A/N: I'm glad y'all are still here, reading my story. I'm also glad you liked the last chapter!

Tell me what you think.

/

Chapter 9: The Drifter

Shawn sat alone in yet another diner, the lonely restaurants aimed towards drifters drew him in in every town he moved to. His frown was adamant on his face, and frankly he wasn't sure if it ever left his face at all. He looked at his coffee with little interest, fingers playing with the handle idly as he switched his attention to the other patrons. How many hats, Shawn?

Shawn felt his heart drop two inches as the voice climbed inside his head, filling every nook and cranny. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, begging the voice to go away. It will never go away Shawn, you useless little idiot. The voice was female now, and Shawn felt the urge to vomit just from the thought of her.

"Would you like anything else sir?" The waitress appeared by his side, her presence oozing a helpful personality.

He started, "Huh? Oh, uh..no, I'll just pay now." He opened his wallet, ready to pull his few stray dollars out when the waitress' excited voice interrupted his process.

"Oh! It's your birthday?" She squealed, obviously staring at his license.

He scrutinized her, not particularly liking how nosey she was. "Um, yeah."

"That means you get a free slice of cake, chocolate, white, or strawberry?" She beamed at him, leaning over the table towards him flirtatiously. "So, how old are you now?" She added as she waited for his first answer.

"Twenty." He smiled politely, before refusing the offer. "But, no thank you to the cake. I've really got to get going.."

She frowned, crossing her arms and tapping her pen, "You sure?"

He nodded, placing his bill and a small tip on the table. "I'm sure, have a lovely day."

He exited the small shop, today wasn't exactly a day he wanted to celebrate. His nineteenth birthday had been worse, however, which had ended with him drinking himself to the point of no memories the following morning.

He rubbed the back of his neck before pulling his jean jacket closer to his chest, the air was nippy (and was likely to be for the whole week according to the weather report), and he wasn't sure how he was going to fair that night.

This was the sixth town he'd traveled to so far, and despite being here for a few weeks he was still jobless. He was void of nearly all of his money and shelter, choosing to spend what little money he did have on food, he opted to sleep outside.

He returned to the small park where he'd been residing, keeping an eye out for overly suspicious townspeople. There was a bench along a secluded pathway he'd found that offered a little privacy and that hopefully blocked the wind that was currently slapping him across the face.

Popping his collar and imagining he was a bad ass Greaser, the young Spencer laid across the bench, knowing he was in for a long and bitter night.

.

.

.

It was useless, trying to sleep, not when he knew Gus and his father were in Santa Barbara, surely wondering where he could be. At least that's what he hoped they were doing, because he couldn't seem to get his mind off of the fact that he'd left them with nothing but a memory of someone he never even was.

He sighed, his breath showing in the air, surrounding him, much like the thoughts of self-hatred that consumed him. He couldn't seem to push the crushing whispers away, no matter how hard he tried. Over the past year his cuts had grown deeper and longer, to the point that the no-longer-a-teen could no longer wear short sleeves without people gaping at him.

He thought back to a few months ago, when he was making his way as a receptionist in a dentist office before he'd grown antsy of the familiarity.

.

.

It was one particular day when he only had one clean shirt left, and his jacket had been splattered with mud the night before.

He had sighed as he buttoned the short-sleeved red collared shirt that morning, staring in the dingy mirror at the scars and near-opened wounds that covered his skin. He shook his head in disgust, this morning would not go over well.

Shawn walked into the office with fear, what would his boss say? It's not like he could call his parents, that was comforting in itself. He walked behind the counter, clocking in before sitting in the cushy chair. His boss walked in a moment later, and Shawn watched from the corner of his eye as the middle-aged man did a double-take.

"...Shawn? What on Earth..?" Dr. Vartrose's voice was one of disbelief as he waited for his newest receptionist to face him.

Shawn swallowed visibly, before putting on a goofy grin and swiveling his chair around. "Hey Buddy! What's up?"

The man stared at him sternly, much as he would to his child, "Shawn, what happened to your arms?"

"I got in a knife fight yesterday with a couple of bikers after I said their vests were pretty...they apparently didn't think so. So they took me to the back of the alley, and Santa, I call him that because of his beard, took a swing at me. Then I jumped up and knocked him out- after that his buddies were pretty pissed so they all jumped on me." He finished with a shrug and a smile, hoping his extravagant embellishments would be enough to satisfy the man.

The doctor opened his mouth, confusion and exhaustion written on his features, but he didn't get the chance to respond when the first patient of the day walked through the door.

Shawn brightened up, glancing quickly and subtly at the check-in sheet, "Mrs. Baum! Ready for your cleaning?"

She nodded half-heartedly, greeting him. "I suppose, though it's never very fun."

"It is if they accidentally use the anesthetic on you!" He joked with great enthusiasm, much to his boss' dismay.

"Shawn!" He scolded the young employee before quickly turning towards his elderly patient, "Don't worry, Mrs. Baum, I won't give you any anesthetic..."

She laughed, "It might not be so bad, actually."

The doctor's eyes all but popped out of his head, but he had quickly learned the effect his new hire had on people, and shrugged it off as he brought her to his room. Shawn snuck out immediately after, not once looking back.

.

.

Shawn twisted his face at the memory, that was really when he realized that a simple lie and a little exaggeration could make anyone forget to look for the truth. All of the times he'd done it when he was younger had previously been thought to have worked because the people he'd lied to were too close to even want to know the truth. But he knew now, all he had to do was lie.

.

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And that is what Shawn does now, he lies to everyone, he lies to himself, and he lies cold on the bench that houses him temporarily-waiting for sleep to overtake, a small part of him hoping that he won't wake to see the morning.