Part 1

Elliot sat on the old stone steps outside his school, waiting. A horde of students crowded the stairs, chattering excitedly. All of them were eager to get home. Elliot wished he could share their excitement. Lately home was a worse place than usual. One of the only good things about his house was his dad. But for a little while now he'd been foggy and distant. Sometimes he'd even snap at him. Elliot desperately wanted to know why.

The massive crowd had now thinned significantly. Most of the students had filled the buses, which were now chugging out of the parking lot, leaving an overpowering stench of exhaust in their wake. It was not long after they left that Elliot's dad pulled up to the curb. Elliot made his slow way to him, wondering what sort of mood he'd be in today: depressed or aggravated. Elliot hesitated to look at his dad as he got in the passenger's seat. He waited with bated breath for his father to say something and/or start driving. None of that happened. Elliot turned to him, slowly and cautiously, expecting to find him in a trance, as he had a few too many times recently. He ended up being pleasantly surprised by his expression.

His father was smiling at him. "You ever just wanna run away for a while?" he asked in a comically casual tone.

Elliot squinted in confusion. "What?"

His father shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. "We're gonna go on a little trip," he told him.

Elliot was as shocked as he was excited. "Where are we going?"

"A very special place."

Elliot stared at him, silently pleading for him to go on. He didn't. Elliot was frustrated, but at the same time he enjoyed the excitement of not knowing where exactly they would go.

"So, how was school?" his dad asked cheerfully.

"It sucked," Elliot muttered.

His dad narrowed his eyes at Elliot's reply. "Did one of those boys hit you again?" he demanded.

Elliot couldn't quite look at him. "No. They just called me a retard."

His father clicked his tongue. "Now why do you think they called you that?"

Elliot's face burned. Why would he ask such a question? He'd expected his father to simply say that they were wrong and to forget about it. "I donno," he mumbled. "Pr-probably 'cause I don't talk much and—"

"No, no," his dad cut him off. He shot a few glances at his son, his gaze thoughtful and his mouth a tight line. He gave a decisive nod. "I think they may be projecting."

Elliot chuckled, and so did his dad.

"It's true," his dad went on. "Guess I probably shouldn't say things like that. Oh well." He sighed contently. "Anything good happen today?"

Elliot shook his head.

"Anything neutral?" his dad tried.

"We had a job fair."

"So that's neutral? Sounds interesting."

Elliot shrugged. He didn't want to talk about boring things. Boring things were for school. "Where are we going?" he asked again, only sort of wanting an answer.

His father grinned. "It's a surprise. You'll see when we get there."

Elliot needed to find a way out.

Most days he remained in his room, working on his computer or staring up at the ceiling. Sometimes, to mix things up, he'd take a peek out the window, vaguely curious about what was going on in the outside world. Of course, from that vantage point, The Outside World was reduced to a small stretch of sidewalk and the yard across the street.

Elliot left his room only for the necessities, like going to the bathroom or going downstairs to smuggle food out of the kitchen. Lunch was his favorite meal. For breakfast and dinner, he was forced to be in the same room as his mother. The interactions were mercifully brief, but never brief enough. They hardly spoke a word to each other these days. The silence was most often broken by his mother. She would often order him to go pick up some food from the market. Because he was a lazy nothing who needed something to do and she felt depressed just looking at him. He should at least make himself useful.

Elliot wanted to get out of this house, this prison, and never come back. The two most obvious routes of escape were college or a job. He knew for certain he didn't want to go to college. He was already very skilled with computers; he knew them inside and out. There was nothing these schools could teach him that he didn't already know, or that he could teach himself twice as fast. So the only remaining option was to get a job. But all he had was a high school diploma. That would probably make achieving his goal that much harder.

He was at an impasse.

Elliot pushed himself out of bed with a sigh. The red numbers on his old digital clock blinked four PM. It had been about a week since he'd left the house. Perhaps some fresh air would do him good. Usually all he did was walk around the block a few times, but it was something. He'd done everything he'd wanted to do on his computer, and if he stared at the ceiling any longer his brain would liquefy.

