Holy Christ, I fell off the waggon on this site. On my profile I've mentioned a series of reasons why I haven't been around much in the writing sense (a lot of it's personal issues - to do with A-Level stress and my own mental health, which took a turn for the worst shortly after one of my more recent postings ironically), and I have a few announcements I also need to make.

A Thousand Screams in the Dark is going to be rewritten. I was looking over it and now I'm older the plot is a bit of a mess. I was just writing anything I felt like saying and it meant my actual focus wasn't really done well. Whilst the characters - and a lot of the ideas and themes presented - are going to remain the same, it needs a rewrite, just because I had an ending planned out, and considering how far I got into the swing of it...that ending was a mile off, as it often felt like I'd pause the plot then BAM it'd reappear and it wasn't me at my best.

Esther still has a lot of meaning to me and she will be returning. I have projects planned relating to her, but there's other people who are going to be introduced, with storylines of their own, including a young woman named Amy who might be gracing you all soon...

I'm also currently co-writing a Harry Potter fanfic with a friend - s/12686153/1/Diana-Granger-and-the-Warm-Lizards - and that's taking up most of my time, so for a while, all that's really going to be posted is oneshots, just so I can put my full attention into Diana Granger (gee wonder who's sister she is...), her love of dragons and the varying events we have planned there.

My vanishing act is something I'm sad happened and looking back, I think I should've planned my Esther rewrite a while ago, when I realised how off-track the plot was getting. Thank you to everyone who supported me and I hope you enjoy this oneshot now I'm officially making my return! Second person because...I'm a creative force I guess?

The Lord Loss Poem is property of Darren Shan.

Nicotine coated the ends of stunted fingers, a thin layer of grey ash streaked up against fleshy stubs, mingling with the bottled green of neatly applied nail varnish.

You hate the puckering of your lips whenever you inhale for a drag, the quiet pop as you pull the cigarette from where it's been held between your lips; smoke billowing through the crispness of the January air. Ice paves the roads in glassy filters, a sharp contrast to the whiteness of the snow glimmering along the hedges and crumpled into piles along the pavement dictating the flow of movement throughout the street. There wasn't as much snow in December, is the first thing you think to yourself cynically.

It's a shallow thought, nothing substantial, philosophical or even trivially impressive.

But now you prioritise the shallow over depth.

Shallow takes on a form of comfort, ever since Laci went…

Lord Loss sows all the sorrows of the world, lord loss seeds the grief starched trees

Went? You chastise yourself. What kind of stupid explanation is 'went'!?

Laci didn't run away, Laci was taken, snatched, you know she'd never run away. Not Laci. Laci and you…you promised you'd never leave each other. And Laci never broke her promises. She was always the good one that way.

You know you're difficult. Your temper can be a raging fire, taking the smallest of perceived slighting's as proverbial gasoline, leading to eruptions; condensed frustrations and insecurities you can't control because you've spent so long refusing to address them.

'Difficult' was what Colleen had to write on your file. 'In need of an understanding home capable of dealing with issues detailing aggression and abandonment anxiety'.

When you were a kid you objected to that til you were blue in the face. You were Maxine Ann Gillcrest. You survived being given up after mum struggled by for five long, piteous years; a string of men being paraded in front of you, most of whom's names and faces have blended together in those long years. Scraggly beards, bloodshot eyes, cracked veins and yellowed fingernails swirl together in an unreadable mass, none of them meaning anything. You never called them 'daddy', they never played games with you, and that was the way you liked it.

The best they did was leave you alone. The worst they did was scream at you to get out. But you survived it all. You took it all and came out the other side mostly undamaged. You survived. And you've kept on surviving, ever since…even when Laci went…

But does that really count? Now you're so hallowed out and desensitized and numbed? You aren't thawing. Colleen doesn't want to admit it, but you've shut down. Ever since she was ripped out of your grasp by that…that thing.

In the centre of the web lowly Lord Loss bows his head

'Just a stupid idea.' You'd told yourself. Written out instructions in that old dusty book Stu found in the attic, hidden amongst the cracked plastic teapots and rotted out old Barbie's begging for dumping. Nothing of substance, nothing in that shitty dross hole ever amounted to anything of substance. Except this time.

This time it did.

Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line

You're not special. Never saw yourself as anything like that, because you ain't.

Like the file says. Maxine Gillcrest – her standout features are her bad attitude, volatile nature, quickness to take offense, easiness to jump into a fight. You jumped into a dozen fights for Laci. Why the fuck wouldn't you? Laci's the one good thing left now. Your one true friend. Your best friend. Maybe your only meaningful friend. Probably your only meaningful friend. The one person who's really understood and who's genuinely cared. Unlike every case worker or child psychologist or report reviewer who looked down their noses at you with the same miserable disdain.

It's a nightmare without her. A living, breathing, sodding nightmare.

An even bigger nightmare than that thing. That thing that appeared before you the first time magic sparked to life between your fingertips, billowed outwards, snagged a pocket of the universe that wasn't intended on being opened and never should've been. A whirlpool that rippled into some appalling hellhole that shouldn't have been touched or beckoned to extend a palm, but of course you never took it seriously, and that hellish thing ripped its way through the small window you'd formed and snatched her.

Curled inside like texture sin
Bloody curdle sheets for skin

It's a punishment – you're sure of it.

