Disclaimer: Well, as much as I would like to be a writer, I'm not - my fic isn't worth anything anyway. Of course, I'm open to any form of payments that you see fit.

Rating: R. For mature content

Pairings: Can be classified as a Trory. Not sure if that's the future of this story though. Perhaps. There is a slim chance.

Authors Note: My very first fic - be kind. Any feed back would be greatly appreciated.

Tristan lay there, his eyes staring into nothing. He twisted his head to the left, his focus reading 4:30 on the digital clock. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, his face muffled in the downy pillow. The room rang with silence, not even his breath could be heard. He felt bound in captivity by his cologne that permeated his room, the smells of him, the shadows. Kicking back the covers he wandered over to the large, window seat and yanked up the latch. The windows swung open by an invisible energy, the icy wind hitting him like a sledgehammer. Tristan didn't even flinch. He sat, his body outlined in all the black by the moonlight, his bare chest freezing. He racked his mind, searching himself for evidence of who he was. What made him tick. What made him Tristan DuGrey.

His search was fruitless. He found nothing to be proud of, he was a trophy. A shiny, hollow, artificial mold of a person, one that his parents birthed, by accident of course. He frowned, a deep frown, the pitted lines in his forehead digging deeper. Why was I born to this life, he cried painfully, his plea resounding inside his head. The money, the status, the popularity. He didn't want it. Who wants it when the very thing that a person needs is love? To be accepted? To know who you are when you wake up in the morning. To have a purpose. To know that a person, even if it's just one would miss you if you weren't there.

A gust of wind fluttered a green leaf through the window, landing on his artistic hands. He grasped it with now numb fingers, tracing the characteristics of the leaf. So green. It looked so alive it hurt. He tossed it away in disgust, repelling it's vibrancy.

Tristan's stared out the window into the inky night. Everything out there was alive, reveling in every breath it took. Only he wished that he didn't have to breathe anymore. His blue, glazed eyes looked up at the moon. The large white circle loomed back upon his head. He shuddered.

He slid off the seat and pushed the window closed, wanting to escape his jealousy of the living world. His smell immediately swarmed to his nostrils, suffocating him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run, but his mouth was clamped shut, his legs weighed like stone. He dropped his head in defeat, his eyes lighting on a brown, dried leaf. He picked it up with reverent fingers, it felt light, hollow, dead. Tristan walked over to his bed, placing it on the nightstand. He slid under the covers, the clock flashed 5:40am. Tristan lay there, his eyes, once again, staring at nothing. In two more hours, his mother would burst into his room, dressed for business, the lines concealed by layers of make-up, the red pout painted on, her smile, or frown, depending, stuck on her face. He shivered at the coldness of every expression she wore till it was threadbare. Pulling the covers higher, until the locks of the hair was only showing, he slipped into the blissful sleep.

Mrs DuGrey stepped up the stairs, her skirt tight, her heels sharp, her jacket perfect. Holding a mug of strong black coffee in her hand, she sipped from it, her face expressionless. Her hands, colored by artificial light, grasped the door handle, abruptly gaining access to her only son's room. She hated doing this, stepping into the unknown territory, and waking the bear from hibernation. But she must spend some time, fulfilling her duties as a mother. She knew that some mothers woke their offspring with breakfast, but she wasn't going to go that far. She had far more important things to do. Only she didn't realize that her son needed more than a quick wake-up every morning for him to look upon her as a mother.

She walked over to the bed, pausing to look the face of the slumbering one. She almost smiled. But it only lasted a split second. She yanked back the covers and snapped

"Tristan, 7:30, school" She then marched over to the window, ruthlessly opening the window, flooding the room with light.

The boy stirred in his large bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He opened them, surprised to see his mother standing at the window, looking out at the fresh morning. Usually she stormed in and stormed out, leaving a wake of perfume behind her.

"Mom?" she sat down on the edge of the bed precariously. Tristan sat up on his elbows and stared at the woman before him. For one whom he had lived with for the majority of his life, he barely knew her. She looked indefinitely uncomfortable, her toes tapping.

"Is there something you wanted?" Tristan winced at the coldness of his words. It didn't mean to come out like that. Her head snapped up, her eyes darting on and off his face. Her body language was screaming silently just how much she loathed being in his room. Near me, he thought ruefully.

"Mom, you don't have to sit here, I'm awake now. Thanks" Tristan mumbled disjointedly. His mother jumped from the bed like she had been shocked, towering over him. Inside he was crying for her to stay a while, talk to him. But he managed a smile, releasing a bird from the cage that it was held captive. She looked at him, regretting that she had jumped up so quickly, wanting to say something, but no words seemed appropriate.

"Your hair needs cutting" she started lamely, he didn't respond. "Well, I won't keep you, school starts in 40 minutes, so." she turned on her heel and walked out of the room, the smell of coffee and perfume mingling behind her. He groaned once she had left, feeling high-strung. He swung his feet to the side, sitting up. He noticed the brown leaf he had placed on the nightstand on the floor, blown there by the morning breeze. It lay there, crushed in tiny pieces, crumbled by his mothers all too hasty foot. He sighed and scooped up the pieces, and wandered over to the window and threw them out, watching the wind pick them up with long, toying fingers and sweep them away.

A.N: Wow. That was a short-ie. It should get longer.