Elliot paused by his nightstand, that familiar orange pill bottle having caught his eye. He grabbed it and hurried to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and came to stand in front of the toilet, his eyes darting between it and the pills. He'd meant to do this earlier, as per usual. He was upset with himself for forgetting. Elliot popped the cap, poured two pills into his hand, and tossed them into the toilet bowl. He flushed them, and watched with an intense, paranoid stare to ensure that they went down. Then he placed the pill bottle in the cabinet and promptly left.

Elliot edged down the stairs, listening closely for voices or any other sounds. The house was eerily quiet. His sister had left a while ago to visit friends. Perhaps, he hoped, his mother had left as well. Elliot breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he went to the front door.

"Where are you going?"

Elliot tensed. His eyes darted to the living room, where his mother stood. She was very still, her stare blank and her mouth a hard line.

"Just going for a walk," Elliot mumbled, his eyes on the floor.

"Where?"

"Around the block," he replied hurriedly, unable to keep aggravation from seeping into his voice. She picked up on it, of course.

"Don't use that tone," she snapped. She huffed and shifted her feet, the old floorboards under her creaking loudly. "You don't seem any better. Have you taken your pills recently?"

Elliot's heart pounded. "Yeah, this morning," he muttered.

"Don't lie to me. I'm going to count them."

"Go ahead," he encouraged, fighting to keep his tone light. "Bottle's in the cabinet."

The saga of The Pills had begun a few months ago, when his mother had forced him to go to therapy. Elliot didn't know why he'd let her. He was an adult; technically he didn't have to follow her orders. Maybe it was that, as much as he despised the whole concept of therapy, he did want help. He was depressed, and anxious. He was so angry all the time. He was desperate for any sort of relief. But maybe it wasn't that. Maybe he was just doing as his mother said because that was all he knew. He'd been groomed to love and depend on the short leash she'd made for him.

Elliot had a few decent discussions with the psychiatrist. His mother talked to him as well, though Elliot was always hurried out of the room when those discussions happened. He wondered what they talked about. They'd seemed to form a strangely close bond in a hurry. It wasn't long before Elliot was given The Pills. The rather large tan-colored capsules had been given some name he couldn't quite pronounce, and his psychiatrist was bafflingly vague about them. He simply said that the meds would "solve his problems" and "clear his head."

The first time Elliot took those pills, his suspicion was confirmed: this was all just an elaborate way for his mother to punish him, control him. Shortly before his mom had started pestering him about therapy, he'd lost his temper with her. It had happened one night when she'd started hitting him again. She never hurt him too badly, but it was enough to make his near-constant rage really flare up.

Why did he continue to take such abuse? He was bigger than her now. He was not a small, helpless child anymore. That was what ran through his mind while she was hurting him. That was what Angela had said to him not too long ago, with fire in her eyes and ice in her voice.

"Do something about it," she'd said. "Don't just stand there and take it. You don't have to anymore. Just push her."

Elliot loved the power in those two simple words. Push her. Finally, he snapped, and did just that. He shoved his mother, and she slammed into the kitchen cabinets behind them. Elliot felt the briefest surge of satisfaction before the reality of what he'd just done hit him full force. His mother stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified as she rubbed her bruised shoulder.

Oh, God, what had he been thinking? How completely idiotic. What would she do to punish him? Was she going to beat him more brutally? Would she send him to jail?

No. She was going to give him The Pills.

Those dull, harmless looking capsules ripped apart Elliot's brain in a way he couldn't believe any substance on Earth could. The first day he took them, he didn't leave his bed. He didn't want to. Moreover it just wasn't possible.

The room moved all over the place. Everything looked drippy and not solid at all. He felt some vague anxiety at first, but it was promptly buried under an avalanche of numbness. Though his worries evaporated in a haze of chemicals, he did not feel any sense of peace, as he thought he surely would. He was not depressed either. Or angry. Or happy. He was reduced to a non-human state of no emotions, no thoughts, nothing. He was not quite awake, not quite asleep. Elliot thought that it should be pleasant in some way, to be so numb. But this was beyond numb. In this state he did not exist enough to be numb.

That was his mother's punishment: a chemical lobotomy.

The next day and every day after, he flushed The Pills. And so far he'd gotten away with it.

"Will you go to the store for me?" his mom's voice brought Elliot back to the present.

He took the small list from her. Her question was not a question, but an order. She said nothing more, and Elliot left without a word.

