Declaimer: I own nothing except my own ideas!
Thank you all SO much for the amazing reviews for last chapter; I am so glad you all liked it! The massive amount of snow we're getting where I live has given me the time to edit this chapter (which is around 11 pages, I believe) and I hope you all like it!
Enjoy!
The house was empty that Thursday afternoon, Wyatt off at school and Leo and Piper off at work, except for Chris. After gaining that ever so amazing power, he had been forced to stay home from school and train with his father twice a day--one time with just only his father and the other with his father and the Elder Sandra. There was no way he could possibly go to school when his power was still so uncontrollable. Any change in mood could instantly cause the sparks to fly out, and they didn't want that. Not only would he expose that terrible thing called magic, but he could possibly hurt someone as well. That was the usual procedure for new power gain though. He stayed home from school until he had enough control over the ability, he trained with his father (the know-it-all when it came to any Whitelighter or Elder power) twice a day at magic school, and otherwise just stayed cooped up in the house. After four days of confinement and only a few slips outside to have a quick smoke, Chris was starting to feel like he was getting cabin fever. If the visions didn't make him go insane, he thought, then surely the confinement would.
After searching through channels on the TV and finding nothing that suited his fancy, Chris had stumbled into the sun room. His eyes landed straight on the piano, sitting off towards the windows, slanted at an angle, the black lid covering the keys from sight. You could see the dust that was powdering over the surface from neglect and abandonment. That piano used to be his life; there was never a day where he would not play it. He started when he was around seven and stuck with it for years, his skill improving with each note played. His mother and father had quickly noticed his talent for it and encouraged and praised him. It made him feel good. Wyatt had never been musically talented and when the older boy noticed his skill and could not match it, he seemed peeved. Chris couldn't believe it: he was better at something than the Twice-Blessed. There was something he could do that Wyatt couldn't do better, and that feeling was amazing. Ever since they were children, Chris had shared a bit of an inferiority complex with his brother. Wyatt was the all powerful, all great, Twice-Blessed golden boy who had powers galore. He had gotten his first power when he was around three--orbing, of course--and the rest of his powers were gained sporadically throughout his childhood. Though getting a power at such a young age was rare and showed that he, too, was a rather powerful witch, Wyatt always seemed to be obtaining more powerful and eye catching powers than he was. Chris was thankful he had found the piano and would always love it.
Chris slid his fingers over the lid, tracing out streaks through the light dust that covered it. The last time he had played it--with Patricia--had been the first time he had played in months. When he had begun pounding out a song on those keys he felt like he had travelled back to eight months ago. Eight months ago he had time to play, he wasn't seeing the things he saw now whenever he shut his eye, he was happy. Eight months ago everything had just been so normal--well, as normal as it could be for a witch--and he missed it more than ever. Why was this happening to him? Why did he have to see these terrible things and feel those horrific pains repeatedly everyday? It wasn't fair, these vision were stealing everything away from him. His life, any normalcy he had achieved, his sanity.
No, he would not think about that right then. He wasn't stuck in one of those visions right then, he was alone in the Manor, and he was standing in front of a piano. His piano. He was going to play, he was going to sit there and pretend that nothing was wrong because he deserved at least a little bit of normalcy in his life right about then. If he couldn't have his alcohol and drugs to help him escape, then he could use this piano like he used to, before everything had gotten so bad.
Chris slid into the seat and lifted up the top, exposing the black and white keys to the light. His fingers brushed over white keys that shined in the sunlight. He brought up his other hand and rested both on different combinations of keys, remembering a song he used to love to play. He pressed down on the keys, producing the first set of notes, then glided his hands to the next.
He remembered when he had first made up the song--it had been when he was eleven, he believed. He had been fiddling with the piano--like he used to do so often at that age--and started up on a quick combination of notes that he liked. He quickly wrote it down onto a music sheet and started adding more each day. Every moment of his free time had been devoted to finishing the song and making sure that each note fit perfectly in it. There were many rough drafts of the song created and he had spent months working and throwing away different versions of it. When he finally created the song he had always pictured it to become--starting off somewhat slow and suddenly bursting with fast paced notes and a more upbeat tone--he had gathered the whole family around with excitement during a Friday night dinner. He remembered how all of his aunts and uncles had praised him and how his mother had given him that proud look and warm, loving smile. His father had been proud as well, and he wore this look of pride when he told the boy how great he thought it was. That praise had made him feel so good, it had made him feel like he was something, actually something. No, he wasn't the Twice-Blessed, he wasn't gaining massively strong powers that caused his father to smile with pride, but he was producing the same smile from his father and mother when he pressed the keys of a piano. Though his performance was quickly pushed aside a day later when Wyatt gained a new power--molecular combustion--he still felt so good about it, and to that day he still remembered it as one of the proudest moments of his life.
