For Those Left Behind

by Sapphire Ox

Life can be a fragile, finite thing, and though it may end, the pain does not. An exploration of the origins and deaths of Monster High's ghostly students.

6. Porter Geiss

Chapter 5: Porter Geiss

---

1971

---

He looked back and forth between the wall and his sketchbook, trying to get as close of a resemblance of the brick wall onto the paper as possible. His pencil scratched against the thin paper, flicking thin little lines of granite across its white surface as his eyes scanned the little details of the wall, noting where the cracks spread out along the rough material and where some of it had become weathered from the elements.

Porter lifted his head back up; he held the hand that gripped his pencil out in front of him, making an L-shape and holding it where it was slightly angled with that of the wall. He stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth, squeezing one eye shut as he focused on where to get the right view for his sketch. He wanted the replication when he added his own personal designs to be perfect, and sometimes, even being off by even an inch or so when it came to rough material like what the wall was made of could mess up the entire outcome of the picture.

"Ever be that much, you cheating sack of-"

He paused in his sketch, raising his head. A man back walked out of the shop Porter had been leaning against his, the latter's eyebrows crinkled in anger. He was a few years older, with tangled brown hair that fell to and around his shoulders, and looked almost to be one big giant piece with his full beard and mustache. He gripped a paper bag tightly in his hands, and was giving a dirty look to whoever was inside.

Porter flipped his sketchbook closed, pushing himself off the wall and falling into step with the guy as he walked up to him.

"Trouble with Mr. White, Cory?" he asked.

The man reached into the bag and pulled out a receipt, his mouth forming a thin line as he looked at what was printed on it.

"If only. He has some ass at the register trying to overcharge me for the bread," he responded, shoving the receipt back into the bag, "Like I haven't been buying this exact brand for the same exact price for the past five years this store's been here."

Porter smirked, "He probably thought he could one up you since you'd be presumably far too gone from shrooms to pay attention."

Cory grinned at him, nudging him with his elbow. "Well, he was in for a disappointment."

"Yeah," Porter replied, shooting him a sly grin, "…he should've gone with weed."

He laughed as he ducked to avoid the sudden backhand that Cory threw at him.

"I will gladly have you know I choose to not abide by your narrowed view of stereotypes and have not touched the devil's grass, you heathen!" Cory boasted, putting his hands on his hips.

Porter stopped. He tilted his head and gave him a look of doubt.

Cory stared back, his mouth forming a grimace. He looked off to the side, kicking a rock.

"Well…not in the last two weeks, at least," he muttered. Porter chuckled; his brother could fool everyone else, but Porter had snuck into his room plenty of times when he had friends over to recognize the faint rotting egg smell that never seemed to go away completely.

He put his hands in his pockets as the two walked through the town, passing various shops and businesses. Many of the stores had signs hanging in their front windows, all displaying the same message of some sort of sale in various front, along with the words Support Our Soldiers put in bold in the center; some of the signs included a cardboard cutout of someone in uniform beside them.

As the two of them turned the corner after walking a few blocks, Porter could see the clocktower of the local university coming up ahead. The sun was peaking out behind the clouds, highlighting the changing Autumn leaves, and the air was only slightly chilled- a stark difference from the last few weeks, where it had been constantly pouring down rain- and many seemed to have taken advantage of this rarity; Porter could see students sitting down on the grass out front on blankets or gathered in circles, either engrossed in group conversation or studying in silence.

There was one group off to the right that stood a bit more spread out than the others, all of them surrounding a table that was set up along the pebbled walkway that weaved between the plots of grass. Most of them were standing and held stacks of papers in their hands, calling out to the students who passed by and trying to hand them one, before moving on to the next one; all those gathered around the table had noticeably bright colors in their attire, whether it be the multiple buttons attached to their lapels or the swirl patterned shirts they wore. Most of the girls wore headbands that had brightly painted beads woven into them. Two people- a girl and a guy, respectively- sat at the table. A cardboard sign hung from its front, the words In With The Love, Out With The War! Buttons 60 cents painted on it in bright red.

The guy, Porter noticed, looked like he was getting rather bored of the situation. He kept tapping his nails on the tabletop or bouncing his leg as he looked around before leaning his chin on his palm. The girl, however, was sitting up straight, a big smile stretched onto her light pink-painted lips as she held her hands out in front of her, her fingers laced together. Her honey brown hair was parted down the middle, a few locks interwoven with beads. The fringe vest she wore, which had several identical beads hanging from the tassels, clashed severely with the bright patterned long dress she wore.

Porter called out to her as he and Cory approached the group, "Any chance there's a family discount for your products, ma'am?"

The girl turned her head at the sound of her name; her eyes widened as they fell upon the two boys, her smile growing.

"Hey, you made it!" she exclaimed as she jumped out of her seat, rushing around the table to grab both of them in a hug.

Cory pulled back, looking over her shoulder at the table and the few of their friends who stood waiting for more passerbys.

"And what exactly is 'it' we're here for?" he asked.

Sandra gestured to the table and her friends.

"We're doing a fundraiser!" she answered, "We want to try and spread the word about the student movement against the war, get people interested in our club. We're also selling buttons to help raise more money in organizing events and to further get the message across!"

"Uh-huh. And how booming has this business gotten since you started?" Porter asked in doubt as he eyed the still-mostly full box of buttons that lie on the table. Many of them displayed peace symbols or were glued with cardboard to look like flowers.

Sandra pouted at his statement, looking over her shoulder to watch as one of her teammates tried to get some guy walking by to stop and chat, only to get regarded with a muttered "piss off" as the guy walked by without a second look. She winced at the spectacle, but tried to her hide it with a smile when she turned back to the boys.

"We've been a little slow on progress today," she admitted, "B-But it's still the morning! You know how it is, most people just got out of bed, they can't think straight because they've got all these classes to worry about. I guarantee by later today, we'll have gotten to much more people!"

Cory and Porter shared a look of doubt.

Turning around, Sandra reached over and grabbed the button box off the table. She turned and held it out to them. "Speaking of which, if you two want to help, they're only sixty cents."

Porter snorted, "'Only?' You sure you don't want to the mortgage to the house while you're at it?"

However, he dug around in his pocket and pulled out a few dimes, dropping them in Sandra's hand and fishing around for a random one. He pulled it out to reveal a white one with the words 1-2-3-4 WDWYFW along with a hand that was giving the finger printed on the front.

He shrugged and pinned it to his lapel. Sandra smiled at him giddily.

"'Scuse me, mind telling me what's going on here?"

The siblings turned at the sound of a gruff, snappy voice. A police officer stood on the walkway in front of the bench, his hands on his hips as he looked at the group with something akin to disgust.

Inwardly, Porter sighed. Of course they want to have a look, he thought to himself. Who else to take down those who dared to go against the status quo like the damn pigs?

The guy at the table looked up at Sandra in concern. She raised her hand in a gesture to pacify him, before walking over to the cop. Her hands were laced together and hung down in her front, slightly banging against her waistline as she made her way around.

"Is there a problem here, officer?" she asked kindly.

The cop frowned at her, his already lined brow crinkling deeper- Porter thought if he did it any more, he'd look more crumpled up than a wadded-up ball of aluminum. The cop jutted his chin out at the table, before regarding her with stern brown eyes.

"I was asking what's going on here," he said, "Couldn't help but notice you have a little nice display set up here."

"Oh, yes! We're raising awareness about our clubs!" Sandra smiled, gesturing at the other students.

Though she was smiling, the others regarded the officer with varying looks of apprehensiveness. Not that Porter could blame them. These days you never knew what they were going to pull out of their sleeves. The officer certainly didn't look impressed, and his expression only became more pinched as his eyes scanned the signs.

"Uh-huh," he replied curtly, "And what kind of 'club' are we talking here?"

He didn't let her answer, though, as he reached for the button box, shuffling through them and pulling a few out. Porter watched the exchange with slight nervousness; he noticed how Sandra's posture suddenly stiffened, the other students staring at the officer like they were debating whether or not to bolt right on the spot. His eyes slid to the side and he could see Cory's jaw clench. Like the cop looking through a bunch of buttons was going to expose their worst secret.

And, in a way, he supposed it would. The peace movement in their town wasn't exactly a sentiment shared by the older folks in charge.

The cop held out a few in his palm, poking them to get a clear view of their messages. Everyone watched him with bated breath.

""Wage Peace', 'Get Out Now', 'Make Love Not War'," the officer read off. He snorted as he looked over another one, "'Draft Beer Not Students.' How sweet. That's a good one."

No one responded. The cop looked up and gave Sandra a smile. The gleam in his eye made Porter bristle. He handed her back the buttons; Sandra took them hesitantly, clutching them to her chest like she were afraid he would snatch them right back out of her hands.

"Well, kids, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm afraid that I'm gonna have to shot this little operation down," the officer said, not sounding the last bit sorry.

Porter watched Sandra's eyes widen. "Shut down? Why?!"

The cop looked smug as he put his hands in his pockets, eyeing the sign with a keen dislike. "Well, you see, ma'am, I can't help but notice you're selling merchandise. Unfortunately, there are certain rules against selling things on school property-"

"We have a permit to do so," the guy sitting at the table immediately said.

The cop's smugness dropped in an instant, and he whipped his head to stare at the guy. Porter and the rest of them watched as the guy dove under the table, pulling out a backpack and slamming it on top; he dug around in it, before pulling a slightly crumpled sheet of paper and holding out to the officer.

The officer didn't take it. Instead he just stared down at it, before slowly looking up to the guy like he wanted to roast him right there.

Undeterred, though, the officer switched tactics.

"That you do," he said with a hint of annoyance, "But, you see, we've gotten a few…concerns from around campus. Complaints about if this…movement of yours being disruptive to other students."

Sandra's mouth dropped open. "Dis…disruptive?"

"Yep. Sorry, but you're gonna have to move it to somewhere else."

The smug smile returned on his face, and he was immediately greeted with a chorus of protests from everyone. Porter frowned at the cop. He should've known. Disruptive. Like handing out a bunch of papers was truly a nuisance.

But forcing every guy down and out on his luck to join a militia, uproot them and stick them in a boot camp for months on end and then ship them off to slaughter innocent Vietnamese people all so the big guys could make some money off of the whole thing, that apparently was absolutely fine.

"Excuse me, officer, but I'm afraid that we are not legally obligated to do that," he commented suddenly.

Cory shot him a look that told him to not get involved, but he ignored it. Sandra gave him an equally pleading look as the officer turned to him, his lips pressed together. He stared down Porter sternly, standing up straight, his eyes burrowing into him. Porter refused to be intimidated, looking back with his own defiance clear in his blue gaze.

The officer asked in almost a whisper, "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, you can't make us move," Porter replied.

The cop narrowed his eyes at him, stalking up to him.

"You trying to question my authority, son?"

"Not at all, but I'm rather confused on your stance. As far as I can tell, my sister and her friends have just been standing out here trying to get people's attention. I don't understand how that can be disturbing," Porter said.

The officer wrinkled his nose.

"Look, I know you kids like to talk about what you think is very important to you," he said with a bit of a snap, "But people have a right to go about their day without being heckled over the smallest things."

"And we have a right to make raise awareness wherever we want that's not a private establishment under our Constitution," Porter countered, "If we were harassing people or following them or littering, I could understand, but as far as I can tell, you're telling us to leave just because other people don't like what we're saying."

