Don't kill me for this. And PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read the note at the bottom.
The Idea
At first, it didn't bother him. It sort of sat there, content with itself, in the back of his mind. It was rather like a picture in a room – there and noticed but not awfully talked about.
But soon, it wasn't quite content, being where it was anymore. It liked being the center of attention. It liked being thought about. It enjoyed being obsessed about and worried about and undeniably important to him. It was an attention hungry, desperate, egotistical excuse for an idea.
And it was beginning to eat at him from the inside out.
It was always there. Waiting. Watching. Plotting its escape into the open flow of his mind. Some time passed and it was always the same. Never different. Waiting, watching, wishing and hoping for the right moment to strike.
And then it happened. So fast, he didn't notice until it was too late. It had struck. One word: chemical; sent his mind reeling in a thousand different directions. He remembered exactly when it had first attacked. He was sitting in Chemistry Class, listening to the teacher ramble on, while trying not to stare too hard at the pretty blonde girl across from him.
That one word stirred up emotions he hadn't felt in a year. Emotions of betrayal, anger, sadness, confusion, hope and desperation all slid from their perched positions next to that thing and fell into place around him.
Besides the suffocating flow of emotions, It detached itself from where it had formerly been sitting and watching and waiting and hoping. It wasted no time in launching itself at the unsuspecting prey before it – latching its fangs into him.
He was excused that day from class. The note home from the nurse said stomach bug. The note from his heart said it's back to haunt me.
The only person who ever knew of the real reason he became sick that day was a boy a few years younger than him while sitting next to a hotel bed in France.
After the "stomach bug" he tried harder than ever to pent up his emotions. But with a mind like his, who was he to decide? If it wanted to stay there, it was allowed. And that thing most certainly didn't leave. It clamored around, making a mess of his mind, kicking up scuffs of dirt and leaving footprints behind where his thoughts should be.
Finally, he was about ready to shoot it down, dead. It would only take one shot, because honestly, it couldn't really go anywhere. This thought battled along with all of his others, telling him that causing death was not the answer. He didn't really care – he had seen so many casualties over the course of his life that he was done caring. Done sympathizing.
The boy who found out later was there when the trigger was lined up to shoot, point blank. His brown eyes were wide, pleading in tears that this wasn't the answer to whatever he was going through. The sharp shooter took one look at the boy's glistening tears and broke down into heart wrenching sobs.
That night he lay shivering in his bed, it watching him intently. A firework display of thoughts were tugging on his mind every which way. That was the first time that he decided enough was enough. If that – that thing – was going to stay right where it was, he could at least make it easier on himself.
Silver moon glistening over the streets of the city, he found who he was looking for. Payment exchanged, bottles in pocket, he skirted the police and found the local park. Sweet relief entered his system as the needle did. Guilt immediately flooded him, but it was quickly put to rest as he took flight. .
And of course, nobody was any the wiser.
That was until, someone died.
Shell-shocked gazes. A shriek of despair. Pearly tears. A video connection cut. And him, crouched on the ground, one hand hovering over his savior. His savior. Since when had it become that to him?
It – the problem of the matter, really – was currently watching gleefully. Dancing and cracking open the metaphorical champagne bottles. Cackling with mirth that he had finally snapped.
At that moment, he wanted nothing more to end it all. To say, "I'm done, where's my last check?" and just drop out. To pull the trigger, shooting it dead. To cut the connection. To just make it stop. Despair choked him, celebrating with it that he had finally sunk into a deep, unforgiving abyss.
Everything was just too much. With one last look at the picture before him – the spunky ball of energy crumpled in a heap on the floor – he made a break for it. His name was called out once, and then he was gone.
He went everywhere and nowhere, wandering the streets for any sign of hope. Nothing was there. And then, it spoke to him. And there was hope.
Just take me. Let me come out. Put me to good use. Don't listen to what everyone says. With me, you'll be invincible.
His walk slowed to a stop and he considered. First however, his hand was itching towards his pocket. All he needed was to stop by the nearest pharmacy and –
No. He swore to himself he wouldn't do it again. Wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't break free….
Then despair hit him clear across the face and he couldn't find the place fast enough. Tears threatening to spill over, he paid for everything he needed and found the nearest public restroom.
That was the second time he had just had enough. He wished he could've made it his last.
