Chapter Two

The Morning After

The morning went by in a blur; the shock of the dream made everyday life seem to run together. Waking up ran into showers, and showers melted into breakfast. Before Keith knew it, he was showered, fed, and dressed, with a big yellow bus throwing a sliding glass door open for him. He walked on in a daze, and found his usual seat at the back. The bus rumbled beneath him, carrying him away from home.

The dream had, and was, carrying him farther away from reality.

Even now, he couldn't get his mind off of it. It was just so…alien, so vivid that he couldn't stop thinking about it. All those…platforms, those Shadows, that…that voice! What did it all mean? Was it some sign – some prophecy of the future? No, that was stupid; nobody could see the future, certainly not in a dream. But then what did that make the dream? Some…alternate reality – wait, what was he saying! An alternate reality!? Was he going insane?

…Well…maybe a little bit.

He'd seen Michelle, after all.

And she'd been dead for three years.

Keith squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable. Prophecies, alternate realities, dreams – he could write those off as easily as breathing. But Michelle…there was something different about that. He hadn't just seen Michelle, he'd…he smelled her, felt her – he'd even sensed her in that strange, outlandish way, like… like when you meet an old friend…When you find an old friend, lost for so many years, and suddenly…poof. There they are, like they had never left, just the way that they always were…

…But…she'd been able to fight in the…dream. Before she died, Michelle didn't even like to think about hurting bugs, much less people…or…Shadows…

…Maybe she wasn't quite the way she was…but even so…

It was Michelle.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

Keith wiped it away hurriedly, hoping no one had noticed. He must've had something in his eye; that's why it kept watering up.

Yeah…

The bus rumbled again, grinding to a halt. Another rumble, this one of moving bodies, met Keith's ears; everyone was up, pulling on backpacks and shoving their way up the aisle. After gathering his thoughts and jumping to his feet, Keith joined them. The tide swept him up and along, and he found himself hurried along out of the bus, over the sidewalk, and into Chalmers' High School, Home of the Panthers.

The tiled hallways and fluorescent lights were almost welcome. They were brash and gaudy, to put it eloquently; basically, they kept Keith distracted. Even his classes, long, boring and frustrating as they were, would be a welcome distraction. They'd keep his mind off the dream; give him a chance to forget about it, clear his head. After all he'd seen…or felt…or done… he was ready for a healthy dose of reality.

He got it alright.

X – X – X – X – X

"Mr. Harris!"

Keith paused, pencil hovering just above the paper, and blinked.

Uh oh.

He took a long moment, vainly hoping the teacher would go on. She didn't. He looked up, fearing the worst.

Sure enough, his eyes met gray cloth, coarse and closely knit. It was the kind of dress you never wanted to touch, either out of fear or plain common sense. You had to think about who was wearing it, after all. And speaking of whom-

"Up here, Mr. Harris."

Keith blinked again before looking up there.

Ms. Griswold loomed overhead like a dark statue, a tall, vindictive Goddess of War with paper for skin and fire for eyes. Her glasses didn't help curb her glare, either- in fact, a flash across the glass often got her point across better than even her most poisonous look. Really, that was a good thing. Her face had frozen into a derisive scowl ages ago; the look in her eyes was the only thing that really let you know where you stood. And judging by the way the sparks were flying, Keith was dangerously close to the edge.

She remained frozen for a second more, almost like she was giving Keith a chance to pray. He didn't take it. He just stared back, feigning polite ignorance.

A hand shot out and snatched away the paper on Keith's desk. Keith didn't flinch, but it wasn't easy; the movement was so fast that he couldn't tell if she'd going for the paper or his unguarded throat. Lucky for him (sort of…) she'd grabbed the paper, and she'd given him another minute to live. Slowly, Ms. Griswold brought the paper up to her face and adjusted her glasses. She inspected the paper for another moment before she lowered it, freezing Keith in an icy glare.

"Mr. Harris."

Keith didn't answer for a second; he had to figure out a way to clear his throat without making a sound. He managed - barely.