From his peripheral, he could see Sandra's friends watching the conversation with interest, some of them nodding in support to his statement. Sandra crossed her arms, watching the cop's back with what looked to be a newfound sense of defiance.

The cop, on the other hand, looked like he wanted nothing more than to pull out his nightstick and use it on the blonde. Instead, he leaned further in, snarling at Porter in a way that made his nose furl up like an angry boar; he grabbed the teen by his collar pulling him so that they were almost nose to nose.

"You smartass little rat, I oughta-"

"You will not touch him," Cory spoke up as he quickly got between them, yanking the cop's hand away from Porter. He stood in front of the latter, fists clenched at his sides.

The two stood with their chests almost touching, the top looking at Cory like he were a fly he wanted to swat. His mouth was pulled into a deep frown, his dark eyes almost black; Cory, however, being the taller of the two men, stared down at him equal contempt, blue eyes appearing frosty from under his shaggy bangs. The others watched as they held their breath, tension thick in the air. It seemed evident that a fight was going to break out

Instead, the cop turned his head, scoffing as he waved Cory off.

"Bunch of hippie brats, that's what y'all are," he spat at the group, "We have men up there- good men- risking their lives and dying up their to keep our country free, and you spoiled brats who haven't even worked a day in your lives want to turn your backs on them all because you want to smoke some."

"Not at all, sir," Cory replied, "We just think that because our men are dying, that this war has run its course. It's time to take them out of a country we have no business being in and bring them back home."

The cop stared at the tall brunette, disgust on his face. Finally, he turned his back on the group, walking away while muttering something about 'damn young burnouts' under his breath. The group watched him go. A few of them were smirking at him, knowing that this was a round they had won.

Sandra and Cory turned to Porter, their eyes bugging out at him. Porter looked away.

Hey, why was he being looked at like that? It was the old man who started it. Besides, was he wrong? Whatever happened to freedom of expression, to sticking up for what was right?

"Man, Mom's gonna kill you if she finds out you mouthed off to a cop," Cory commented. He raised one of his eyebrows.

Porter just shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"What Mom doesn't know won't kill her."

---

He sat in the living room that evening, sitting with his legs crossed under him as he held his sketchbook out. A box of pastels sat on the table under the lamp next to him, and Porter dug through them as he tried to fish out a color he was looking for. Grabbing a rust color one that was rather buried, he brought it up to the page, which was open to the sketch of the brick wall he did earlier; in addition to the wall, though, the sketch now contained faint lines in the middle, of which made out what seemed to be words and a picture.

Porter jutted his lip out as he colored in areas of the sketch, trying to recreate its shading from memory. As he finished applying the red, he curled his fingers on the pastel stick, pressing his thumb to the color and rubbing it, smearing it around so that the shading looked less harsh. When he was done, he rubbed his thumb on the hem of his shirt and dropped the pastel back into the box, digging around for another one.

"That better not be another one of the nice shirts your grandmother bought you that I see you dirtying up," his mother commented as she passed through from the kitchen.

Porter looked up, before looking back down at his shirt like he hadn't realized what he'd been doing.

"It's not," he replied, "I made sure to pick an old one. One of the ones I don't wear anymore."

"Or, you know, you could always just use a napkin," Dixie replied as she opened the china cabinet, "Because I'm not going to waste money on dry cleaning and iron press just to have it all destroyed again."

Porter rolled his eyes- when her back was turned of course, "Moooom, don't sweat it! I'm being careful! Besides, what's the big deal! I think, personally, it brings a bit of flare. Makes it more…me."

Dixie gave him a look over her shoulder. Instead of replying, though, she simply shook her head and went back to putting the newly polished china back in its rightful place. When she was finished, she closed the glass door and locked it, walking over to the couch and readjusting the blanket that hung over its back for a few seconds before leaning over and giving Porter a kiss on the temple.

"Remember to turn the lights off when you're done," she reminded him, "I'm want to try and cut down so our light bill's a little less."

Porter smiled, giving her a return peck on the cheek. Dixie got up, turning the kitchen light off before heading up the stairs to get ready for bed. As her footsteps faded up the carpeted steps, Porter relaxed deeper into the couch, sighing contently in the silence that now followed with him being the only soul in the room.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds was the soft clinking as he dug around in his box, looking for pastels. Picking up an acid green one, Porter settled back into position, raising it to start coloring in the words that he had added to the wall sketch. He started making back and forth motions with it, leaving light green in his wake.

There was a creaking from the kitchen.

Porter paused. He looked over to its direction. The pass-through window that separated the kitchen from the living room besides the walkway provided a view that showed nothing. Everything was still.

He shrugged. Probably was just the house settling.

Going back to his sketch, Porter pressed the pastel stick against the paper again-

There was another creak, this one much louder and longer.

Porter jumped slightly. He looked passed towards the pass-through window.

One of the cupboards above the stove was open.

He stiffened. That…that wasn't like that just now, he thought to himself. Or at least…he didn't think it was.

Putting his sketchbook down on top of his pastels box, he slowly got up, not taking his eyes off the cupboard as he made his way into the kitchen. As he turned the corner, he just stood in the doorway for a couple of minutes. With the only light coming from the living room, the kitchen was mostly dark, everything casting a heavy shadow upon the floor. The open door of the cupboard stood out, an eerie black rectangle in the air against the bright backdrop of the light.

Porter stared at it for a couple of seconds, before he slowly reached up to grab it by the handle.

He looked into the cupboard. Arranged spices and bags of various grains stared back at him. He frowned. Shaking his head, he closed the cupboard.

"All that sugar's probably getting to me," Porter muttered to himself, grimacing when he thought of the sugar cookies he had for dessert after dinner.

Turning around, he started making his way back into the living room. There was an itching in his fingers at the thought of getting further along on his picture, and Porter knew he wouldn't sleep until he had gotten enough done to be satisfied.

When he walked back into the living room, however, he paused.

His sketchbook was on the coffee table, open right down the middle to show some drawings he had recently done. His pastels box was lying next to it as well, a few sticks taken out and scattered across the surface of the paper.

Something tingled in his gut. Porter felt goosebumps break out on his skin.

He barely withheld a scream as something banged in the kitchen. Leaning over to peer through the pass-through window, Porter could see the edge of the cupboard he had just closed.

It was open again, all the way so its knob was touching the cupboard next to it, and this time, it was moving, tapping against the other cupboard with light raps; like a metal knocker's ring rapping against a door.

Porter bolted for his sketchbook, holding it tightly to his chest as he gathered up his pastels from around the table and dropped them back into the box. He shoved it under his arm and made a U-turn, almost hitting his knee against the ottoman as he made a beeline for the stairs; he only stopped once to quickly turn off the living room light.

"Okay, that's it!" he exclaimed as he stomped up the stairs, not daring to look even once over his shoulder, "Obviously I need to go to bed because I'm imagining things cuz I'm tired, because I am not going to entertain this and become phantom food!"

---

Porter sat in class, bouncing his leg up and down impatiently as he tried- and failed- to follow along as the teacher went over math problems on the chalkboard, writing down various numbers and formulas that Porter felt might as well have been a second language. He flashed a glance to the clock on the wall above, only to groan when he saw there was still thirty-five minutes left.

He leaned forward, laying his head on his crossed arms. He didn't even bother to even try to listen to the teacher as he stared ahead in space. Why was it always the most boring classes that went the slowest? And why did he even need to learn this garbage in the first place? Proofs and circumference weren't going to help him pay bills or get a job!

Besides, I don't need any of this numbers crap when I break out onto the scene, he thought with a smile, All I need is me and my art.

There was a nudge at his side. "Pssst, Geiss."

Porter looked to the side. Jean Dupain, one of the kids from the chess team, was leaning in towards him, staring at him with wide green eyes. Porter furrowed his eyes at him, before, after taking a glance to make sure the teacher wasn't looking, leaning in.

"What?" he whispered.

Jean replied back lowly, "Heard your sis got shit from a cop for promotin' the war protest on the university campus. That true?"

"Why do you care?"

"Did she?" Jean persisted.

Porter frowned, "Yeeaaaahh?"

Jean nodded, like this was what he wanted to hear, before he leaned in closer.

"My bro and cousins are gonna be hostin' a rally at the community center tonight, at eight. Word on the street is the pigs are getting' on the hunt on crackin' down on groups like ours that are speakin' out against the war, trying to throw the book at them," he responded.

"Where'd they hear that?" Porter asked.

"Word gets out," Jean said, "And ever since those guys from Beaverton put on that big thing with burning their draft cards, they've been out for blood."

Porter's eyebrows furrowed, his expression slightly confused.

"On what grounds?" he asked, "They can't arrest us for just demonstrating what's perfectly within our rights."

Jean shrugged, "Yeah, well, they also technically can't just decide to go into a foreign country and start massacring its people without so much as even an official declaration of war, and yet here we are."

He looked at Porter through a curtain of strawberry blonde hair. "So, what is it? You in or what? Because Barry says to let you know he isn't gonna be personal carpool again. Our old man's getting way too suspicious."

Porter waved him off, "We'll be there."

Later on, though, as he sat with the rest of the family around the table of supper, he realized that doing so might've been easier said than done.

Porter glanced at the clock with the same impatience he had in class, watching as the hands went agonizingly slow along the minutes, the little "tick, tick tick" almost manic in the calming quiet of the kitchen. He looked back down at his barely touched roast and potatoes, jabbing his fork into them; he found he couldn't muster up much of an appetite, the nervousness of how they were going to go about this smoothly gnawing at his gut.

He snuck at a glance at his mother. She seemed oblivious, eyes focused on her plate as she brought up a spoonful of vegetables to her mouth. He looked to the side. Cory regarded him with a wide eyed stare, obviously sharing in the anxiousness. Sandra, Porter noted, kept cutting her roast into smaller and smaller pieces, though it seemed to just to give her hands something to do.

"Something wrong with the food?" Dixie suddenly asked.

Porter stiffened. His knuckles turned white as the grip on his fork tightened. Slowly, he looked up at his mother.

She stared back at him with curiosity, chewing as she raised her eyebrows. Porter looked down at his mostly full plate, before shaking his head. He hated the way his heart suddenly began racing in his chest, and he hoped his face didn't seem nearly as pale as it felt in the moment.

"N-Naw, it's great," he tried to give his best smile, "Nothing could ever be wrong with your food."

Dixie rolled her eyes, before her expression became confused again. She looked over all three of her children, noting how each of them seemed to suddenly do everything to avoid making eye contact with her.

"What's up with you guys? You're all normally chatting up a storm right now," she asked, "Something I need to know?"

Before either of his siblings could say something that was probably a much better excuse, Porter suddenly found himself bursting out, "U-U-Um we're having plans tonight!"

He tried to ignore how he felt Sandra and Cory's burning glares into his side, and tried to maintain eye contact with Dixie as she perked up. She blinked owlishly.

"Oh?" she replied, "You didn't tell me you had anything beforehand."

"Yeah, s-sorry about that, must've gotten s-sidetracked," Porter scratched his head, "Anyways, my friend Parker- you know, that kid from the chess team?- we're gonna have a study group. We've got this big midterm coming up, and we wanted to get a head start on studying. So y-you know, we're prepared and all."

"Yeah!" Cory suddenly exclaimed, "And I said I'd drive them!"