The boy with the big brown eyes and strange hair found him a few hours later, dazed and confused, a storm of emotions. No words were said, though the desperation in both gazes showed enough. The boy took one look at his now scarred arm and burst into a fresh round of tears.
Damp, despairing, and grieving, the pair found their way back to the hotel.
It was always there, slowly pushing him back to his breaking point. Like a tiger, it waited, stalking, and every once in a while it attacked again, inducing a fresh wave of pain. But that hope it had gave him in that one thought….well, it made him dwell on it.
The needle was still hanging over his head like a banner. He felt as though everyone could see right passed his brave and fading appearance and see the true him inside. It wasn't something he was happy about.
His friend never left his side. He was like a guard dog, following with only the purpose to protect.
It was becoming hard to function. The prospect of winning this war was growing gloomier by the hour. Message after message the secret was becoming unraveled.
That horrible thing eventually began pounding on his brain, demanding to be let out. It screamed and yelled and threatened and sliced at him, tearing into his last bits of sanity. Nothing was black or white. Everything overlapped in terrifying shades of gray. Straight lines blurred into squiggly loops and scrawls against the page.
And every night after his sister and other companion and his guard dog were asleep, he still prayed, against his better judgment. He was fairly certain there was nothing out there to help him, but it wouldn't hurt to try and save his friends and family. At least, those he could.
One day, he was sure he had had enough. It was an average Tuesday (since when was anything average in their lives?) when they received the message:
They're all dead.
We won.
V1
It really was as simple as that. Five easy words shattered him completely. Nothing was left. He couldn't think, couldn't function, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't possibly try to hold it together. It unleashed itself, celebrating joyously for its freedom.
The first thing that happened was the grief. Weeks passed in hazy clouds of angst, sadness, and horrible, horrible thoughts. No one wanted to believe that it had happened. No one could comprehend it.
He snapped out of it first, getting to work on the real business of the matter: finding what he needed.
Much of the stuff could be bought without hassle, though there was the occasional rare fraction of the sum that was near impossible to get. The last one took him over a month to find.
And finally it was done.
Silver, metallic, glinting blue and purple in the light, it looked like a concoction out of a film. It bubbled slightly, something that would've made him feel sick had he done this before. But this was not before.
It was ecstatic, pinging and zinging every which way as he raised the glass to his lips. The smell repulsed him – smelling like blood, cold, and tasting of copper. Before the drink touched his lips, a million thoughts ran through his mind.
His sister whispering how much she loved him.
His father, when he was very small, taking him in his arms and exclaiming that he was going to be a wonderful person when he grew up.
Being trapped in that black abyss – air being crushed out of his lungs while his sister sobbed. They were certain they had lost someone that day.
That nightmare turned reality when they were in the gauntlet, unsure of who was going to survive.
When it was all over, when they were all home, the first time that they had made breakfast together. The wild food-fight that followed.
Meeting his best friend, his guard dog, someone he was sure had changed his life.
Then the first message , the first threat, the day that changed his life.
The day she died.
The day they all died.
The tip of the glass touched…..his….lips….
Then the door was open and the glass was spilled on the floor and he was sobbing and his friend was burying his head in his chest crying along with him, telling him that everything would get better, that nothing this awful could last forever.
The boy with the brown eyes and the boy with the idea that nearly killed him clutching to each other and praying, though both praying for different things.
One wanted to forget.
The other wanted to remember what had happened to make life like this.
But both desperately wanted to help.
The remnants of the liquid swirled into the cracks between the tiles, overflowing. He followed the movement with his eyes, lazily realizing that the only way to defeat the enemy was to think like one. That he could do.
A month later, he was back in the same position, the silvery blue liquid raised to the light. This time, there was no stopping. He threw his head back and swallowed, immediately falling to the floor.
It was burning him from the inside out. Rubbing him raw and then lighting him on fire, throwing him into the snake pit and electrocuting him. He managed not to scream, desperately biting down on his tongue, hoping with all his heart that no one could hear him thrashing around in pain.
Finally, it stopped, and with it came the enlightenment. Nothing was going to go wrong this time. He wouldn't let it, couldn't let it, not this time. They were dead, but their spirits were still his to avenge. The plan formed, causing him to groan at the sheer obviousness of it. Everything would be fine.