"Yes, Ms. Griswold?"

"What class are you in?"

Keith knew the answer; he'd memorized his schedule months ago. But even so, he wanted to wait a moment before he answered; give the old Griswold a chance to cool off. He looked around the room, like he needed to figure out where he was. The walls were blank and dull, save a few of the most strictly informative posters, devoid of all but the most basic pictures. A large chalkboard (yes, a chalkboard) hung at the front of the class, directly behind the rigid rectangle of the teacher's desk. The desks were lined in rows, so perfectly aligned that it almost seemed like someone had gone along with a ruler and lined them up. Which, knowing Ms. Griswold, someone probably did, and that someone probably wore a gray dress, standing in front of him now.

As for the students, they usually faced the front of the class as rigidly as the desks - but now was different. Now, there was something interesting for a change. Every student was turned to watch the scene play out, be it two degrees or a full one-eighty. Some watched with wide eyes, secretly glad they hadn't been found out for something they were doing; more, however, watched with fiendish grins, sadistically elated that Keith, of all people, had been the one singled out.

Keith pointedly ignored them. Instead, he focused on the bland cube of paper on everyone's desks, the soul-sucking fiend known only as The Textbook. It had the classes name printed across the spine, in large, no-nonsense letters. He studied it carefully before turning back to the questioner.

"History, Ms. Griswold."

Ms. Griswold said nothing - not until she looked back to the paper she had stolen, anyway. She turned her eyes, the paper, and the drawing upon it back to Keith. "So would you like to explain to me why you think this is Art class?"

A nasty chuckle broke out somewhere on the far side of the room. For once, Ms. Griswold ignored it.

Keith grimaced.

He couldn't help it. He suddenly recognized the picture, the absentminded doodle that had diffused across the page. It was Daybreak; the strange platform he had seen in his dream. But now, it had more; not only did it have the girl, Michelle, he realized, walking into the horizon, perfectly balanced between morning and night, but she was ringed with circles, smaller portraits of nameless faces. His sketch didn't do them justice, but just seeing the rough outlines brought back the real things, the vague pictures that he hadn't even consciously registered in the dream…assuming he'd been conscious at all.

There he went off again. Stop it! This wasn't a dream! This was reality! This was school – get a grip already!

Ms. Griswold, unknowingly, was more than willing to help him with that.

She was taking his silence to be guilt; her nostrils flared more and more as her glasses grew bright, flashing dangerously like warning lights outside a jail yard.

A minute passed.

Keith, still busy trying to ignore the faces he had drawn, had no answer.

Finally, Ms. Griswold had had enough. She had reached critical mass, and she looked mad. Falsetto calm, cold fury, tear-off-your-head-one-thread-at-a-time mad. Keith was dead; "extra credit" was unavoidable. The only question now was what would his extra credit be?

Ms. Griswold turned sharply, snapping her heels in an almost military about-face. She took the page, scanned the lonely girl and the badly-sketched faces one more time, and walked up to the front of the class, shoes clacking loudly in the strangely still air. Nobody dared breath too loudly as they followed her steps.

In moments she was clear of the desks, and she was crossing the room and stopping beside the door with another terse snap. Wait, no, not by the door - by the wastebasket. Keith's heart jumped, unbidden. He had a sudden feeling about what was coming next – and he didn't like it.

Not a word was spoken as she took the paper in both hands. She gave one last, poisonous glare in Keith's direction – and then she tore it, making a very clean rip straight through the middle. Through Michelle.

Keith winced, a sharp pain stabbing him in the chest. It…physically hurt to see Daybreak torn in half, to see Michelle split in two. It was almost like seeing the real thing being torn apart, mercilessly dismembered like a lamb being butchered.

Ms. Griswold must've noticed the look; she didn't stop there. She tore the paper again, into fourths. Keith winced accordingly, this jab a little sharper than the last. Ms. Griswold tore the paper again. Then again. And again. When the bundle of paper was too small to tear, Ms. Griswold slowly, deliberately, dropped it into the wastebasket bit by bit, the heavy packets of shredded paper hitting the metal with a series of dull thuds.