Sandra looked at her mother, adding to the lie, "A-And Daisy asked if I could hang out with her while we're there! Like, her parents don't want her home alone and all that, so she wanted to see if I could keep her company while she waits!"

They all gave her tight, crooked smiles, their cheeks rising up to their eyes like doing so was almost painful for them. Dixie looked at them with a brow raised, not looking very convinced. Porter cursed inwardly. Why didn't they go over this at all before it got close to the meeting starting?

However, Dixie just looked back down at her plate, gathering up some mashed potatoes on her spoon.

"Oh. Okay," she replied, her tone light and airy, "Just don't stay out too late, okay? It's a school night?"

Cory nodded frantically, "Oh, don't worry, I'll have them home before you know it! As a matter of fact I could stop by the gas station and fill up for you while we're there."

Dixie smiled, looking at him with warm green eyes.

"That would be lovely, thank you dear," she stated.

She looked back to Porter, "Where're you guys gonna study at?"

Porter picked at his food again, cutting a piece of roast with his fork. "Well, since the library's closed now, we figured we'd just go to the community center, since it's not too-"

Sandra kicked him under the table. Too late did he realize what he let slip, and his eyes went wide in horror. He lifted his head, desperately hoping that she hadn't caught on.

She had. Dixie had stiffened in her seat, her fork hovering above her food, frozen in place. he could see her fingers tighten around it. Slowly, she lifted her head. Porter had to keep himself from wincing at the pinched expression that now graced her normally soft features.

"The community center?" She repeated, her mouth straightening into a thin line, "You're not planning on going to one of those anti-war meetings those other college kids are holding, are you?"

So much for incognito mode, Porter thought bitterly. He tore his gaze away; he could feel Dixie's own continue to burrow into him, like she was staring right into his soul and could just see the deception radiating off of it.

Cory was the first one to speak up. "Mom, it's nothing. Barry just wanted to get-"

"No."

"Mom-"

"No," Dixie repeated in a clipped tone.

"We were just going to talk-" Sandra tried to repeat.

"No, absolutely not," Dixie said, "You know how I feel about those people and their shenanigans, Cory. The fact that you were going to sneak behind- nevermind, that's not important. The answer is no, and that's final."

"We weren't going to do anything wrong," Porter muttered.

Dixie gave him a look.

"I would hardly think getting approached by a policeman hardly counts as 'not doing anything wrong'," she replied.

At their shocked, pale faces, she nodded.

"That's right, I heard about all about your little get-together, Sandra, from Mrs. Johnson, of all people," She confirmed, shooting her daughter a glare. Sandra shuffled in her seat, hunching her shoulders up.

"He was the one causing trouble!" Cory defended, standing up out of his seat, "Sandra and the rest were perfectly within campus policy, and he was coming up being an ass! He threatened Porter!"

"Then that should be a lesson to stop this madness right then and there!" Dixie snapped, "The fact that you got approached it all should tell you that this little movement is far too much trouble than it's worth."

"But Mom-" Porter began.

"No buts," Dixie interrupted. She stood up from her seat, her chair making a large screech as it scraped against the floor, her palms flat on the table as she fixed each of them with a stern expression, "I said no. No going out, no driving my car, and no community center. You're all going to stay right here where I can keep an eye on you."

Without another word, she turned her back and stomped out of the kitchen. Her heels made sharp clacking noises on the floor, their muffled pounding on their stairs still strong enough to echo throughout the kitchen.

The siblings exchanged a guilty look with each other, their shoulders all hunched up. The silence was heavy.

Sandra nudged Cory.

"You shouldn't have tried to argue with her about it," she scolded, "You know how sensitive she is with this whole war thing, especially after everything that happened with Dad."

Porter winced at her words. Instinctively, his eyes slid to the side and trailed the wall, before coming to a stop as they landed on the slightly worn frame that hung in the middle, right below the clock; the photo in it- which was slightly yellowed and crinkled- displayed a colored picture of a man in a military uniform. His hair was short and was the same sandy blonde as Porter's, his eyes blue and kind.

He tried to avoid looking at the photo whenever he could, but sometimes it just crept on him. Like now, when he was mentioned.

Cory snorted, rolling his eyes.

"If it weren't for 'this whole war thing', Dad would still be here," he said bitterly, shoving his chair in and leaving his plate alone as he darted from the kitchen, disappearing around the corner. The front door opened and slammed a few seconds later.

Sandra looked over to where Cory had gone sternly, her mouth tugging down in a frown of disappointment. She looked down at Porter with an apologetic expression.

"Will you help me clear the dishes?" she asked in a low voice, like she were scared of being too loud.

Porter tore his gaze away from the picture, looking down at his cold food. He nodded without looking at her.

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled.

---

There was a knock at his door.

Porter rolled his head in its direction. He lay on his bed, his sketchbook propped up on his legs as he tried to get more coloring done; he had found his progress halted, however, as he became more concerned with replaying the events from earlier in his mind.

"Porter, can I come in?" his mother asked from the other side.

He sat up. The door opened a second later, slowly revealing Dixie in her nightclothes as she hesitantly revealed herself to him.

"I noticed your light on, so I didn't think you had gone to sleep yet," she commented as she walked in, slowly shutting it behind her.

Porter didn't say anything.

Dixie gave him a half-smile, fiddling with the hem of her nightgown as she swayed back and forth awkwardly. She stopped, and starting making her way towards him. Porter turned so that his legs were now hanging off of the edge of the bed to allow her room as she sat beside him.

"I want to apologize for that scene at dinner tonight," Dixie stated as she sat down, staring at the wall ahead of her. Her hands were folded in her lap.

Porter looked at her, not sure how to respond to that. He slowly turned his head, also gazing at the far wall. The tension in the air felt thick, like the smoke of a fire or the air on a humid day.

"It's just…you know how I feel about that kind of stuff, Porter," Dixie continued, "After everything that's happened…I worry about you kids. It's….it's not that I'm against what you're for- heavens knows I hate this war as much as the next person to wear a peace button- but…but the people who are opposing it…they can get nasty. Very nasty.

"I know you want to speak out, and I'm glad you've found something your passionate about," she said, "But the atmosphere is tense. When I look on the TV and see the draft card burnings spreading, see the police and protesters clash and chaos about, I worry. All I can think of is the possibility that may be you I see on there one day getting manhandled and tear gassed by a guy with a baton."

She finally looked at him, and the look in her eyes made Porter's throat tighten up unconsciously.

"You understand where my fear is coming from, don't you?" she asked.

Porter nodded, though mentally he was itching to state his disapproval.

He understood the threat of violence between the protestors and the supporters all too well. In his opinion, that was why these protests were needed. To let people know they weren't alone, that they had a voice, that that was what the country was built on, to speak out against inequality and civil unrest no matter what the intimidation. Him, Sandra, and Cory weren't just doing it because they wanted to get a little thrill at being anarchist punks, they did because they had experienced the effects of the war firsthand; because it was over fifteen years too long for something that was just to fill the rich folks' pockets to keep going on.

He did it because he didn't want any more to have to go through the grief he had gone through. That he was still going through.

Dixie looked away for a moment, her eyes trailing the various canvases and framed paintings he had done throughout the years that hung from his walls. She smiled briefly, before her eyes dropped and she gave Porter a stern look.

"I've already lost my husband, Porter," she said, "I don't want to lose my children, too."

I don't want you getting involved in any more of these, was what she really wanted to say. Porter knew that tone all too well to think there wasn't a subliminal message behind her statement.

He didn't respond for a moment, finding himself between a rock and hard place; he didn't want to just give up on something he was passionate about like some kind of chicken, but he didn't want to say no either. His mom may not have seen it the way he did, but he also knew she only meant well. She had lost the love of her life and was scared. It seemed cruel to just reject her in her face, and he didn't exactly want to deal with the fallout of that at this time of night.

Instead, he just nodded.

That seemed to pacify Dixie enough, and she gave another kind smile as she nodded too. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She reached forward and wrapped him up in a hug; Porter responded, albeit a little bit hesitantly.

"I'm glad you do," she commented, pulling back to kiss his temple before she stood up from the bed, "Well, I'm going to be going to bed. Don't stay up too late, dear."

"I won't," Porter replied.

She walked over to the door and opened, pulling it behind her as she walked out. Right before she closed it, she turned and gave him another look.

"Goodnight, dear," she said kindly, "I love you."

"I love you too."

With another warm smile, Dixie closed the door. Porter stared at the door as he heard her faint footsteps trek down the hall to the master bedroom. He didn't move from his position, his legs still dangling off the edges.

A spike of guilt suddenly went through him, and he groaned as he fell back onto his comforter. He stared at the ceiling.

What was he going to do?

He didn't want to lie, especially not to his own mother of all people, but he was not going to give up on the protests. He wondered if she was going to go with the same approach with Sandra and Cory, and how they would deal with it.

Porter lifted his head slightly, looking to the right to glare at the framed picture that rested on his nightstand. It was similar to the one in the kitchen, displaying his father in uniform.

"This is all your fault, you know," he said to the frame, "If you hadn't gone off and obeyed the draft and gone along with that whole 'serve your country' bullcrap, I wouldn't be in this mess."

He was only given more silence.

---

"This seat taken?"

Porter lifted his head slightly. Jean stood in front of him, one hand on the seat across from him. He gripped his messenger bag in his opposite hand, and raised his eyebrows at the blonde in a questioning expression.

Looking back down at his novel, Porter shrugged and turned the page. "Knock yourself out."

Jean nodded as he let his bag slide off his shoulder, letting it deposit on the floor with a dull thud as he pulled the chair out and slid into it.

"Man, I tell you, these classes are gonna fucking kill me," he said, "A calculus test and two book reports? And my old man asks me why kids these days never go outside."

Porter smirked, raising a brow at him. "Well, maybe if you actually did your work and didn't wait two hours before every class to get your homework done, you'd actually have free time."

Jean gave him a look. He responded, "I don't think you're in any position to be talking about getting work done on time, Mr. 'I did my entire history report in science class because I spent all that week working on a piece for an art competition. That I didn't even win.'"

"Oi!" Porter pointed at him, "That was different, okay? That is something I'm passionate about."

Jean snorted, "Oh, sure. Just like I'm sure that little makeout session you had with Gina Summers under the stairs when you were supposed to be taking Weight's attendance to the office was probably passionate too."

He grinned as Porter gave him a dark look. He cackled as the latter shot him a brief glimpse of the finger as he jerked his head back down to look at his book, muttering under his breath. A librarian shot the two of them a pointed look.

Looking at the blonde, Jean's expression suddenly turned much more serious. He leaned back in his chair, looking from side to side to make sure there was nobody nearby that could overhear them, before leaning in closer to Porter.

"So," he began, "D'you hear anything about next Saturday?"

Porter looked up at him. He had a look in his eyes that told the strawberry blonde to go on.

Looking back and forth again, Jean whispered, "Barry's getting the word out, but he's planning a march that day. We're gonna start at the campus and go all the way around town. He says there's supposed to be thousands in attendance."

"Oh, yeah?" Porter asked.

"Yeah. He says with it, we'll finally be making our mark, letting people know we're not gonna go down quietly."

He was given a nod from the blonde; Porter felt the edges of his mouth quirk up in a smirk, and he smiled at the orange haired boy in front of him.

"That's…that's great!" he exclaimed, "T-T-That's fucking awesome! How does he know?"

