Chapter One : Classical Dissonance

The first thing he noticed every morning was the deep, dark bruises underneath his eyes. They were always there. His sage green eyes; the very eyes that his mother used to fawn over, always wore a haunted expression. They spoke of stories that have yet to pass his lips and of pain that haven't been felt.
The last thing he noticed every morning was the chill. No matter how warm the California air got, he felt as if he was in a subzero terrain. He always wore jeans and long-sleeves. It didn't keep him warm; but to be wrapped up in something was a small comfort in a world of darkness for him. The fabric wound tightly around his body kept him grounded. Kept him in reality and prevented the nightmares from filtering into his waking world.
It hindered the thought that every blond woman he saw was Melody. It helped him when his thoughts turned dark, whether they be in a dungeon or within a dark bedroom. And just like every morning before, his musings always ventured back to his dream - his memory - and it was only broken by one thing :

"Wyatt! Chris! You're going to be late!"

His mother's shout from downstairs. Wyatt, the oh-so perfect Wyatt, always ignored his alarm clock and slept until now. He, on the other hand, was awake long before the sun peered over the horizon. He just never went downstairs.

He was too busy.

He needed to remember. Frantic scribbles and words were in fraying notebooks. His unheard pleas screaming in ink; begging for salvation.

"Wyatt! Ass out of bed! Chris! Breakfast! Now, you two!"

Chris sighed and leaned his forehead against the mirror in his bedroom, his eyes sliding shut.

Blond.

Soft hands.

He took in a shaky breath. The frightened eyes were back. Shaking his head, he stood straight and ran a hand through his hair; the shaggy strands dyed midnight. He rubbed his eyes and grabbed his coat from the back of his computer chair. Another shout from his mother made him grab his backpack and trot down the stairs.

A tense smile. It was always on his mother's face in his morning. It said "I wish you would tell me what's wrong" and "I'm worried" in the same expression. And he always sent a small, forced smile back. It was false reassurance. She had every right to be worried.

Most people have a grasp on sanity. Some have a firm grasp. Others have a few loose strings but have a few guiding hands to keep everything in check. His grasp was pure slack. A thin string was being held by a pinch; and a single gust of wind could leave him in a fetal position weeping like the child he felt like inside.

"About time, Peanut." Piper said, gently pushing him towards the kitchen, "Eat. Quickly. Hopefully your brother will wake up!" her last two words were directed back up the stairs. Chris plopped his backpack onto one of the dining room chairs and sank into the neighboring one.

Lethargically, he cut into the small stack of pancakes and began eating. "Hey buddy,"

Chris glanced up from his fourth bite and greeted his father with a small twitch of his lips. His father's hand- coarse from the handyman work he did on the side - ruffled his hair before he slid into the kitchen for his morning cup of coffee. His breakfast was gone by time Wyatt made his appearance. The blond was still half-asleep and didn't look too interested in the pancakes. The coffee on the other hand was guzzled down. Chris rolled his eyes and slipped his hand into his pocket. Headphones were unraveled and pressed into his ears. While music no longer fell from his fingers, it was still a solace that he seeked.

He leaned back and gazed at the bleak, white ceiling. His eyes fluttering shut; but, wouldn't close. They couldn't close. If he fell asleep among his family, they would know. They couldn't know. The mere idea that his mother let in the woman that scarred his soul. That his father paid the woman that wounded him. That his brother played with the woman that dirtied him. All three trusted her. She trusted them. She used him. He felt nothing.

A tap on the shoulder brought him from his mind, his brother gesturing for him to get up and follow him to the truck. With a heavy sigh, Chris picked up his backpack and pecked his mother's cheek before heading out. The drive was silent, as always. His brother focused on the road. He was focused on not exposing anything. Once in the parking lot, Wyatt turned off the truck, turned to him and said the same two sentences that he said every morning : "Be happy." and "Find me if you need anything.".

At that moment, every morning, Chris could feel the tears spring up, the tears of a child broken and wishing for salvation. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and confess. To disclose the raw tidbits of his dark childhood that were being showcased within his mind every night. He wanted to push his demons forward and let his big brother - the brother that has protected him from every evil being (all except one, his mind added) - vanquish them and allow him to heal.

But, he never does.

He merely squeezed his brother's hand before sliding out. He knew his brother was watching him from the truck. He knew that Wyatt's blue eyes were analyzing him. Wondering. Worrying. And that always hurt him more than the memories.

The memories were things of the past. Things that would forever haunt him and shape him into the person he was still becoming.

But the sheer fact that he was leading his family onto a dark path crushed him. They were his demons. They were his problems.

They were his damnation.