The Walmart was busy this time of day, the frantic after work crowd clogging the aisles. Elliot hated being around this many people. Wherever he went, he was always brushing up against at least three other shoppers, and that put him on edge in a hurry. He retrieved the items on his mother's list as quickly as possible and went to the check-out. He'd considered trying to make eye-contact with the cashier and bag person, but after braving that sea of customers he was far too exhausted for that. He stood in silence as the chipper, middle-aged lady scanned his things.

"Hey, Elliot. What's up?"

Elliot's stomach churned. He knew that voice. Slowly he lifted his head to read the name on his tag, ironically surrounded by smiley faces. Then Elliot reluctantly looked him in the eye. He was older now, but he didn't appear all that different. He was just more worn out than he'd been in his teenage years. He seemed about as thrilled as Elliot was, but he at least tried to force a polite smile. He was working, after all. He had to be kind to the customers.

"Long time no see," Brandon said placidly. "What you been up to? Still stuck in this crap town, huh? I've been trying to find a place near Brent's, ya know, some place more rural. I was thinking maybe I'd help him run one of the camps."

Elliot's eye twitched in aggravation. The last thing he wanted was to hear Brandon talk about camp—no, the last thing he wanted was to be anywhere near Brandon. He shot a quick glance at the cashier. She was moving at a glacial pace, not even halfway through ringing up his food.

Brandon eyed him warily. "You okay, man?" he murmured. "Hey, that was so long ago. I'm not mad anymore. If she likes you better than there's nothing I can do about it." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm over her."

Elliot clenched his fists, digging his nails deep into his palms. Don't talk about her.

Brandon lethargically dropped a soup can into one of the plastic bags. "I'm guessing you guys are still together?"

Elliot stayed quiet. Longing rippled through his heart, making him ache.

"I like being single, seriously," Brandon went on, obviously not interested in an answer. "After the whole Angela thing, I've been taking a vacation from dating. If she's taught me anything, it's that women are crazy." He chuckled.

Elliot stared at him, stone-faced and silent.

Brandon's smile faded. "So, uhh, Angela probably told you what happened, right?" He didn't wait for Elliot to reply. He sighed and quickly went on, "It wasn't like that. I-I mean seriously, just—We were flirting, ya know, by the lake, then we go back to my tent, and-and—" Brandon trailed off, then lowered his voice. "I-I mean we were making-out and everything. Then all of a sudden she acts like—like she doesn't wanna do anything." He shook his head in disbelief. "Honestly, Elliot, I'm just trying to warn you, okay? She's weird. She plays all these games, ya know, toys with me, then she acts like I'm the bad guy. She's messed up. The more I think about it, I can't even believe tha

I really shouldn't let my anger get the best of me.

A few weeks after the camping trip Angela told me everything. It was obviously difficult for her. She'd tried to block out most of it to cope. Apparently that asshole had shoved his hands into her clothes, and she'd had to push him three times before he finally got the hint. He's the worst kind of person, the kind of person who thinks he can do whatever he wants to someone. I'm not gonna take it easy on him. He's a rapist.

…Where was I? Oh, right: anger. Over the years it had become my blindfold. Right then, it was just like when I pushed my mom: I was outside myself, only vaguely aware of what I was doing. I was not in control. It was something else inside me, pulling the strings when I was too scared to do what I really wanted. That's true rage.

He only got one hit in. He figured out pretty quickly that I was stronger than him. I had the same great realization. I'm not surprised he tried to get away. He's a coward.

In the middle of it I remembered the soup can he'd bagged. It was big. It could really do some damage. The only reason I didn't use it was that it was too far away at the time. If it was within my reach, I could've used it to cave in his skull. Was that what I wanted? Did I want to hurt him that much? Honestly, I don't know.

No one tried to stop me. I can't imagine the cashier liked him. The whole time he was talking she was sighing or shaking her head. She was tired of listening to his bullshit. She was grateful to me for finally shutting him up.

A few people watched. Most people tried to avoid me. Everyone who'd been in line behind me went to another register. They were all working class people who had more important things to worry about. The employees just let it happen. This was above their pay grade.

Eventually two officers pulled me off him. That was when the blindfold came off.