Jean smiled, "He got into contact with everyone that he knew. They spread the word, and then their friends spread the word, and their friends' friends spread the word. We finally did it, bro. All this time, we're finally gonna get the word out!"

"Oh man, there's no way the pigs can stop us now!" Porter said in glee.

Jean nodded in agreement. "They see all of us, they'll probably be pissing their pants in no time!"

They burst out laughing, the two of them doubling over as loud cackles escaped them at the scenario. Other patrons in the library looked in their direction with disdain, annoyed that the quiet atmosphere had been disrupted.

"SHHHHH!" the librarian at the front desk hissed at them, her tone shrill.

Both boys' laughter immediately ceased, and they hunched their shoulders up. Muffled snorts continued to escape them through pursed lips, though, as they looked at each other, their upper bodies bouncing up and down.

Taking a deep breath, his face bright red, Porter forced himself to calm down; he brought a hand to his mouth to muffle the loud giggle that threatened to burst through. Jean held both hands to his, tears of laughter pouring down his cheeks.

Over the next few minutes, they both took the time to calm down, though they still let out the occasional giggle. Jean took a deep breath, an amused sigh coming from him as he wiped his eyes. Porter ran a hand through his face, feeling out a breath.

"Speaking of which, Barry actually wanted me to ask you a favor," he then spoke up.

Porter tilted his head. "What is it?" he asked.

"Well, he's seen your artwork and stuff at school, and he thinks you're great and all," Jean explained, "So we were wondering if you'd be up for making the banner. You know, one that everyone who's in the front holds while we march that says some kind of quote or some shit."

Porter's eyes widened.

"M-Me?" he asked, pointing to himself, "Y-You want me to do it?"

"Sure, why not? You've got the spirit, you've got the sources, and you've certainly got the skill. And hey, if you're still beating yourself up over it, consider it your way of making up for missing the meeting last week."

I've already lost my husband, Porter. I don't want to lose my children too.

Porter felt all good spirit suddenly leave him, a seed of dread planting itself in its place at the base of his stomach as his mother's words echoed in his head.

His smile dropped. He suddenly felt it hard to swallow.

Instantly, guilt began to settle over him, like a large blanket. The conversation that he had with his mother from last week began to replay in his head, and he felt a lump in his throat.

This march, if what Jean said was correct, was going to be big. Probably the biggest thing they were going to put on all year. It was a landmark- finally they got to the big goal they had wanted. No more just standing outside the shops and giving out flyers, finally they were going to show they had rallied enough people to prove that they couldn't just be shut up with a mere few threats from corrupt policeman. To know he was being looked at the one responsible for making the banner and whatnot honestly felt like a huge honor; before then, Porter thought he was rather invisible to everyone else involved and written off as just being Cory and Sandra's brother. To know he was actually noticed and his skills actually appreciated- well, he'd be lying if it didn't boost his ego tenfold.

But at the same time, he didn't want to go against his mom's wishes.

She would pissed if he went along with this, no doubt.

But this is something you've been working towards for ages, a voice in his head reminded him, And you're just going to back out because she pulls a little guilt trip on you?

It's not like that, Porter defended, It's just, s-she's just looking out for me.

And yet she wants you to stop. Is this what your old man died in the jungles for? Just for you to give up like a total coward because Mommy wants you to sit down and shut up like a good boy?

He frowned. He was not a coward.

Why was he even being targeted? He doubted Cory and Sandra got the same kind of talk. Probably because she realized with them it was a moot point by now. They were too old and too engrained in their ways for her to convince her otherwise.

But Porter, apparently wasn't. No, she thought she could still get to him, that he could still be "saved" from the big bad protests and the rebellious teens. That if she used Dad against him- something that she knew was still a sore spot in their household- he would just drop everything and be by her side.

Porter clenched his fists. Who did his mother take him for, a fool?

"You know, if you don't want to do it, you can just say so."

Porter blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Jean staring at him; the strawberry blonde had a look of slight exasperation on his face, and was staring at him impatiently. Porter blushed when he realized that his silence must've been taken as disgust or refusal.

"No, I can do it," he refuted, "Just give me a few days."

Jean's expression brightened, and he gave him a smirk as he stood up.

"Good, cuz to be honest, you were also one of the only options," he commented, giving Porter a friendly punch on the shoulder, "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

Porter smiled, though it fell flat as he thought back to his mom.

"Yeah…" he said, staring at the cover of his book.

This was going to be hell to try and hide from her.

---

A week later, he found himself in his garage at night, trying to put together exactly said banner.

It had been no easy feat, by any means; the task of buying the supplies, working on the banner somewhere, and hiding his progress in a place where his mother couldn't be able to even accidentally stumble upon it was by no means easy, and Porter had found himself filled to the brim with constant paranoia and stress. Like if he even so much as did something menial like sneeze, it would somehow set off an alarm to warn Dixie what her son had been up to.

Porter shook his head. Nevermind that, though. He needed to focus. If he got caught up in his anxiety, he'd never be able to finish.

He stood, looking down at the long white sheet that was rolled out on the concrete floor. It was about the size of one you'd throw over a bed, if not just slightly bigger. The snow white fabric had been stained now, though, long streaks of neon pink and green staining it; so far, it had spelled out STOP THE WAR! BRING OU. There were several little peace signs and flowers sketched onto the sheet in charcoal.

Porter bit his lip, scanning the words. It probably wasn't the most catchiest of slogans, but he figured if he made it colorful and bright enough, than people would have no choice but to read it and understand that they didn't want violence or to just be nuisances in public. All they wanted was for good men to stop dying.

He still had a ways to go, but he was keeping good time. The march was in a few days, and he was already almost halfway done. Just an hour or two tonight and he may have even been able to finish the whole thing by tomorrow.

Picking up a can of spray paint from the crate that he kept his collection nestled in, Porter popped the cap off and started to shake it. The rattling sound echoed slightly in the big yet crowded garage as the pea rolled up against the sides of it inside. Bending over, Porter positioned his arm right along where the faint outline of a T lie in the fabric, gently pressing down on the can's nozzle.

There was a hissing sound in his ears as the paint sprayed out onto the fabric, coating the outline of the T in bright green as Porter began to pull his arm back, dragging the can down the sides so the charcoal was covered in paint.

For the next ten minutes, he only registered the sounds of the cans and his breathing as he worked back and forth, switching out the green spray paint for the bright pink as he filled in the letters. The strong chemical fumes from the paint wafted in his nostrils, and he wiped his hands on the already stained shirt he wore whenever his fingers slipped and they accidentally got paint on them.

Right before he went to start on the outline for the last letter- an E and the exclamation point- Porter stood up, wiping the sweat from his forehead; he leaned back with a groan, twisting to try and relieve the ache in his lower back. He stepped back slightly and reached for the glass soda bottle he kept by the stairs, twisting off the cap and taking a long swig. He let out an 'aw' of satisfaction as the cool cola sizzled in his parched throat.

Porter looked down at his work. He let out a sigh.

"Just a little bit more," he told himself, "Just a few more and you can finish it right as Mom leaves, first thing tomorrow morning."

Trying to keep up the motivation with that thought, he reached for another spray can.

Something scraped against the floor to his right.

Porter jumped, his head whipping in the direction.

Still life greeted him back, all the tools and extra chairs and other miscellaneous items in their exact same positions.

Except…

One of the chairs was now facing him, when just a moment ago he swore it was turned to the side.

Porter stood up slowly. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He took a step backward, as if preparing for something to just jump right out at him. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.

"What…the fuck…" he questioned to himself.

BANG!

"Jesus!" he swore, his hands flying up in shock as he dropped the spray can.

It hit the concrete floor, landing on its side and rolling away from him. Porter stumbled back as he heard a loud collision on the wooden shelf behind him, whipping around. He grit his teeth in pain as he misjudged the distance and nearly fell over as he ran into his paint crate, hitting his heel against it.

His eyes darted back and forth over the shelf, eyeing its contents. Old paint cans and gardening supplies sat on them, but Porter knew that the loud sound that had just occurred couldn't have been his imagination.

"What the hell's going on?" he asked himself, thinking back to the scene in the kitchen the previous month.

His palms grew sweaty. His mouth felt dry.

There was something in here with him. And something told Porter it wasn't just an animal.

He inched to the small shelf near the east wall, reaching his hand out behind him to feel for the garden shears that he had seen earlier. Porter carefully panned out his surroundings, his dark blue irises widened and frantic as they tried to catch even the tiniest bit of movement, if only to see who was responsible.

He felt smooth wood under his palm. Porter gripped the handle tight, slowly dragging out the shears from the shelf.

His heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the blood rush in his ears. Pulling the shears out all the way, he held them in front of him, snapping them open and shut.

"Who ever you are," Porter stated boldly, though he couldn't hide the shake in his voice, "Come out and be a man and show yourself."

Empty air greeted him back. He slowly turned his head right and left, his palms sweaty.

There was movement by the door.

"Dear, do you know if-"

"AH!" Porter exclaimed as he jumped, thrusting the shears in front of him.

Dixie stepped back in alarm, letting out her own shout of surprise at the sudden display. She stared down at the large shears pointing at her, a hand to her chest. She gripped the doorframe tightly, her mouth dropping open.

Porter blinked, confusion overtaking him at her appearance. When it finally occurred to him how crazy he must've looked right now, he blushed and lowered the shears, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

"Uh, um, s-sorry," he apologized sheepishly, "I-I heard something and I, um…"

Dixie frowned, her eyes staring at the shears for a minute before they trailed back up to her son's face.

"What on Earth is the matter with you?" she asked, "You act like the Manson family is about to break in here and stir up trouble!"

"Sorry," Porter grimaced, "I've been…hearing things lately. Weird paranormal stuff. I-I swear it was like there was someone in here with me."

Dixie stepped into the garage, "Now do you understand why I tell you to wear a mask when you work around those darn spray paints? The fumes are gonna rot your brain, drive you up the…..Porter….What. Is this?"

Porter froze.

In his fluster, he had failed to realize that he had left the banner completely spread out and open for anyone who could walk in to see. Especially the number one person he wanted to make sure never knew about it.

He didn't need the sudden icy tone in his mother's voice to know that the jig was definitely up.

Turning around, he placed the shears back where he found them, before taking a deep breath and- with great reluctance- turned to face her. He grimaced like she had struck him, not at all wanting to be here at the moment.

Dixie stared down at the banner like it was some sort of heretic text, her green eyes darkened several shades and wide. Her lips were pursed together, and her fists clenched tightly at her sides, so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She shook violently, as if Dixie were eager to hit something. Her face had taken on a bright pallor, like she were ill or scared out of her wits.

Porter swallowed hard- his throat felt horribly dry, despite his swig of soda- and waited for her to say something. The atmosphere was thick and cold.

Unable to stand the deadly silence, Porter finally approached her. He raised a hand up to touch her, his voice a bit small, "Mom-?"

"This is for that march I've been hearing about…isn't it?" she asked, not looking at him, "The one that's taking place on Saturday, I believe?"

He cringed. So she knew about that too. Shit. Now he was really in trouble (how did she find out? Was she eavesdropping on them whenever him, Cory, and Sandra talked, or were they just that bad at keeping it a secret?).

Guilt welled up in him. Her words from earlier fluttered again in his mind, and something heavy settled into his stomach.

