Chapter 1

(October 28th, 2010)

He stared up at the ceiling, watching the fan rotate around the dark room. The constant sound that once used to lull him to sleep now only irritated him- Swish, swish, swish. How the hell had this ever helped him to sleep? He grabbed the controller from his nightstand and turned the fan off, throwing it down on the ground with a loud thud. He sighed, leaned his head back against the pillow, and tried closing his eyes once more.

Insomnia had always plagued him, and tonight was no exception. After another ten minutes of tossing and turning, he rubbed his face with both of his hands in defeat. Get a fucking grip, man. He chastised himself. A lack of sleep is not going to magically fix the problem for you. His tired eyes slid across to the desk and laptop on the other side of the room. The laptop was closed, a clear indicator that work for the day was over. However, he knew if sleep were to come tonight, he'd have to turn it on once more.

He pushed the covers off of him, and gave a quick stretch before getting up and walking towards the desk. His, or rather, the whole band's manager, Johnathan Simkin, was awaiting a reply via e-mail about when recording would begin for the next album. He scowled at the thought and turned on his laptop. The computer screen temporarily blinded him, forcing him to rub his eyes once more to allow time to adjust to the brutal light. There was no need to open up his mail, however, as the email was already projected on the screen.

Hey Josh,

Everything has been confirmed for the Directors Cut of Masterpiece Theatre- we are expecting it to be released on November 30th. Should hold the fans over for a while. Speaking of, have you and the guys decided when to start recording? Just a reminder, the tour ends December 18th in Vancouver, so we will need to know by then what the plan is. The label groupies are starting to get a little over anxious that you haven't decided on anything, but I keep telling them there's nothing to worry about. Keep the fans wanting more is what I always say, eh?

-Simkin

He scrolled up to the top of the page and clicked the "reply" button. The dreaded blinking line appeared, waiting for his answer. Waiting for him to fix all the problems with his words of assurance, that a date had been decided upon and that the material for the next album was overflowing.

He had nothing.

It had been over a year and a half since the band's last album, Masterpiece Theatre, had been released to the world (a year and eight months, to be exact). He should be ecstatic, he mused, his head resting on one hand while the other drummed against the desk. They were in the middle of a tour that would be finishing up in December, and the month before they had finally had their first performance in America. From an outsider's point of view, Marianas Trench was well on their way to the big leagues of the music world.

If he didn't screw it up, that is.

He groaned and put his face in his hands. The big timers at their record company, 604 records, wanted a completed album by June 2011, a mere eight months away, and Josh had nothing. Not a single lyric, tune, or note. It was the worst case of writer's block he had suffered in his life. He had tried everything he could think of to break it- taking a break, focusing on the tour, spending time with family and friends- but whenever it came time to sit down and write, his mind would go blank and the anxiety would build up to the point of being so overwhelming he had to walk away again.

He faced this anxiety now, staring through his fingers at the blinking line on the reply page, the deadlines hammering in his mind, the group's faith in him building pressure in his chest. Josh exhaled loudly, sat up straight, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and began to type what he could only hope to be true.

Hi Johnathan,

This all sounds good. Tell everyone not to worry. Everything is set to go- we will begin recording as soon as the tour ends.

-J

Sending up a quick prayer he'd be right, he pressed send, closed the laptop, and crawled back into bed.

Sleep would no longer evade him tonight.

The sun peaked through the windows of the small room, encouraging the lump underneath the covers to open the curtains and release its full power into the room. The lump refused, however, and sank further into the darkness that the covers provided. Undeterred, the sun tried harder, giving off more light as the minutes passed, illuminating most of the untidy room. The cool morning air had evaporated and an intense heat took its place, making the covers themselves too warm to hide in. After several indistinguishable movements, the covers were discarded, revealing papers, pens, and dirty clothes surrounding the figure on the middle of the mattress.

As if the sun had been plotting a conspiracy with the rest of the house to arouse her from her sanctuary, a sudden commotion of clattering dishes and heavy footsteps could be heard in the hallway. A plate or two crashed on the ground, and the cursing that followed was loud enough to pull even the dead out of their deep slumber. The daily war had begun.

The footsteps stormed down the hallway until they reached the outside of her bedroom door. She heard the door creak open, the trash on the floor being pushed aside to forge a path into the room. She could hear his breathing quicken and she felt her body tense, although she made no effort to acknowledge his presence. Maybe, if she was still enough, he'd turn around and leave her alone.

As with most events in her life, she didn't get her wish. "You should probably get up." His tone was curt, and she groaned inwardly as she anticipated the conversation she knew was coming.

She buried her head further into her pillow. "Just another hour."

He sighed, irritated. "It's almost noon, Becca. We're supposed to meet my parents in an hour remember?"

This caught her off guard. She had slept in that late? Her eyes popped open and she jolted up. "Oh my God." She hopped off the bed and ran over to her vanity across the room, tripping on one of her shoes left in the middle of the floor. "Ow! Damn it!" She grasped her foot with her hand, massaging the throbbing pain that had set in her big toe. Granted, the pain was nothing compared to the constant griping she would hear for the rest of the day from her boyfriend if they kept his parents waiting too long.

"That wouldn't have happened if you were to actually clean up in here," he admonished, kicking at a blouse she had worn two days ago for effect.

She rolled her eyes. "I already have a mother, Mark, I don't need another one."

"It's hard not to say something when your entire house looks like this," he motioned to her desk in the corner parallel to her bed, covered with enough papers, plates, and trash that one could hardly see her computer and the unfinished document displayed on the screen. "Have you written anything new yet?"

She scowled and grabbed the towel on her vanity. "For the hundredth time this week, what do you think?"