Not bothering to clean up the shattered glass, he found his friend and sister and told them to wait for him until he came back. Thoughts raced like at the speed of light and before long he found himself positioned outside of the family car. He had never attempted to drive, not before the idea had formed and solidified.
He was a natural. In his mind was a map, bouncing around and shouting directions. He arrived to his destination in no time – the airport. He managed to sneak aboard a plane departing from terminal D, sitting among the unfortunate souls in the back.
Those hours were some of the longest of his life. His mind running circle around his actual thoughts, it was impossible to sleep. Adrenaline shivered through his veins, only adding to the affect.
Eventually, he arrived to the place he needed to be. On the outskirts of the famous city of love and lights he found where he had to be.
Tall, dark, menacing, the compound crouched down, glinting evilly in the light. It had all been too easy, too impossibly simple to not have figured it out before. And yet there he was.
Two, three, four guards were down in two minutes flat. Cameras demolished with a simple flick of a stone, he prowled forward into the infinitive hallway. Creeping like a cat he took down no more than three other people before arriving to the place he really was supposed to be at.
Green and red flashed. Digitized commands rang through the air like bells. Nimble hands stroked over the key-boards. Most importantly, there he was; the epitome of evil. The devil incarnate.
Whilst the guards had been knocked out, he wasted no time in brutally destroying this son of a gun who had killed all he was worth. Back flips and snarls let loose as he was transformed into something utterly animal like. Eyes that looked back at him, glinting not with fear but pride cemented themselves in his mind as the devil took its dying breath.
The devil looked uncannily familiar.
All at once everything around him stopped until it was just him and that monster of an idea, the one that had taken hold of him and murdered the last shred of innocence he had in his being. He had been through hell and wasn't even back yet and still this awful thing laughed and jeered, wearing a big smirk that only so clearly said I win again.
The devil looked uncannily familiar.
All at once he realized why.
And all at once he collapsed into himself, creating a black hole of emotions.
He'd.
Killed.
His.
Father.
Time stopped. No one moved. Nothing could anyway. With a final tip of its hat the idea vanished back into the depths of his mind once more. He was numb. Nothing mattered.
He sat, slouched over next to the wall for hours upon hours, not taking anything into count. No one came for hours upon hours, and he didn't care. He didn't deserve anyone for anyone to come for him.
When he did, his loyal, wonderful guard dog, he had nothing to say. Even when his sister secured him in a locked embrace tight enough to make him gasp, he said nothing. Not when the brother hugged him – a rare feat – even then he didn't speak. Only the fountain of tears from his brown eyed friend caused him to pull up his shirt sleeve to where the fading prick of a needle lay and whisper, "I'm so sorry."
The idea was all but forgotten about at that point, as he was dragged forcefully from the compound. He spoke no more as his sister yelled at him, ranting and raving about what he had done. He didn't think he was capable of forming coherent words after that point. He could almost feel his brain slowing down…
Crash!
And no more words were spoken because no more words could be spoken….
~Epilogue~
Atticus looked down at the boy in front of him. His wavy blonde hair was pushed down over his face as he breathed peacefully, looking more content than he had in months. A needle was stuck in his wrist, giving Atticus a slight panic when he remembered the other times a needle had been there.
"Atticus," a voice murmured softly from the doorway. Immediately, he turned, taking in the sight of Dan's sister Amy. "How is he now?" she whispered, walking over to stand next to the sterile white bed.
He shrugged, but a smile graced his features. "Better than he was. I don't know what that idiot was thinking when he did that to himself."
That sentence caused Amy's entire demeanor to change. "I don't know either! I cannot believe that he actually put together the serum! He knew the dangers, he had to have! There were reasons that no one was allowed to! Dan, why were you so stupid!?" she aimed the last shrill question towards the sleeping fifteen year old before her.
Atticus grimaced. He may only have been thirteen but he understood exactly what she meant. He wasn't a genius for nothing. "I think….I think Dan is going to need some help when he wakes up."
"Well, of course," Amy replied, puzzled. "Of course he would. I've already arranged a therapist to – " Atticus frowned and shook his head tightly.
"No therapists! They won't be able to grasp the full extent of his horrors, Amy." A thought came to him. "I'll do it."
Unsurprisingly, Amy was shocked. "You?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"
Now embarrassed, he shrugged. "I got my PhD in Psychology last year, you know that. And he's my best friend, he knows me better than I know myself – and vice versa. Why shouldn't I?"