"I…I didn't…" he attempted to deflect, but found no words that could come to him and make it sound convincing, "I only…wanted to…"

"I know, dear."

Finally, Dixie turned to him. There were tears in her eyes. His heart dropped.

Giving him a sad smile, Dixie looked back down at the banner. She started walking around it.

"I knew by now, it'd get me nowhere to try and talk to your brother and sister out of any of this," she said tiredly, gazing down at the fluorescent letters, "They've had their minds made up for a while. All those people up at the college probably aren't helping me any either. But with you…I thought I had a chance with you. Get it all out of your head, especially after what happened to those kids down in Kent."

Porter swallowed hard. She looked back at him, still wearing the smile on her face.

"I should've known, though. That you wouldn't give up that easily, especially just because I give you a few guilt trips. That you would continue to pursue something you were passionate about, even if told otherwise. With your art, your protests- you got that spirit from your father, after all," she stated.

He didn't know what to say to that.

Standing back up, Dixie walked over to him. She raised her hands and put them on both of his cheeks, making him look her in the eyes. They were stern, though there was still that familiar gentleness in them.

"I'm not going to stop you from what you guys are trying to do," she explained, "Just…please tell me you'll be careful. You can never trust what those policemen are up to nowadays."

Porter's eyes widened in surprise at her statement. His mouth dropped open, and for a moment he was too stunned to respond. Dixie took that as a chance to pull him into a tight hug; she wrapped her arms around him, digging her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. Shocked at the gesture, Porter just stiffened in her arms. A second later, though, he relaxed, closing his eyes and burying his face into her shoulder as he hugged her back.

"I will," he said, "I promise."

---

Porter winced, pulling the zipper of his jacket all the way up to his chin in an attempt to keep warm. There wasn't any sign of rain yet, the skies being light blue and the sun shining bright, but the wind had been mighty strong today, blowing with a vengeance so hard it felt like it could almost knock you over. It was mid spring, but the cold was so sharp and severe it was like winter all over again. It sent goosebumps all down Porter's body and made him scoot closer to his siblings in an attempt to steal warmth.

All around them, dozens of people stood around. They crowded around the entryway to the university's main building, going on for as far as Porter could see. Many of them wore matching prints of tie dye and geometric patterns, a variety of buttons on their lapels or their bags or on their headbands. Some of them carried signs of poster board glued to wooden sticks, while others carried sheets, all of which displayed messages similar to the one he had put on the banner.

He felt an arm go around his shoulders. He looked up to see Cory staring out into the crowd, a grin on his mustached face.

"Looking big, isn't it?" he asked, giving Porter a smile, "I feel like I'm 'bout to burst out of my skin."

Porter returned the smirk, "Yeah, I feel like I just chugged a whole crate of Coke."

There was someone making their way through the crowd, and seconds later Sandra came from between the two couple in front of them. Her hair was tied back in a thick braid, with an extra one going horizontally across the top of her head near her hairline. Her rust-colored coat clashed with the brightly colored long skirt she wore. In her hands she grasped a sign of her own, one that read LOVE, NOT WAR in rainbow-colored letters.

She smiled at her brothers, "You guys ready to make some noise?"

"I was born ready," Cory replied.

"Okay, okay, everyone listen up!" a loud voice called from somewhere in the center of the crowd.

They all turned to watch as someone climbed up onto the edge of the fountain that rested near the garden in the middle of the campus square. It was Barry, dressed in jeans and a sheepskin coat. His dark hair was slicked back.

He put his hands up, cupping them around his mouth like a makeshift microphone.

"Okay, everyone listen up!" he repeated, "Now, I know you're all excited and eager to start soon, but I think it's important that we go over a few things before we get this baby off the road."

Porter and the rest of them listened eagerly. With the sun behind him and everyone looking up at him, he chuckled as he realized Barry looked like some kind of messenger from Rome.

"Now remember, there's a lotta folks out here who aren't too keen on us practicing our civil rights, so out of their 'concern' for safety, there may be a few cops that we come along the way," Barry stated, " There may also be a few counter protestors. If they say anything, ignore them. If you find they's following you and trying to grab at you and give you a hard time, just keep walking. It'll grind your gears and you'll be finding yourselves wanting to pound them one, especially after they put their hands on you, but you can't, okay? It sucks, but these uniformed guys are gonna be looking for any reason to put you in the slammer, no matter how many witnesses or evidence you got. Understand?"

There were varying volumes of sounds of agreement from the crowd. Porter watched as Barry nodded.

"Good. Remember- this is for peace. We're not here to swing, we ain't here to engage the instigators, and we ain't here to cause a riot. We're here to send a message, and if we keep our heads up, we'll get even more," he added.

That earned him a few rounds of cheers. He grinned, looking out onto the crowd.

"Glad to hear the excitement in the air," he said, "Now, if there aren't any concerns people would like to be addressed, how 'bout we get this show on the road?!"

There was even greater applause as people clapped their hands and cheered. Barry hopped down from the fountain and disappeared into the crowd. People started shuffling around the siblings, getting into position.

Cory looked at Porter, "This is it, lil' bro. All our hard work."

"Yeah," Porter smiled, "We're finally doing this."

He caught a glance of something white near the front and craned his head to look. He could see the people at the very front of the line passing something down to each person next to them. It was a long white cloth, and he could faintly make out neon letters on its other side.

Porter felt a sense of pride go over him as he recognized them unfolding his banner, all of them getting ready to hold it up as they led the crowd through town. It was relatively simple- a few bright colors for the letters and some flowers and peace symbols- but to know that it would be one of the first things that people would see when glanced upon the approaching march made him feel good. Like it was really his first chance to shine.

Everyone started lining up, raising their signs. Sandra squeezed in between him and Cory, lacing her fingers through his as she held up her sign.

"Ready?" she whispered in his ear.

He nodded eagerly. "As I'll ever be."

"Now, everyone," Barry shouted from the front, "Let's roll out!"

With it, they all began marching.

At first, it was mostly silent, with only some chatter coming here or there as they walked. As the crowd turned a corner and started to flood onto the streets, though, Porter could make out a faint chant coming from the front, one that steadily began to grow as more and more joined in.

"HELL NO, WE WON'T GO! HELL NO, WE WON'T GO!" people in the crowd shouted as they marched along; those with signs pumped them up in tune to the rhythm. Him, Cory, and Sandra joined in, Sandra waving her sign while the boys raised their fists.

"HELL NO! WE WONT' GO! HELL NO! WE WON'T GO! HELL NO! WE WON'T GO! HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!"

They started onto the main street. With the massive number of people in attendance, it didn't take long for the sidewalks to be completely filled up. Some even had to spill out onto the curves. They tried to be mindful of other pedestrians and scoot out of the way, but there was little room available if they didn't want to go right into open traffic. Porter took note of how some people stopped in their tracks to watch them, whether it was standing in their spot or looking out through their windows.

It made him feel big; sure, he probably wasn't all that noticeable, looking like just a flash of blonde hair within the sea of hundres (if he was even tall enough to be seen from above). But knowing that they were looking down upon the crowd- down upon him- made him suddenly feel like they were invincible. Like finally, finally, they were being seen.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly for about the first half hour. Then Cory grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him closer to him.

"Keep close," he muttered into Porter's ear, "We got trouble."

Porter looked around. It was hard seeing over the people taller than him and the various signs, but there was a flash of red and blue somewhere to the left, and he started noticing everyone in front of him slowing down; a brief space formed between two people in front of him allowed him to briefly see what was up ahead, eyes landing on a line of men who all seemed to stand arm-in-arm with each other. They were decked out in what could only be riot squad gear.

Great. Gradually, they and everyone else started coming to a stop, and he saw some rustling in the front- presumably Barry making his way to talk to the officers.

He could only faintly make out some conversation- the people around him started chatting under their breaths and made it hard to find and stay focused on Barry's voice- but suddenly jumped as he heard Barry swear loudly, "Bullshit! You can't do that!"

"I can, and I will, boy," an unfamiliar gruff voice bit back.

There was a crackling sound that was followed up with an ear splitting whine, before a man's voice sounded over what could've only been a megaphone.

"Okay, folks, you've had your fun, but I'm afraid it's time to leave," the sheriff's voice declared, "Can't have a bunch of people blocking traffic; I know you're going to be disappointed, but I'm gonna have to ask you to pack your things up and leave."

"We're not going!" someone called from the back.

"They're trying to oppress our civil rights!" exclaimed someone else.

A loud voice with a slight crack, no doubt another cop, shouted from the front, "If you don't leave we'll make you leave!"

Porter winced at the high pitched tone; the officer's threat only served to set off a chain of objection from the protestors, some of them waving their signs around, while others spat swears and threw in a few verbal jabs. He felt Cory's grip on his shoulder tighten.

Something unpleasant began to make its way into his stomach; Porter wasn't sure if it was nervousness or what, but he was suddenly overcome with the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

Something very, very bad.

The protestors and officers continued to argue, and he noticed how some of the officers were now approaching the edge of the crowd, waving along civilians as they tried to get the marchers to dissipate. Though a few of the protestors moved aside to let them through, they still stuck close to each other, glaring at the officers with varying looks of annoyance, worry, or outright disgust.

"Oi! Hands off!"

"You heard him, get your ass moving!"

"Get the hell off me, man!"

Everyone's attention was diverted to the right at the sounds of a struggle. Porter turned his head, eyes landing on an altercation between a police officer and one of the protestors- someone he faintly recognized as a relative of Jean and Barry's. The young man held on tightly to a sign, engaging in a tug of war with the police officer as the elder man tried to yank it from his hands.

A chorus of shouts broke out from the crowd as several protestors made their way to the pair and tried to get in between them. Upon seeing their comrade get swarmed, several police officers started for the group, grabbing at the others and shoving them away from the duo. Soon enough, they all started getting physical with each other and exchanging verbal blows.

The crowd grew louder as more and more people got involved- some scolding their fellow protestors for giving into the bait, some yelling at the cops to leave their friends alone, others just trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated any further.

The unpleasant feeling in Porter's stomach grew at the site of people fighting with the police. Anxiety started to creep up in his chest, making his heart beat faster and a tingle to run down his spine.

He felt Cory grip his shoulders with both hands now, the older boy starting to lead him away from the escalating chaos in the crowd. Porter looked up at his brother with concern. Sandra was on his other side, her eyes darting around in nervousness. She clenched her sign to her chest like it could protect her.

"We've gotta get out of here," Cory said, "If a fight breaks out, all hell will break loose."

He started to lead the two of them away onto the street. Porter could hear the sounds of yelling behind him, and recognized one voice as Jean's, who seemed to try and ultimately fail to stop the conflict.

Then, right in front of them, a punch was thrown.

Them and several others stepped back in surprise as the blonde man uppercut the police officer who had been attempting to wrench and twist his arm behind his back. The black-clad man stumbled back, a hand flying to his face to stiffen the blood that had already begun to pour from his nostrils.

"Hey!" a fellow officer shouted as he pounced on the blonde man, yanking a cannister of pepper spray out of his belt and aiming it right at his face. The blonde screamed as his eyes were doused with the orange fluid; he dropped his signs as his hands flew to his face, doubling over.

In that instant, all hell broke loose.