The song picked up pace as Chris started to pound on the keys harder and faster, and he could no longer contain the smile that stretched itself across his lips. God, he had missed this feeling. The way he felt when pressing down against those keys, the music tingling inside of his fingers as each note came out sounding proud and vibrant and strong. Playing made him happy, it made him feel good. He had missed feeling happy; it felt so foreign to him now. After months and months of these terrible visions that still plagued him to the day the whole idea of being happy just felt so odd to him, and that wasn't right. Being happy shouldn't feel so weird, smiling shouldn't be such an awkward thing to him. He missed eight months ago, when he was wasn't dealing with this shit and he was just as normal as a witch could be. He missed being happy. He wished he could figure out a way to make it all stop, to make those painful visions leave him alone, stop confusing him and bringing him close to the edge of sanity. He was truly afraid that he would really lose it if they didn't stop. He could see himself ending up in some mental hospital, mumbling crazy jumbled sentences about how Lord Wyatt was going to find him. That scared him more than anything--if he could imagine it, then didn't that mean that it could really come true?
Chris slammed down hard as he played the note, a sudden burst of electricity startling him as it exploded from his hands. He quickly stopped playing and stared at his hands, watching as the sparks shot out before quickly settling down and disappearing. Thankfully the bursts weren't as frequent as they first had been--any unsettling emotion would set it off--but it was still an annoyance. Three days of training and he had at least learned how to keep it back unless he was just a little too upset.
"Chris," The call caused the boy to slide around on the stool and face the doorway to the sunroom. When his mother came into view she greeted him with a warm smile. She had heard the piano coming in--a sound that was rarely heard in her house anymore--and had quickly guessed who was playing it. She had not seen her son sitting at the bench in ages, and seeing him there now brought a wide smile to her face. He was just so good at it, and she really missed hearing the smooth sound of a piano traveling its way around the house.
"Why'd you stop playing?" she asked her son.
The fact that his mother had heard him playing that old song made him feel somewhat uncomfortable, and he couldn't explain why. His rare sessions with the piano felt very intimate to him now and it felt like his mother had invaded his privacy somewhat; and besides, he knew what she was thinking about when he heard those chords. She was thinking about how he used to be eight months ago, when that piano was heard daily, before he started with the drinking and the shunning of the family. She didn't know that he drank--well, he believed she didn't--but she probably had an idea. His mother was friends with Officer Darryl, and Darryl had busted many of the parties that he and Landon had been to, he even arrested Landon once. Darryl would not hesitate to tell his mother that information--he knew that Landon was his good friend--and would lead her into suspicions. He had actually been rather close to being busted at those parties by Darryl, and if Darryl had brought him home to his mother ... he didn't even want to think of what would happen to him if that ever happened. He was thankful he was always able to orb himself out of there after getting far enough from the other party goers and into a back alley. Though his orbing really was off when he was drunk, he always landed somewhere far off from the scene of the crime. Hopefully he would never be caught by Darryl.
Chris turned and quickly flipped the lid back down on the piano, covering the black and white keys and engulfing them in darkness, "My power acted up," he told his mother as he turned back her way.
"Why aren't you at work?" he asked her. His mother's shift was not supposed to end till around 3:30 that day.
"I just came to check up on you," she explained to him, receiving a rather peeved look from Chris. He hated being checked up on. She had sent Phoebe and Paige the days before, and from what the two had told her, Chris seemed rather angry with their presence. Phoebe could feel it and, well, Paige had seen it. Electricity had been bursting from his hands even though he tried to keep himself looking calm. It was hard to hide his emotions when he had a power that uncontrollable.
"I'm sixteen mom," Chris reminded her as he stood from his seat, "I don't need to be checked up on. I can take care of myself, and it's not like I could really leave the house with electricity bursting from my hands all the time."
"I thought you had gained a little more control over that," Piper said, bemused. Leo had told her Chris was making great progress, and rather fast too. The bursts were less frequent now, and it seemed he could keep his power unconnected to his emotions. She knew he still had some time to go before he learned how to control it completely, but her husband had expressed how well he thought Chris was doing with it, given its strength.
"Yeah," Chris nodded, before giving a shrug, "it still happens sometimes though."