It took one agonizing minute before it was finally gone. By the end, Keith felt like he was actually being stabbed, over and over again in his…heart?

The picture spent, Ms. Griswold wiped her hands on her skirt, like they were covered in some foul filth. Unsatisfied, she straightened and gave Keith a final look before sealing the deal. "This," she said, motioning to the garbage in the wastebasket, "is your grades as of this moment. If you want them back to the pitiful state they were in, Mr. Harris, you will write two page reports on the content of each of the posters around the room. For someone so obsessed with pictures, it should hardly be a challenge. Having them due by Monday almost seems too generous on my part. Nevertheless, you have today, tomorrow and Sunday. Understood?"

Oh…man… Keith cringed, repulsed by the thought. There were thirteen posters - and he hated every one.

But what could he do? He couldn't afford to fail this class. His grades were all he had.

With that sad thought, Keith could only mumble, "...Yes, ma'am."

"What?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Keith said, more forcefully this time. Ms. Griswold hated mumbling.

"Good." Ms. Griswold walked back to the chalkboard, stamping her heels on the floor like she wished Keith's head was beneath. But it wasn't. So, to blow off steam, she took out her anger on the rest of the class.

She said, turning, "And to make up for the time we have lost, I want everyone – yes, including you, Mr. Harris – to turn in a one-page report on today's lecture. Also due by Monday. Standard format. Single spaced. Handwritten."

Finally sated, Ms. Griswold resumed her lecture, heedless of the bewildered looks that bordered on outspoken outrage. Keith, with no chance to escape, was left at the mercy of endless homework, an angry class, and, worse yet, everyday life.

Just another ordinary day – another dose of reality.

X – X – X – X – X

They got him outside the classroom, happily, albeit unknowingly, giving Keith his second dose of reality for the day.

"Hey, Harris!"

Keith turned.

WHACK

The punch came out of nowhere - or at least it looked that way. All he'd seen was a skin colored blur before the fist made contact. It had a blunt conversation with his nose until force and blood interrupted, and Keith was suddenly flying, helplessly crashing into a locker. He barely noticed the hit; his nose was hurting so bad that he literally couldn't see straight.

He heard laughter as he slid to the floor. Great. Donavan had brought the whole gang.

WHUMP

Donavan followed up with a kick, viciously digging his toe deep into Keith's stomach. He even managed to hit the surgical scars; Keith had had surgery a few weeks ago, but he didn't think anyone had noticed, much less cared enough to remember.

The Beast could surprise you like that.

More laughter. Donovan's laugh stood out like his smell.

"Get up, Harris!"

Keith didn't want to. Of course he didn't want to – Donavan only wanted him up so he could punch him back down again. How else was he supposed to get his kicks?

"I said get up!"

Keith had no choice; if he didn't stand on his own, Donavan would haul him up himself, probably by the hair. Slowly, Keith pushed, fighting the protests from his injured stomach and standing to face down the Beast.

He laughed again, elated to see the look on Keith's face. It was mixture of anger and fury, touched with the slightest hint of hopeless fear. A real caged animal. Keith new his place. He had no chance. The Beast could do whatever he wanted, and Keith couldn't do anything about it. Best of all (worst, for him,) Keith knew it. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was simply try to keep some shred of dignity - but against Donavan, that was easier said than done.

Donavan was an animal, to say the least; he certainly looked the part. He had a strangely squashed face, much like a gorilla, and his hair, coarse and black, was much the same, covering his head and his arms in thick coats. Beneath the hair, his arms were wrapped with freakishly huge muscles, perfect for throwing his ham-sized fists like cannonballs. He looked every bit like an animal bred for the schoolyard – and he smelled like it too. Ah, the smell! He smelled like a monkey house, in every disgusting way you can think of. It was enough to make your eyes water if you got too close. Normally, Keith wouldn't go anywhere near the Beast if he had the choice. But that was just it; he didn't have a choice. Whatever he wanted, Donavan had other ideas.

