I honestly felt depressed enough to take a knife to my wrist, but not now, in front of the kids. Maybe if I left them. Maybe later.
I turned over, and grabbed a blanket from our ratty, old couch. This was our new home: an abandoned cottage, in the middle of the woods. We'd had to scavenge for stuff to fill the house of stuff that hadn't been already abandoned inside. The blanket I was now curled under was stinky, filthy and ugly-looking, but it was soft and warm, and it provided a nice metaphor for our family life. We all, as a whole, may be stinky, filthy and ugly, but we all dearly loved each other . . . or used to.
I finally caught someone's eye. Angel. She was gazing at me, so I offered my best smile; something rare. She stared at me a moment, and I realized that she was reading my mind. Was Max making her, because she didn't trust me anymore?
I hadn't cried in forever, and yet I found salty tears running down my face.
My world was dying.
And Nudge—well, she was already dead.
Continue? Yes, no, maybe so? If you want me to, tell me so and I'll write another chapter. And another, and another, and another. . . .
This is basically a Fang + angst story. No flames please, just because I killed off your favorite character. I had to do it, and it was between Nudge and Iggy. And I didn't want it to be Iggy. So tell me if you like it, please--review style.
Toodles!
-Faba