Piper nodded at this, and a sudden awkward silence seemed to fall over the two. That was a common thing between them now, and Piper hated that. Whenever they talked, things just seemed so awkward for her son, and he seemed desperate to just get out of the room. She tried not to take it personally--he seemed to be that way with everyone at some point in the day--but she could not hide her hurt. She hated how strained her relationship with her son had become. He had become so secretive now, and acted as if he couldn't trust anyone--not even family. She was starting to see bits of the other Chris--the one who had come back from that terrible future--in her own Chris. It had taken ages for the other Chris to stop keeping all of those hefty secrets, and she was afraid that her Chris was keeping a few hefty secrets himself.
"Well," Chris started, grabbing his mother's attention as he crossed his arms, "I've been checked up on, you can go back to work now," His mother sent him a look, giving him a warning about his attitude and the fact that he was being rude, so the boy quickly added, "if you want."
"Have you eaten yet?" Piper asked her youngest child, the boy giving a raised eyebrow and taking on a bemused expression at the question.
"No," he replied simply.
She turned and started her way to the other side of the house, "Come on then," she called as she walked, listening for the scuffling of her son's steps behind her, "I'll make you some lunch."
Chris quickly made his way close behind her and spoke up, "You don't have to--"
"Chris," Piper cut him off, speaking his name with a sort of gentle harshness, giving him yet another warning to keep his mouth shut and to just let her make him some food, "I want to."
Chris obliged and kept his mouth shut. It wouldn't be that bad, he supposed. The last few days had consisted of poorly made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches--he was not the best when it came to preparing food--and something made by his mother sounded rather good. Though he would rather be on his own right then, free to just sit and think about how he would solve all of the problems life seemed to be stacking up on his plate right then, he could deal with his mother's cooking and her presence for a little while. It wasn't that terrible of a thing.
Chris slid into a chair at the table and watched as his mother made her way over to the refrigerator. She started digging through drawers, looking for some idea of what to make.
"Does grilled cheese sound alright to you?" she asked, peering her head out of the refrigerator to look at her son.
"Yeah," Chris gave a nod and watched as her head quickly disappeared back into the fridge before appearing with a stack of sliced cheese and a stick of butter. He watched as she busied herself with preparing the sandwich, pulling out the bread and laying an even thin coating of butter on the two pieces. She placed two pieces of cheese in between the bread and placed it on a hot frying pan. There was a sizzle as the greasy butter met the heat, but it soon died down and Piper grabbed up a turner.
"How's training with your father?" Piper asked, breaking the palpable silence that had seemed to fall over the room.
Chris looked up her way and responded, "Fine," he gave a shrug, "I wish I didn't have this stupid new power though." His eyes travelled down to his hands, as if he was waiting for the devilish power to show itself once again.
Piper glanced towards her son before turning her gaze back to the sandwich, filled with empathy. She really felt for Chris, she understood why he didn't want a power that was that strong and so hard to control. She understood why he hated it. He wanted to have a normal life--just like she and all of her sisters had wanted--and it was hard to be normal when he could shoot electricity from his hands, "I know," she replied with understanding, looking up towards her son and giving him a comforting smile, "It will get better though."
Things would get better? Chris had to hold back a harsh laugh at that statement. The way he saw it, things would only get worse. That seemed to be the case with his visions and everything around him. The pain he felt from the visions was getting worse, his relationship with his family was getting worse, his life was getting worse; everything just seemed to be growing more and more unbearable and he felt like he was just going to snap. There was just too much going on, too much for him to handle all alone, but he could not tell anyone. He would not tell anyone.
"Right," he replied with an unbelieving tone. His mother had picked up on it as she flipped the sandwich over to the other side to allow that piece of bread to brown. She looked up at her youngest son and met his jade eyes, wearing the most comforting look she could.
"It really does get better, Peanut," she assured her son, knowing full well he still was probably unbelieving, but she had to give it a shot, "Being a witch is tough, especially for a Halliwell, but things will get better," she paused to check on the sandwich, "There were times when I felt the same way you do, same with your aunts. You are still a normal teenager Chris, you're just a little more..." she stopped, trying to find the right word for it. She gave her son a smile, "special."
Piper slid her turner under the sandwich and lifted it onto a plate before turning off the burner and bringing the plate to her son.
"I don't want to be special," Chris told his mother with a hint of resentment as she placed the plate in front of him. Piper sat down beside him and watched as he picked up his sandwich and took the first bit.