WHAM

Donavan hit him with a vicious gut punch, driving Keith back into the locker again. But this time, he couldn't slide down. Donovan kept his fist grinding in, driving his back into the wall and the air from his lungs. Keith dangled helplessly, feet an inch above the floor, fighting for breath against the fist in his gut and the smell in the air. He coughed, and something sour and metallic climbed up his throat. He swallowed it down, hoping it wasn't blood.

"Geez, Harris," Donavan growled, breath hot against Keith's ear. "You really like to play the bad guy, don't you?"

He grabbed Keith's shirt and threw him, flipping him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Keith hit the floor with a sickly slam, but before he even had time to bounce, the rest of Donavan's gang, the Pack, had circled around, tightening the cage. They towered above him as he huddled on the floor, wide eyed and breathless from pain and shock. The Pack was taunting and laughing and calling him names, but not one of them dared to touch him. He was Donavan's prey - they knew it as well as Keith.

Donavan gave them all a subtle reminder of that. He gave Keith another kick, flipping him from his side onto his back. When Keith's arms had moved, flopped limply to the ground as he fought to stay conscious, The Beast stamped down, driving his boot hard into Keith's chest. Keith coughed again, a choked, hacking gasp of pain and surprise. It was hard to say whether Donavan noticed how far he was going or not; if he did, he didn't seem to care.

Keith was seeing stars, zipping and bursting in front of his eyes. That was a warning sign; Donovan was going too far. If he didn't let up soon, Keith didn't know what would happen. Except for the obvious, but…Donavan wouldn't go that far just to prove a point-

Donavan leaned down, not close enough for Keith to smell his foul breath, but enough that Keith could count every hair on his chin and every line in his glare.

"So there we were in History," said Donavan, like it was the most casual thing in the world, "minding our own business, doing our thing – when you go and decide to put on a show for us. Really, I'm flattered; it was great! You got chewed out, your grades went down the crapper, and Ms. Griswold nailed you with her famous 'extra credit.' Honestly, I'd have given you an encore if I was half as brainless as you are!"

The gang laughed, all on perfect cue. Keith gritted his teeth. Beyond that, nothing. Always nothing.

Donavan went on:

"But you know, I – and this is just me, but…I don't want to do a bunch of brainless homework on my precious weekend, so I keep my mouth shut in good ol' History class. If you want to waste your life in a bunch of books, that is just fine with me. But YOU-"

He twisted his boot – hard. Keith cried out, the pain catching him off guard. He felt skin stretching dangerously beneath his shirt, coming painfully close to tearing.

"-You couldn't keep the fun to yourself. You had to spread it around. Now we have to do some stupid report thing on a class we don't even like. And on the weekend, no less…"

Donavan lifted his boot, stepping back to let Keith catch his breath. Keith gasped, taking full advantage of what he was sure was just that hush before the lightning struck.

"You know, Harris..." Donavan had turned away, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. Keith pushed himself up, knees shaking and mind racing. He was trying to guess the odds that he could get away, make a break for it. They weren't good; even if it had been just him and Donavan, he was so weak and so bruised that he wouldn't get five feet before the Beast had him again. And with the Pack standing around, just waiting for an excuse… no. He had no chance. He was caged in, thoroughly and utterly trapped.

"I really, really don't want to do homework on a weekend," said Donavan. He paused for one long moment, letting Keith find his feet and his hands ball into fists. He spoke again, and it suddenly grew deathly silent. "And I'm sure -"

He turned, fist raised.

Time slowed.

Keith saw it coming.

It was just like his dream.

But now, there was no voice. There were no Shadows.

There was Donavan, his fist, and Keith.

He was really alone.

Keith tried to dodge, jump aside. Help himself.

No good; he was just too slow.

WHAM

"-that you don't want me doing homework either."