Porter watched in horror as it unfolded; protestors starting to his officers with their signs or their fists, officers tackling and grabbing at people and slamming them against the store walls to slap handcuffs on them. One officer blew hard into his whistle, only to recoil with a loud wail as one protestor threw a bottle of some kind of liquid that splashed in his face. One girl who had flowers threaded in her hair screeched as she fought against the officer who had her pinned against the hood of a car, kicking back with her legs. The officer grit his teeth as she got him in the shin, though he was able to bend her over; in his anger, he grabbed the baton that hung by his side and raised it, slamming it down on the girl's face.

Cannisters of tear gas were thrown; Porter grabbed at his shirt and yanked the hem up over his nose to shield himself from the smell as they began to smoke. The people who were hit scrambled for cover through the thick clouds, some of them stumbling blindly when it got in their eyes. He felt Cory yank on his sleeve and start to drag him and Sandra through the panicked crowds.

There was the scream of a siren, and the people a little ways next to him were flown right off their feet by the stream of a fire hose, soaking them and blowing them down the street like they were mere leaves in the wind. A brief shower came over Porter, soaking his hair and his shoulders.

He tried to ignore it as he focused on Cory's back, trying to keep up with his siblings as they started to make a run for it.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Porter ducked instinctively; several people screamed at the sound of gunshots that rang out over the crowd. His ears rang from the high volume. The crowd further dispersed as the people all around him began to run for shelter from the bullets, keeping their heads down and dropping their signs. Many of them started running into Porter in their recklessness, and he found himself suddenly getting knocked around, like a pinball in the machine. He lost sight of his brother and sister as his vision was overcome with the front of coats. He yelled out in surprise as he was knocked down, landing hard on his stomach. His knees hit the pavement, sending a shockwave of pain up his body. His hands and sleeves were soaked as they landed in a puddle.

"Porter!" Cory called out to him.

He looked up. Cory came into his vision as the long haired brunette dropped to his knees, offering a hand. Porter scrambled up out of the puddle as he grabbed onto his arm, allowing Cory to yank him to his feet.

"Guys, come on!" Sandra cried out. Tears ran down her cheeks as she knelt beside the corner of an alleyway, pressing herself against the brick wall.

There were more gunshots.

Porter let out a cry of fear as he jumped at them; he felt Cory try to navigate him closer to their sister, keeping the both of them in a kneeling position to try and keep out of harm's way of flying projectiles.

A flash of something bright caught Porter's eye.

The police had began to make their way around the crowd, forming somewhat of a circle as they fired blindly into the air. Possibly more of a scare tactic to try and break up the fighting than to actually have the intent to do harm. Whatever the reason was though, it only further spurned the violence, the protestors getting more and more rowdy as they threw random projectiles at the police. The hysterical shouts and constant shoving wasn't helping the situation.

People and officers were fighting alike. Objects sailed through the air, either landing on the ground or hitting people in the head. Clouds of tear gas and the nauseating spicy scent of pepper spray and mace coated the air. Banners and other trash littered the street.

Porter looked side to side, eyes widening at the scene unfolding in front of him as Cory huddled him near his chest.

A barrage of sounds hit him: Sandra screaming out to them hysterically, glass shattering as it smashed against the concrete. Police sirens roaring, a hose spraying, people cursing and yelling and crying.

BANG! BANG!

Porter stiffened.

He felt Cory hug him to his chest, the older boy nearly throwing his weight on him as he made both of them drop to the floor, forcing Porter's and his head down.

Porter barely registered it, though.

His eyes stared straight ahead, at the wall in front of them. There was a window there, and he could see the blank expression on his face as his reflection stared back at him. His mouth dropped open.

For a second, all sound was suddenly blotted out; there was nothing there, but a faint ringing in his ears. Porter briefly wondered if his eardrums had burst or something. Slowly, it came back to him, though everything sounded like he was underwater. Muffled and low.

There was a pinprick of pain in his abdomen. A stitch in his side, right under his ribcage near his belly. Like he sometimes got if he overexerted himself in gym class and didn't drink enough water.

Then, the pinprick grew to that of a softball. A burning, flaming hot softball that had gone all the way through his body.

He could hear Cory yelling at him, urging him a long, feel him trying to pull him closer to Sandra. But Porter felt himself rooted to the spot. He raised a hand, gently placing it on Cory's arm.

"C-C-Cory," Porter muttered.

His voice sounded light and airy, tight. He didn't think there was ever a time he'd sounded like that.

"Porter, what're you doing, come on, we gotta-….Port?"

Porter couldn't look at him. His mind still felt blank, unable to completely understand what had just transpired. His eyes remained fix on the wall, feeling dry.

He raised a hand to the area where it hurt. It felt warm and watery beneath his palm. Droplets of something dripped down his fingers.

"Porter?" Cory said again, his voice concerned, "Porter, w-what's wrong? Talk to me, buddy, what happened?"

"I…I don't know," Porter mumbled.

His body moved mechanically as he slowly lowered himself onto his knees, his hand continuing to grip Cory's for support. Cory immediately lowered himself with him, his eyes darting around his figure as his hands hovered his little brother's body in inspection. One hand landed over where Porter's was placed. Porter felt it ache where slight pressured was applied

"Buddy, talk to me. Talk to me, Port, what's wrong? What happened?" he asked in a panic tone.

Porter didn't reply. He looked down, peeling his hand back from the area.

His palm was soaked in blood. It outlined every dip and crack in his hand, little droplets trickling down and off his fingertips. There was a patch of it spreading on his shirt, dying the fabric a dark maroon. It centered around a small hole, of which was also dripping blood. Cory's hand came away from them, also covered in blood.

Placing his hand back over the area, Porter looked up at Cory. The latter's eyes were wide with horror.

"Cory…" Porter muttered.

His knees buckled under him.

He felt like all the strength had suddenly been sucked out from him.

"PORTER!" Cory shouted, lunging for him and catching him before he could fall completely backwards.

The brunette cradled him to his chest as he brushed the hair out of Porter's eyes, forcing eye contact. He tucked Porter into the crook of one arm, his other pressing against the wound to stifle the bloodflow

"Look at me, buddy, look at me, Port! It's gonna be okay, you hear me? It's gonna be okay!" he exclaimed frantically. His dark eyes were wide and shiny with tears that threatened to spill over the edges, "It's gonna be okay!"

Porter looked around his brother's face. He felt like he was in a daze. Pain radiated from his stomach, and he groaned as he tried to form coherent words. His mind was like a blown fuse, overriding any attempt to speak.

He looked down at where Cory's hand was. It was even redder, blood caked in his fingernails like the residue from working with clay. Porter tried to reach for it, but his arms felt like lead. He couldn't get them to cooperate with him. "Cory.."

"N-n-no, don't look at that, buddy, okay? Look at me," Cory demanded, grabbing him by the chin and forcing the blonde to look back up at him, "Okay, it's not that, it's not that bad. You're gonna be all right, you're gonna be okay."

The brunette shot his head up, looking around.

"Somebody help!" he shouted, holding Porter closer to him, "Somebody, help, PLEASE! My brother's hurt, he needs help!"

Porter moaned, his head lolling back. He could see people staring at them, watching them in shock. Nobody was fighting anymore. Protestors and police stood around, watching the two boys in disbelief. His head fell to the side, and his gaze met Sandra's. She still kneeling by the alleyway, and looked like she had a hard time breathing. She held a hand to her mouth as her gaze met Porter's. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"HELP!" Cory screamed, "Don't just stand there, someone call an ambulance! He needs help!"

He looked down at Porter. Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he lifted his head back up.

"Look at me, Porter," he said as he cupped the teen's cheek, "You're going to be all right, okay? Just breathe."

Porter couldn't breathe. His diaphragm felt congested; every little gasp made his chest burn, every fall a little bit harder to rise. He tasted something like pennies on his tongue.

His eyelids felt heavy. Something settled over him, akin to the feeling of him staying up all night and desperately needing to get some shut-eye.

"C-Core…" he repeated, before his eyelids fluttered. For a moment, he thought they had rolled back into his heads.

"Hey, no! No, look at me, Porter, look!" Cory lifted his head, "Stay with me, okay? Don't close your eyes. I need you to stay awake for me."

"I'm…I'm so tired…" Porter responded.

"I know, buddy, I know, but you can't go to sleep yet, okay? Just a little longer."

Cory grit his teeth and looked back up. "Would someone get me some fucking help?!"

"There's an ambulance on it's way," a police officer replied grimly. He looked pale, almost as white as the hair that came out from under his hat.

Cory looked down at Porter with a smile, though it didn't seem very hopeful, based on the way the tears poured down his cheeks and nose.

"You hear that, buddy? They're coming, it's going to be fine, they're coming and they're going to help you," he said fast.

Porter groaned.

He scrunched his eyes shut as he suddenly felt the need to cough. His throat had filled with something thick, and the penny taste coated every inch of his mouth has he hacked.

"Nonononononoooo," Cory muttered as he sobbed. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and started to dab at Porter's lip, "It's going to be okay, Port. Hold just, fuck, hold on."

"I-I'm sorry…" he whispered, "Told Mom…I'd be….c-careful…."

Cory's lip quivered, "Don't think about that, buddy. Just listen to my voice, okay? Hang in there, help's almost here."

Porter felt heavy.

A large blanket of drowsiness came over him. His eyelids felt heavy again, and he blinked as he tried to stay awake.

But he just so tired.

Surely, a little nap wouldn't hurt?

His head hurt.

"M'wanna go sleep," he mumbled, his head arching back.

His eyes dropped shut, his blinking less and less as he lost the strength to stay awake.

"Dammit, Porter, don't close your eyes!" he heard Cory yell, and felt himself being shaken, "No no no no! Stay with me, you hear me?! Don't you leave me now!"

Porter felt cold. He could only groan as darkness started to surround him, swarming into his mind and blocking out his consciousness.

"Porter! No! Don't do this, please ! Wait, wait, please, just a little longer, the paramedics are almost here! Hey, HEY! Someone, please help me! Please, my brother needs help! Help me!" he heard Cory beg, "Please, Port, look me in the eye! Say something!"

I'm sorry, he said in his head, I just want to sleep.

He felt himself be held tighter.

The last thing he heard was his brother let out a deep, anguished scream that devolved into broken sobs, before he drifted away.

---

"Mmmmm, just five more minutes, Mom," Porter groaned as he rolled onto his side and curled into himself.

He shivered as he rested his cheek on his hands. God, why was it so cold? He hoped that didn't mean the thermostat had stopped working again. He reached an arm out and felt around where he lay for a blanket, only to become confused when he realized he felt nothing of the sort near him.

Nor did he feel sheets, or pillows, or a bed for that matter. Just hard, flat ground.

Porter frowned, slowly opening his eyes.

The dark street greeted him back, the dim glow of the streetlight above him bathing in orange. Moonlight shown off of a nearby puddle.

Porter blinked.

Gaining awareness of his surroundings, he sat up, groaning as he stretched his arms above his head. Letting them drop with a sigh, Porter pushed himself up, standing up and putting his hands on his hips. He looked around in confusion, scanning the darkened windows of now-closed shops and the faint hint of stars in the sky that were blocked out from light pollution.

How the hell did he get here?

It didn't feel like he was dreaming- he tended not to have a lot of those, and when he did he didn't remember them- but he didn't remember lying down or going to sleep. Did he get knocked out or something?

"Oh, man, don't tell me I'm sleepwalking," he groaned, rubbing the skin between his eyes with one hand, "Mom will never let me out of the house now!"