A punishment for what, you're not sure, as you've done so many thoughtless and amoral things in eighteen years, the severity of your actions crush down on your shoulders some days now it's been magnified and you can't escape the miserable burden.

Bones soaked in guilt creak as you pushed yourself up the freezing front step, a wetness seeping through the softness of your pants, clinging to your freezing skin and creating a nasty residue that clings to the backs of your thighs. You know there's going to be a sickly greyness to your skin when you take them off for a bath, but it might be a long time before you have one. Not where you're going.

In the centre of the web vile Lord Loss torments the dead

It's taken a while for you to get back a hold of the book. A good deal of money – the dregs of waiting tables and dishing out the standard Pizza Hut fair – that formerly would've been wasted on cheap sider and maybe the occasional pill if you really needed a pickup or just wanted to try and pretend it hadn't happened. It's taken four months for you to get here. Four exhaustive months. Months that almost feel like four years.

Without Laci there's a dullness, a lack of vibrancy; even if the spoonful's of guilt hadn't been stuffed into your heart and soul, prepping you up like a Misery Turkey ripe for the carving.

Over strands of red, lord loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all

Strands of dark hair (most commonly ponytailed – Laci used to joke it was the ultimate display of sophistication…), the scent of daisy perfume (cheap stuff from Boots, not like either of you really had masses of money to dispense out on presents, even though most of the time you wished so), a laugh eerily close to a twittering bird, even stupid songs the two of you danced to as kids when the old pink radio Charmaine owned hadn't been smashed to shit over some fight to do with whether Busted or McFly were the superior boy band (you're fairly certain in the end no-one won) – all of it scrapes against your heart in a series of gleeful torments.

He? It? Whatever the thing was…it's enjoying this, you know that…

Shuns friends, nurtures foes

You didn't mean to hurt Stu…you know that at least. You were angry. You were upset. He gave you that book, he gloated about the rituals and seduced Laci with ideas about magic and intrigue and mystery and that took her away. He let that thing breach the barriers and snatch her and now you're all alone and it's been so long since you were alone. Properly. Since mum went out another night and you were all by yourself and no-one was there with you, not even who she was seeing, not even her other smackhead friends, not even the police as Joe downstairs had begun hitting his wife again. No food. No light. A small cup of water. The scent of mould and a broken heating system were all that lulled you to sleep. There was just the silence…the unbearable silence.

And when Laci went…the silence came back.

Stu's going to get better…Colleen told you that when she came over today after visiting the hospital.

You can't quite believe it. That Stu's going to get better…after what happened when you confronted him when Laci disappeared. All the blood that he began spitting out after you lost it again. When your hands began to burn dull cranberry light and a strange faint headedness overcame you. Your temples stung uncontrollably as the floorboards themselves seemed to try scurrying out of your way.

You've got to learn to control your temper Maxine…

Ravages hope, breeds woe

If you keep letting your issues overcome you you're never going to progressive towards a positive future.

Drinks moons, devours suns

This anger you feel…you know where it comes from. It comes from your mother. How she abandoned you. How every time you look in the mirror you see part of her in you, don't you Maxine? The two of you are so alike; your grandma told me that…I'm so sorry she passed away before she could've made the arrangements for you to come under her care legally…

Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes

Your belt digs into your waist as you tie it a little tighter. Wide hips weren't something you inherited from mum, you can't blame her for something for once, even if it is 'subconscious' as Dr. Ellingford suggested in that condescending tone you've now realised was just her natural speaking voice (poor woman…then again she never seemed that naturally sincere so maybe judgment on your behalf wasn't completely uncalled for – no you're making excuses! Stop excusing yourself Maxine! It's all you ever do! Laci's gone. Oh my god Laci's actually gone and you can't get her back and-).

The book's been tucked up safely in your backpack.

It's best to head somewhere desolate for this. You can't have anyone else getting sucked into things, not after last time…not after Laci.

A fresh, pre-rolled cigarette comes to rest between your lips as eyes – such a lovely shade of hazel! Must be from your daddy mustn't they? (Thanks Aunt Stella) – narrow against the harshness of the wind barrelling into your face; cheeks suffering the worst, rubbing them raw, pinkening them to an ugly, meaty blossom of heat. Strands of thick hair – once purely auburn, now mingled with pale brown shades towards the bottom (you thought it'd look cool – Laci supported this decision, even when you thought it hadn't turned out as 'aesthetically pleasing' as you'd hoped; fuck you'd been listening to what Sheryl was blabbering on about for too long in that usual vapid town) – curl protectively around your ears, rings jingling slightly in the weight of the air hitting them.

The lighter's barely out of fluid but just about manages to produce a feeble flame, one that jumps onto the ends of the cig and a familiar, comforting heat is sucked up inside your cheeks as you inhale.

A cranberry light begins to glow around your fist – clenched and wrapped in woollen fabric, with the exceptions of your ashen bleached fingers (suffering for fashion once more, eh genius?) – as you stare at it, flickering hypnotically, pulling your eyes happily into the glow, as heat begins to scamper from your nails and swell against the creases of your palm; feet beginning to pace off towards the near demolished industrial estate. The graveyard of poor business investments and greasy laden, fourth rate bakeries. There's no turning back now. Not when Laci's waiting. Dead or alive.

In the centre of the web lush Lord Loss is all that is left.