"Your editor isn't going to happy. Every teen girl out there is waiting for 'Rebecca Steven's new book'. You remember, the one that was supposed to be released in two weeks?"

She rolled her eyes and gave him a curt laugh. "That's all you care about isn't it? That I keep my fans happy so that I keep making money? Don't worry, if we ever got married a pre-nup will be a requirement and you won't see a dime."

She walked towards the door but he blocked her exit by leaning against the frame. She attempted to go around him but his hand touched her arm and stopped her.

"You should know me better than that," he said softy, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her arm in a gentle motion.

Becca looked away from him. "Maybe that's the problem, Mark. We've only known each other for a year and been dating less than that. Maybe I don't know you at all."

He touched her cheek and made her face him. "You know that's not the problem. The problem is that you need help. You are twenty seven years old Becca, you can't keep living like this." His grip on her tightened and she jerked away from his touch.

"I'm doing fine," she snapped.

"Clearly you aren't." He grabbed her arm again and turned her around, more forcefully this time, and made her face the mirror placed above her vanity. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?"

Reluctantly, her eyes met the mirror and she was surprised by the picture she saw. Pale, pasty skin greeted her, the over production of oil in her blonde hair plastered to her face. She licked her lips to hide the cracks forming over them, and didn't recognize the dull, blue eyes that used to be hers.

She could admit it, she decided, it wasn't pretty, but it didn't matter. She took her eyes away from the mirror and stared hard at the floor, her back still turned to him. "You're not even supposed to be here. Don't you think it's a little early in this relationship to be inviting yourself over? How did you get in here anyway? Did you make a copy of my key when I wasn't looking?"

He took his hands off her shoulders and sighed, "I was worried when I hadn't heard from you yet. You weren't answering your phone or the door. You must have forgotten to lock the door last night because I jiggled the handle and it opened without a problem."

"Oh," she said flatly.

He raised an eyebrow expectantly. "You do know how dangerous that is, right? Leaving your door unlocked?"

She folded her arms across her chest defensively, clutching the towel to her. She turned to face him; his overbearing attitude was wearing on her patience. "What do you want me to say Mark? I'm sorry for leaving the door unlocked? Sorry for not waking up in time to have breakfast with you? Fine, I'm sorry on both counts. Lock me up and throw me in prison. Right now, I'm going to take a shower so that we can have lunch with your parents." She forcefully moved past him, shoving his shoulder with hers as a warning to him not to follow her. She rushed to the bathroom right outside her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

She turned on her ipod to the loudest setting and stepped into the warmth the shower provided- it felt good against her skin. She slid down against the wall until she was sitting in the tub, and brought her knees to her chest, letting the water hit the top of her head and roll down the rest of her body in small streams. He had a lot of nerve. He knew she didn't like people in her house. He had only been in her living room twice before; that didn't give him permission to walk in uninvited and start snooping around her home. And he thought he had the right to tell her how to live her life. She scoffed.

Thirty minutes later, feeling slightly less irritated, she put her wet hair in a pony tail and pulled on a comfortable pair of jeans and a purple, v-neck sweater. "Mark?" she called out, half expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. She stepped outside of the bathroom and walked back into her room. "Mark?" She found him sitting on the edge of her bed, the debris that had previously occupied the spot now on the floor with the rest. He looked more troubled than before, and she looked at him questioningly.

He ran his hand through his black hair, an indication that he was nervous. "Rebecca, we need to talk."

Oh. She knew what this was. "We need to talk? Couldn't find a less clichéd way of putting it?"

He looked at her incredulously. "That's all you have to say?"

She gave him a blank stare.

He shook his head and stood up towards her. "I can't do this anymore. Don't you understand that? Becca, we've been dating for months and it's been nothing but ups and downs with you. You are either one of two things: angry, or cold. At first, I chalked it up to your frustration with your writer's block," his eyes clouded with resentment, "it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that I realized something was really wrong." He placed his hands on both of her shoulders, but Becca remained unaffected by his actions and words. "Becca, look, I care about you, and you know I do. And I've tried to help you, but when it comes down to it…" he paused and looked at her cautiously, "You can't see past Kev-"

"Don't…go… there." She gritted through her teeth, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

His eyes softened and he cupped her face with both of his hands. "You can't see past him long enough to see me. I'm the present Becca. I'm here. Right now. All you have to do is say that you want me to stay, that you want me here, and I'll stay. But I'm not going to compete with him anymore. You have a choice to make."

She was pretty sure his words were registering clearly, and she knew she understood them. He was making it rather easy. He wasn't requiring her to beg for forgiveness or cry; all he wanted her to do was say that she wanted him to stay, and he would.

As simple as that sounded, he had no idea what he was truly asking of her. It was like asking her if she wanted to eat or breathe. She couldn't make that choice.

She waited for the hurt, the anger, or remorse to hit her, to overtake her body in sobs or shakes, something to give him his answer without saying anything at all. Instead, she felt nothing. She wondered why that fact alone didn't bother her.

She continued to stare at him, no emotion reaching her face. Understanding dawned across his features and he removed his hands from her face and slid them into his jean pockets. "Well…" he rocked back and forth on his heels and stared at the ground. "I guess that's it then. I'll… I'll let my parents know you won't be coming." He walked towards the bedroom door but paused, his back still turned to her. "You know what I don't understand?"

Silence.

"I don't understand how you can… how you can convey so much emotion in your writing, in the novels that you write, and yet you stand here, in front of me, and show nothing at all. On paper you appear to be so passionate… when in reality you are nothing but… cold."

He didn't wait for a response. He left her room, and she heard the front door slam with a force that shook the pictures hanging on the walls.

She didn't even flinch.