"I'm afraid it's a bit worse than that."

Porter stilled.

His head shot up, his hand hovering a bit in front of him. His eyes widened at the voice, and his mouth dropped open in shock.

That voice….

"It couldn't be," he whispered to himself, slowly turning around.

As his gaze landed on the speaker, he froze once again. He felt his lip quivered.

"It…it can't be," Porter whimpered. Something wrapped around his heart and squeezed tight. It felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

The eyes were the wrong color- irises that should've been the same navy hue his were instead were a shocking pale violet, set against sclera that were a strange and frightening shade of dark grey- but yet, they still held that familiar softness he had recognized, still carried the same lines around them.

The man's mouth turned up in a small smile. Porter could see the telltale dimple in the right corner pronounce himself.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it is," his father replied, "Hello, Porter."

Porter stared, bewildered.

This…this had to be a dream. Some sort of sick joke his mind decided to play on him.

And yet…when he looked upon him…Porter could recognize every thing that made him…well, him. The smile lines, the hairstyle, the gentle look that always reminded Porter of the warm hugs he'd receive when he was younger and the play fights they would engage in, the way he did his trademark stance with one hand on his hip and the other in his pocket.

Every single thing he did could've belonged to no other but Theodore Geiss.

"D-Dad?" he called out. His voice sounded completely unlike him, small and fragile.

Theo's smile widened, and he nodded.

"Hey, kiddo, what's the matter?" he joked, "Cat got your tongue?"

Porter didn't reply. The silence between them stretched, the only bit of relief being the small patter of water that dripped from a drain nearby. He watched as his dad shifted on his feet, lifting a hand to rub at his neck. Another habit of his that Porter remembered.

Theo cleared his throat, looking at the side.

"I-I know this must be pretty awkward," he responded sheepishly, "You must- oof!"

His sentence got cut off as Porter suddenly came rushing towards him, wrapping his arms around his waist as he lunged at his father. They both stumbled backward; Theo had to flail his arms out to keep his balance. He looked down in surprise, obviously not expecting the action.

Porter buried his face in his father's chest as he tightened his grip. His shoulders shook violently as tears flowed from his eyes, despite the wide, relieved smile that painted his face, soaking the front of his dad's shirt. He didn't even seem to notice how the tears glowed unnaturally in the light.

"I'm so glad you're back," he sobbed, "I've missed you so much. It's b-b-been so hard without you."

Theo's eyes widened at the statement. They quickly softened, though, and a gentle smile graced his features once again as he returned the hug, holding his son tighter to him. He rubbed his back soothingly, bringing it up to cradle Porter's head as he pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

"I missed you too, son," he said in a small voice, "God, you're so big now. You and your brother and sister just seem determined to overtake your old man, aren't you?"

He didn't receive an answer; Porter just held him tighter, quietly weeping in relief as Theo soothed him.

After a few minutes, they separated. Porter wiped his eyes and looked up and down at his father, finally getting a good look at him.

Theo looked like he had come out of some sort of sci-fi comic, or a cartoon strip; in addition to the strange color of his eyes, his entire skin glowed bright yellow, his hair almost the same shade albeit just a tad bit lighter. His clothes, which Porter recognized as a uniform of the marines, were a mix of neon orange and reds. Chains wrapped around his entire body. His waist, legs, arms, and neck were bound in them. Undone shackles and padlocks hung from their ends.

The most striking feature, however, was the lack of solidity that Theo seemed to possess. To Porter's slight horror, he realized that he could see through his father to the other side of the street, like he were looking through a gauzy curtain or a glass bottle. Like he were just a projection.

That made a sinking feeling emerge in Porter's chest. What if…this wasn't real after all? What if he was really dreaming this whole thing?

"What…what happened to you?" Porter asked as he furrowed his brows, "W-Why do you look so…weird?"

Theo's expression turned grim. He looked at Porter brokenheartedly, sucking in his lip like he didn't want the words he was going to say to actually come out.

Porter took a small step back, now slightly afraid. Theo sighed, lowering his head.

"That's what happens when you're dead," he finally answered, "Everything just seems to stop being normal."

Porter froze. He stared at his father in shock, at first not quite registering what he had been told. Theo wouldn't look at him, choosing to stare at the ground, with his interest seemingly suddenly taken up with a pebble near the gutter. His mouth was a tightly pressed thin line; Porter could see his jaw clench.

"D…d….dead?" was all he was able to get out.

No, that…that couldn't have been right. He had to have misheard.

Then again, he was standing here having a conversation with his dead father, who had been so for three years after having been gunned down in the jungles of Vietnam, but for some reason was now standing right in front of him, glowing like some sort of nightlight.

Theo looked at him, his jaw set tight. "Porter, do you remember about earlier?"

"Earlier?"

He furrowed his brows. Earlier? What did that have anything to do with his question? Porter scratched his head, looking at the ground as he tried to think about the events that had transpired that day. The family had eaten breakfast together, and then him, Cory, and Sandra had taken the bus to the school to get ready for the march-

He paused.

The march.

Suddenly, a dozen or so flashes of memory came racing through his mind. Porter's hands flew to his head as he doubled over, overwhelmed by everything he had been seeing. Chanting, people holding signs, the feeling of euphoria as they began to make their way through the town. Making way for pedestrians, Sandra's arms over him and Cory as she sung happily. The brightness of the sun and sky on that day.

Sounds of arguing. Scenes of people fighting police, the feeling of water being sprayed everywhere. A nauseating, spicy scent in the air.

A sudden sharp pain in his stomach. A strange coldness all over him.

A phantom pain struck him under the ribs sharply. Porter's hand drifted to his side unconsciously. He breathed heavily as everything that had transpired came flying back to him like he was just hit by a freight train.

He looked up at Theo, who stared at him with concern. Straightening himself up, Porter looked at his father with despair.

"They…they were too late, weren't they?" he asked in a tight voice. His throat felt thick.

Theo biting his lip was enough confirmation.

"They tried to give you CPR," he explained, "You were pronounced dead at the scene."

Porter hung his head, still in slight disbelief as he stared at the ground.

He…he couldn't be dead. He was only sixteen, he still had a bunch of stuff that he needed to do in life. He wasn't even done with high school yet! He was supposed to graduate, break into the scene with his street art, make millions of dollars, travel the world, buy his mom a house-

Something in him squeezed painfully.

Mom.

Porter swallowed hard as she echoed through his mind.

You told her you'd be careful.

He did.

He promised her.

And now here was, after having bled out on the pavement in Cory's arms.

And for what? The march was no doubt a disaster- he didn't think you could exactly call a massive brawl with the riot squad mass arrests a success.

His eyes filled with tears.

Mom, he thought, I'm so sorry.

And what about Cory and Sandra? How were they going to cope with it? They had watched it happen. Guilt weighed heavily on him as he thought back to the fight at the dinner table; his mom said that one of the reasons she didn't like them getting involved with the anti-war movement was because of the violence that had broken out at other demonstrations. They had insisted that it was all worth it, that everything was fine.

And now Porter had only gone and proven her right.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see his father standing closer to him, his brows knitted in worry.

"I'm sorry, I really wish it didn't end up this way," he said.

"I promised her," Porter replied, barely above a whisper.

"I know."

Looking down at his shoes, Porter took the chance to finally examine himself, realizing how his own appearance seemed to have now change. His skin was bright green, the now shamrock-colored flesh visibly transparent. His shoes had gone from what and red to a crystalline blue, of which made him look like he was wearing glass, from the way his feet were visible from under the surface. Bright white chains hung from his wrists from the thick shackles that now clasped around them, a matching pair hanging around his ankles, making the metal material pool around his feet.

Porter could only imagine his face now looked different. The thought made him feel slightly queasy.

A beat of silence passed between them, before Porter looked back up at his father.

"W-W-What happens now?" he asked.

Theo's mouth stretched into a thin line. He scratched his head as he looked around the town. "I'm not sure. You'd think with all these ghost stories that I'd have some luck, but even the cemeteries are silent. I thought for the moment, I could at least come back home, somehow let you guys know I was there-"

Porter raised his head, "Wait, what?"

Theo nodded, "Yeah, I tried to give a sign I was there. Since I couldn't touch any of you or talk, I thought if things got a little bit out of place, that maybe that would at least give you a sign something was up."

"That was you?!" Porter exclaimed, thinking back to the scene with the cupboard in the kitchen and when he was working on the banner in the garage.

Theo smiled sheepishly, a dark yellow blush on his cheeks, "I figured if you started noticing it, that you would pay enough attention that I could communicate with you on a better level. Though, it seems the only thing I managed to accomplish was scaring you out of your wits."

"Thus is the nature of poltergeists. It's rather lucky, to be able to still maintain some physical contact with living forms."

Father and son froze. Despite their now airy forms, both felt a chill run down their spines at the sudden voice that now spoke. Theo grabbed Porter by the shoulders and pulled him closer to him; the older man's head looked around in fear, his lilac eyes scanning their surroundings anxiously.

"Who said that?" he questioned, "Show yourself!"

"But no matter," the mysterious speaker continued, as if uninterrupted, "You are not meant to be in this plane of existence any longer. You may have delayed your ascent, but you cannot delay your fate."

Porter noticed something over his father's shoulder, and tilted his head up slightly to get a better look.

He withheld a gasp of fear when he made out a shadowy figure in the distance, someone draped in black who floated towards them like a ship approaching a lighthouse. He paled at the sight of a sharp and curved blade that was held tightly in the figure's skeletal hand.

"D-Dad," he stuttered out, pulling at Theo's sleeve.

Theo looked, initially confused at the fearful look on his son's face. Porter pointed over his shoulder and he turned his head. His eyes shrunk to nearly pinpricks, the whites the size of dinner plates. Hastily shoving Porter behind him, he used his body to shield the teen from the mysterious stranger. He swallowed hard as he glared at the figure, trying his best to hide his fear.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Both you and your son have separated from your earthly bodies," the figure ignored him as it continued to come forward, "You are not meant to roam this realm any longer."

The whole thing's body was hidden under its long and thick black coat, the ends of which floated about it like it defied gravity. The scythe gripped tightly in its hand gleamed menacingly at Porter, like it was just teasing to slice him in half. Porter felt his father press against him, as if trying to hide him from the visitor.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Theo repeated.

"I am here to take you from this realm," the figure answered, "You may have managed to run from us at the time of your death, Theo Geiss, but enough is enough. You and your son are not meant to be among the land of the flesh and living anymore."

"My son and I aren't going anywhere."

Porter couldn't see the figure's face from under the massive hood, but from the way it's shoulders bounced up and down slightly, he could've sworn it was chuckling. Like it was amused by the statement.

"You do not have a choice," the figure replied with a hiss, "Your very presence here disturbs the natural balance of the living and the dead. You are to go to the ghost world where you now belong. If you refuse, there will be grave repercussions."

"B-B-But what you said just now," Porter suddenly spoke up, "Y-You said we w-were p-poltergeists, right? Those are ghosts that cause physical disturbances, right? The ones that levitate objects and throw stuff around? S-So isn't that why we're here? To cause disturbances?"

"It does not matter what type of ghost you are, Porter Geiss, for you are all dead still the same," the reaper answered, "Your father may have been able to resist for the past three years, but sooner or later, his time would've come, as it has now. Making contact with the living is a serious crime among the gods.