Amy considered. "Okay. But you have to promise not to give up on him. Don't give him privacy! He doesn't deserve it, not at all."
Atticus swallowed nervously. Dan's older sister had no idea that he had tried to kill himself on multiple occasions, had drugged himself more than once, and suffered with depression for longer than a mere few weeks. "Of course he won't have privacy. We can't have him sneaking away to concoct more witches brew, can we?"
"You have a sick, sick sense of humor," Amy sighed as she walked out of the room, sending one last sad glance to Dan.
"It wasn't a joke," Atticus mumbled, leaning back in the hospital chair. The rough green fabric was starting to make his back itch and the Jell-O on the table in front of him was looking extremely tempting right about then.
As he contemplated snitching the red Jell-O away from his favorite patient, a pretty brunette nurse came walking into the room, taking checks in French. She looked at him expectantly and asked in a heavy accent, "Are you hiz brozzer?"
Stifling a smile, Atticus replied, "No, just his friend. Is he okay?"
The nurse nodded and said, "Yez. Just a few more minutez and he should be awake! Eet will be good to zee heem, no?"
Atticus nodded. "I've been worried. Merci, Miss."
She smiled and left the room. Immediately, he snatched the red Jell-O off the tray and began wolfing it down.
"Hey," a voice mumbled weakly. "Did you steal my Jell-O?"
Atticus nearly choked with relief. "Dan! You're awake!"
His friend only nodded and slumped farther into the pillows. "I feel like crap." Suddenly, an expression of absolute pain washed over him. "I don't just feel like it – I am crap."
"No, you are not!" Atticus growled, grabbing Dan's arm and tightening his grip. "You just made some bad decisions. That's all."
Dan seemed to waver before answering quietly, "I shouldn't be alive."
"Don't say that!" he shrieked. "Never say that! You deserve more than anyone to be alive, what you've been through, Dan!" The injured boy in front of him closed his eyes.
"You don't understand, Atticus. I know stuff. I can do things that normal people can't. Why should I deserve this power over others?" Dan responded, eyes still shut. "The rest of the world needs it more than I do."
"Don't say that." Atticus took a deep breath. "Dan, we love you. You don't realize it sometimes, but we love you. We could never, ever hate you. And I'm going to help you."
Dan took one despairing look at him and then tore his gaze away, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than ever. What he said next surprised Atticus. "It came to me after the Clue Hunt ended. In chemistry. I haven't been right since then."
Sounding so terribly broken, Dan sighed. "Now look at me. I'm a murderer, I'm a druggy, I'm suicidal. I don't - " his voice cracked. "I don't deserve to be alive."
Atticus grabbed Dan's arm and made it so that their faces were looking directly at each other. "You deserve to be alive more than anyone I know. I may be a prodigy, but you've earned your right to live twenty times over - much more than I could say for myself. So you're just going to have to deal with the hurt, the pain, and the hard work that comes with getting over this. Because I am going to help you get over this, Dan. I promise."
"Promise," Dan whispered wistfully, causing Atticus to sob inside. "What a nice word."
...
I'm gonna let that sink in for a moment.
...
So, yeah. I did just write that. I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW - THE GRAMMAR SUCKS - THE PUNCTUATION SUCKS - THE FORMAT SUCKS - AND THE PLOTLINE SUCKS! BUT I HAD TO WRITE IT DOWN AND GET IT OUT THERE!
...
I DO understand that this was horribly confusing, and that a lot of stuff didn't make sense. Let me explain somewhat.
It = the idea of the master serum, along with all the other ideas he gets. (drugs, suicide, that fun stuff)
Guard Dog/Best Friend = Atticus, why of course. :)
Sister = Amy. Nuff said.
The Brother = Jake.
...
Well, now that (up two ...'s ) is done with, please review. I need feedback for this!
All flames will be ignored. And no, I do not want feedback like, "This line here was incorrect but you can fix it by adding etc." No. That's not feedback. That's you being a frickn grammar Natzi. If you have seen any of more recent work, you know I do not usually fail this bad at writing. So take that into consideration, please.
Cheers! And Happy Belated Halloween!
~Dani
Oh, and I SUPPOSE that any of you yaoi fans (I'm one myself, though I don't ship Dan/Atticus...) could see this as PRE-SLASH! XD Just curious but...who would top? *shot dead for asking* XD