The Beast's first punch had nearly broken Keith's nose; this one finished the job. Keith felt it snap, felt blood spurt out across his upper lip. The force of the blow knocked him back, into the waiting arms of the Pack. They pushed him back, laughing, but not before one of them spit on him. They laughed harder. Keith stood there, silent, shaking.

Donavan was not smiling. He stepped forward and grabbed Keith by the hair, pulling him up to make sure he was still conscious. When he was sure, he went on. His breath smelled like sour milk and spoiled cabbage.

"So here's how it's going to work. Me and my friends are crossing the Hudson the second that school gets out. We're getting out of this two-bit town. We're partying it up in the city. And you get to clean up this little mess of yours by doing all of our reports - hey!" He gave Keith a shake. He flopped like a rag doll. "Don't look at me like that! I could not care less about your stupid homework! All I care about is that you do mine. Otherwise, I'm going to get angry." He twisted his hand, and Keith's head twisted beneath. Donavan took a long moment to look at the scar, that thin, white line along Keith's neck. If he had had time, he would've looked at that scar on Keith's stomach as well.

"And you sure didn't like the last time I got angry."

He dragged Keith closer. His breath made Keith want to vomit - maybe that could cover up the smell…

"Got it?"

For a long moment, nothing happened. It looked like he was shaking again, trembling ever so slightly. But finally, Keith nodded, feeling blood drip further down his face. No choice.

"Good."

Donavan let go, and Keith crumpled to the floor in a heap, loosing a pained groan as his chest folded in half. Donavan stepped over him without a second glance, and as fast as the Beast had come, he disappeared. The Pack followed close behind, hopping over Keith and cackling madly as they went. Everyone jumped over him except for one, a short freshman with a lip ring who snarled, "Enjoy the weekend," before stomping into his stomach again and running off.

Then they were gone.

X – X – X – X – X

Keith didn't know how long he lay there, or how many people may have walked by, leaving him hunched in pain and fury. The pain and the injuries made him dizzy and light headed; there were several times where his body felt numb, like it might as well have not been there. He couldn't even tell how long he lay there on the cold white stone – it could've been days, it could've been seconds. He was too far out of it to know, or even care. He only remembered one person in particular – the last living person he expected to see.

Devon.

Keith was almost unconscious when he recognized him, something, something like the same out-of-body feeling that had helped him recognize Michelle, helping him here, to recognize Devon. His face came into focus for one crystal-clear moment. Keith took him in in an instant: the boldly brown skin, the defiantly spiky black hair, the mysteriously dark brown eyes, so deep they almost seemed black in that single moment.

Then he'd faded out, his outline returning to the same blurred vision he'd been seeing since the beating.

Keith's mind raced, flashes of memory flickering before his eyes. Pictures of children happily playing, a brown-haired girl, a black-haired boy, a blonde-haired Keith. Growing up, growing together. Smiling, laughing, playing, living.

And then the fire…

Keith murmured a word, a name, hardly daring to hope. "Devon…"

He couldn't see Devon's face – but he didn't have to. Devon let out a small sound, a contemptuous scoff, before he turned and walked away, blurring into the crowd.

Keith watched him go, and he felt something inside him walking off with him. Something else broke; whatever it was, it hurt infinitely more than his nose, or anything for that matter. It hurt with every heartbeat, every pulse pounding like the impact anew. It hurt with every step he heard carrying Devon away, fading into the crowd, still blaming Keith. It hurt like only the way an old friend could make you hurt.

Keith lost track of reality again, this time willingly, hoping to tune out of the pain of isolation. People came and went. They ignored Keith, looking the other way. Everyone trying to remain an innocent bystander. Leaving Keith alone.

All alone.

It wasn't long after that Keith decided something: His dream was just that – a stupid dream. It wasn't a prophecy. It wasn't an alternate reality. It was a stupid, stupid dream. And it was wrong.

Michelle was dead.

Devon was gone.

He was absolutely and utterly alone.