"And I should warn you, they are merciless when it comes to punishments," it stated, tilting its head towards Theo.

The both of them bristled; the reaper's voice was almost distorted, but the threat was unmissable.

A thought suddenly came to Porter. Stepping out from behind Theo, he frowned at the reaper.

"Wait, so you're a reaper, right? Like, the kinds in the stories that collect souls and whatnot?"

"I would not be here if I was not," the figure stated.

"Soooo my dad died all the way back in 'Nam and has managed to somehow get himself all the way back here to the states and has probably been so for the past three years, and you haven't done anything about it until now?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Theo shot him a look, surprised by the statement. He looked to the reaper with a blank expression.

The reaper didn't respond; it stood in place, gently floating up and down. Silence passed between the three of them as a gust of wind picked up and blew leaves down the sidewalks. Porter didn't feel any of it in his air-like state.

"….many souls come into the world and leave it every day," the reaper finally replied, "Sometimes, our records can get…skewed, and very rarely, some newly deceased stay in the living life for some time without notice."

Porter's eyes widened, "You mean, you just forget to claim some dead people?"

"Kid, give me a break, there's three billion people in the world and millions being born and dropping like flies every second. Could you keep track of all that info at once? I don't think so," the figure replied, its distorted voice giving way to a low masculine tone.

Porter took a step back, taken off guard by the response.

"S-Sorry," he said sheepishly.

Nodding curtly, the reaper's tone returned to its whispy state as it turned its back on them and said, "It is imperative that we return as quickly as possible. Portals between the realms are only meant to be opened temporarily and used by other reapers, but there are the occasional souls who try and reject their fate and sneak out."

It waved its hand; Porter and his father jumped in surprise as the air itself rippled, before a giant ship abruptly appeared out of nowhere. It was massive- it was designed like a cruise ship, but looked even bigger than an oil tanker- its large sails covering the sky in front of them, while its hull loomed over them, the bowsprit probably the size of a football field. Its figure was that of a dark iron skeleton stretched from side to side in chains.

Porter swallowed.

The reaper started floating away. "Let us depart. The spirit realm is quite a ways away from us at this time, and the portal will not hold for long lest escaping souls try to get out. On the way, I shall answer any questions or concerns you may have, and inform you of what to do once we reach our destination."

There was a large groan as the side of the ship opened up to reveal a large staircase. The reaper began to make its way up the steps, casting a look at the two male ghosts as it got halfway up.

Realizing that they were to board- how was it someone with not even a face visible could still manage to give you the most hardened of glares?- Theo sighed as he looked to Porter, jerking his head at the ship.

"Well, no good in waiting around," he commented, "Shall we?"

Porter stared at the ships, hesitation overtaking him. A sinking feeling appeared in him. He looked behind him on the deserted streets of the quiet town, his eyes lingering on the spot where he had woken up.

Where he had bled to death on the cold concrete.

So this was the end, was it? That was it? Just one shot was all you had, and then it all ended? Now he was supposed to go with this freaky fucking thing in a giant cloak with a huge scythe and follow him to the…Spirit realm, was that what the reaper called it?

What would happen next? Was he going to be judged, and depending on how bad he did in life, be placed in either heaven or hell, like he'd always been taught at church? Or purgatory, like the storybooks on mythology he used to always read talked about?

And what about his family? His mother? His siblings? How were they going to deal with it? Did this reaper honestly expect him and his dad to just…just leave them in the midst of everything that had occurred?

Of course it did. Because this was life and death. Nobody ever said it was a game played fairly.

"Porter?"

He looked back at his father; Theo stood some steps up the ladder, paused in his ascent to glance at his son.

"It's nothing," Porter muttered as he dipped his head.

Well, here goes nothing, he thought.

Without another word, he began to follow the other two, taking the steps one at a time up the large ghost ship.

---

Thirty-nine years later….

'You should go try it out,' he said. 'It will help you figure out what you finally want to do in life,' he said. 'It builds character,' he said, Porter thought sarcastically, Yeah, right. This builds as much character as watching paint dry builds excitement.

He and the other students in the creepateria watched as the young wererat ghost was apprehended by the Hall Moanitors, who had her in a series of their infamous chains. The poor ghoul looked like she was on the edge of a complete meltdown as the Ghost of Haunting Present held her in a familiar purple detention chain, reading in a monotone voice her punishment and how long she'd been in them for. Future and Past looked like giants compared to the small wererat, towering over her like they were going to jump her at any second.

If there was one thing he didn't miss about high school after all this time, it was definitely the people roaming the halls ready to pounce on you for anything.

"This is so stupid," he commented to the blue skinned phantom sitting next to him, "She just threw her trash in the same bin instead of separating it. What's the big deal?"

The phantom shrugged. "Can you really be surprised? The moanitors are sticklers for 'order', or whatever the hell they think is order."

Porter frowned, "So they're just gonna confine her here for three weeks, no mercy? That's absurd."

"Dude, what'd you expect? It's Revenant. The lady's got a bigger stick up her ass than a dryad taking a chick from behind," the phantom responded crudely.

He turned back to look at the wererat and the trio. With a final signature, Present declared the her sentence- three essays detailing the history of hauntings, all with a bibliography of no less than five sources, all in Chiclawgo format- before snapping his parchment shut. The wererat's eyes went wide, her lip trembling, before she whipped around and darted off with her hands covering her face, her sobs getting lower in volume as she disappeared into another part of the school.

Shrugging at the action, Present looked back upon the students. Some of them leaned back, slightly intimidated by the ghosts' presence- you never knew what little bullshit thing they would classify as being worthy of the next chain. Porter just glowered at them; he wasn't about to be intimidated by some half-pint.

"Let this be a lesson," the short ghost told all of them, before him, Past, and Future turned, their hands all behind their backs as they floated off into the hallways, no doubt to look for the next poor sap they could deem as being an offender to the school rules.

Porter watched them go, his mouth a thin line as he trailed back to where the wererat ghost had previously been floating.

It was nonsense. He had a suspicion she was pretty stiff from the first day of school, but it seemed with each passing day, Principal Revenant's rules just became stricter and stricter, dwelling out ridiculously impossible punishments for what seemed to be the most minor of things. Porter couldn't even fathom the number of students who had been confined to the library to write nonsensical essays with impossible topics in the last two weeks alone- he had lost track at thirty-eight.

This is bullshit, she can't keep getting away with this.

But what could he do? He was just one poltergeist, and while many seemed to share in the sentiment that Revenant was going too far, their fear at becoming the next to become stuck in the school while they worked off detention chains far outmatched their exasperation. It seemed like Revenant knew it too, and took great delight in ruling her school with an iron fist.

Sighing, Porter put his cheek in his fist, mindlessly doodling in his sketchbook. What was a manster to do?

His eyes slid back to the bare wall across from him, of which the trash cans and recycling bins rested under. It sat bare, with only a faint shadow on it to hint that there had once been a painting or a banner of some kind that once rested there.

An idea came to Porter's head.

He paused. He glanced down at his sketchbook, looking over the half-colored picture that marked its surface. He bit his lip as his gaze jumped back up to the wall, before they darted back down again at the paper.

Mouth twisting up in a small grin, Porter turned his head to look at the unopened cannisters that rested in his bag. Their brightly colored caps jumped out at him, just begging to be taken off and have their nozzles pressed down on.

He was never one for vandalism. He was all for self-expressing in whatever way you damn well felt like, but he had limits when it came to damaging things that weren't his. It always felt like doing so was going beyond expressing yourself and just trying to force others to be like you, and Porter definitely wasn't for that.

Does it really count if it disappears, though? He thought.

After all, he had been told that ghost paint faded on its own. No stains, no weird fumes, no mess.

His grin grew devilish.

Porter looked around, making sure that the Hall Moanitors hadn't come back. They weren't anywhere to be found, and none of the other students seemed to be paying him any attention, all of them focused on their schoolwork or their lunch. Putting his markers back in his pencil case and gently closing his sketchbook, Porter slid them back into his backpack, before he pulled out the spray cans.

He hooked them to some loose links that hung around his waist- he had found over time the chains that had been part of his wardrobe for almost the last forty years really helped when it came to functioning as a makeshift art-tool belt- and slung his bag over his shoulder. He tried to give the best impression of being just another busybody student on his way to class as he got up from his seat and slowly floated over to the wall.

As he stopped in front of it, Porter deposited his backpack on the ground at his feet and slowly floated up to the bare space of the wall. He floated back a little, holding his hands up so his fingers made a rectangle shape together as he closed one eye, trying to get a good perspective on where he was going to put the details.

After getting enough imagery, Porter took one last look over his shoulder. The rest of the student body remained oblivious to his intentions.

Chuckling, Porter looked back at the wall, reaching down and plucking the spray cans from his belt with a flick of his wrist. They came off by themselves and floated in front of him on their own as he held his hand out slightly to control them (one of the abilities of being a poltergeist that he had quickly come to take full advantage of when him and his father had first moved to the Spirit World).

Keeping the image in his mind, Porter moved his hands up and down as he mentally commanded the cans to spray, and within an instant, clouds of bright neon colors quickly lit up around him as he went to work.

A few minutes later, he had finished. Porter floated back, admiring his work.

A colorful away of pigments now decorated the once barren brick, the flashy colors twirling around and next to each other as they formed a big painting. It was that of a ghoul with silvery blue skin and hair, a defiant look on her face and her posture standing tall. Her arms were out in front of her, closed into fists and on either side of her shoulders in what looked to be the middle of an action. Between them, a chain linking both of her wrists was snapping in half, pieces of it falling to the ground.

"Dude, look at that!"

"What's he thinking? If Revenant sees he'll be toast!"

"Wow, that's amazing!"

Porter smirked as he heard the comments roll in. He turned around, looking down to watch as his fellow schoolmates looked up at his painting with a mixture of both shock, horror, and amazement. He pumped up a fist, one still holding a spray can, up into the air.

"Freedom for everyone!" he exclaimed, "No to these detention chains, and no to these over the top detentions!"

"That's right!"

"Get 'em out of here!"

"Yeah!"

He grinned at the cheers and cries of support as people waved up at him. A feeling of flattery came over him as he watched several of them pull out their iCoffins and take pictures of his handiwork before the paint began to fade.

Floating back down to his bag, Porter began gathering up his things. He hooked the loose spray cans back onto his belt. Two ghosts- a green skinned girl who was dressed in a way that reminded him of a pirate, and a blue skinned one with pink hair whose face oddly seemed more like a screen than actual molded features- floated over to him.

"Are ye crazy, lad?" the green skinned ghost questioned, "If the Hall Moanitors catch this, they be havin' ye walk the plank in no time! Probably give ye months worth of detention!"

"Yeah, I don't think it's quite smart to test Revenant like this," the pink haired ghost said worriedly, looking around.

Porter shrugged, "Hey, that's the risk you gotta take when it comes to speaking up for others. Besides, it's ghost paint! It'll disappear in a few minutes anyway."

The pirate ghost raised an eyebrow, "Ye be sounded much confident of yeself."

"What can I say? Raising hell's in my blood."

She didn't look convinced, sharing a look with the pink haired ghost. The latter gave Porter a look, and asked, "Who are you anyway?"

Porter didn't respond right away, thinking of what to tell her. Another idea clicked, and he grinned. He raised up a hand in a mock solute.

"Call me Paintergeist, at your service."