She didn't know what to say to him, she understood what her son was feeling, she really did, but she knew there was nothing she could say that would make any difference. That hurt her more than anything: the fact that she could not comfort her son when she knew that he was hurting in some way. Chris had been hurting for a while now, and even if he tried to hide it from her with his sarcasm and rebellious attitude, she could see right through it. He was her son, mothers just knew these things. She could catch onto his worry and pain without her empathetic sister's help, though Phoebe had been the one to assure her that it was truly there. There was something troubling her son, and it killed her to not know what. Her husband felt the same way, and after many nights of discussing what it could be, neither had any idea. Instead their worry grew and possible theories shrunk. They both had wanted so bad to believe it was just mere rebellion, but it was clear that something was bugging their son to the point where it had changed him completely.
Phoebe and Paige had both reported to her about Chris collapsing in the kitchen during a premonition (well, that's what they thought it was). The two had been very worried after he came out of it. He had almost collapsed again after standing up and he would not tell anyone of them what he had seen. She didn't know if it maybe had something to do with what was going on with him or if he just didn't want to talk about it, but it worried her none the less. It seemed like more than a premonition to Phoebe--she had never reacted to one the way Chris had. It had been so different than what usually happened. Apparently his whole body had went limp--as if he had passed out or lost consciousness for the short time before waking back up. Phoebe didn't know if it was some new addition to his premonition ability or something different. All she knew was that she had never had a premonition that way before.
Chris had finished up his sandwich and was beginning to feel the odd tingling of an on coming headache, which quickly set him on alert. He had gotten a bit of a headache before he had had his visions during math class, and the last few days he had used the lingering pain to warn him and get himself ready to pass out at any given moment. He could not pass out in front of his mother though, that would mean waking up to a lot of questions. And what if he started coughing up blood or something again? What if he woke up with a giant bleeding wound this time? No, he couldn't let her see it.
He quickly stood up from his seat, loosing his balance from the swift motion. He gripped the table, grabbing his mother's attention. She quickly took on a look that screamed worry and motherly concern, "Are you alright, Chris?"
"Yeah," Chris assured her, letting go of the table once he was sure he would be able to stand still for a few moments before his quick (well, maybe not too quick) exit. He didn't want to pass out right in the middle of the kitchen, that would not be good.
"I've got to get ready for training," he insisted, the pain in his head tingling once again, this time growing in its intensity. He turned and started his way out of the room, hand run against the wall just in case he lost his balance again.
His mother was swiftly behind him though, and she could tell something was up, "Chris, what's wrong?"
The boy gave no answer, only letting out an annoyed grunt at both his mother's questioning and the fact that he was about to fall into a vision at any minute.
"Chris? You can tell me," she assured her son, trying to get some sort of reply out of him.
"Nothing is wrong," he told her with a hint of annoyance as they turned into the foyer and he gripped the banister. Couldn't she just go back to work already and shut up? He didn't need her to start being concerned right then, he needed her to leave him alone so he could get up the damn stairs and into his room, where he could safely pass out on his bed. "Just leave me alone and go back to work, mom."
Chris decided he could take his chances with stumbling, the pain in his head growing more and more, and made a quick dash up the stairs, feet pounding hard against the wood as he ran up. Once he was up the stairs and out of his mother's view he slammed into a wall, letting his hands run against the painted wood. He needed to stay in reality until he made it to his room and shut the door.
He pushed his way forward, pain vibrating through his head, pounding against it like a jackhammer. When he finally reached his door, he twisted the handle and pushed his way in. He was starting to flash in and out of reality, visions of Lord Wyatt and his Elder father and dead cousins swarming his thoughts whenever his eyes shut. He shut the door before sloppily staggering and falling onto his bed, body sinking into the warm comforter, not longer able to fight it. He had to let it take him, his body could not longer hold on. His--
His body felt so heavy and he felt that he couldn't even move a finger. It all hurt so much, but he refused to be healed. He would not rely on his brother, not after what he had done to Patricia. Only ten hours ago he had snapped her neck, the sound echoing its way throughout the empty sterile corridor of the hospital. He could still hear that crack replaying itself in his mind over and over. It was like the sound of a heavy branch of a tree being torn off by the powerful force of a strong wind during a storm. It would not leave him alone, he kept seeing her death, kept hearing that snap, over and over and over.
Wyatt's heavy, black boots paced back and forth, the older Halliwell letting out curses and mumbling about his "stupid, stubborn" younger brother. Christopher was laying on a bed, limbs stretched out and stiff, wounds wrapped up with dirty bandages which had caused a few to become infected. He needed to heal his brother, and quick. Those infections could kill the boy. He had suggested he at least clean off the wounds, but Christopher had thrown him into a dresser when he neared. His brother was in pain, but he still had enough energy to keep his older brother away from him. These wounds should have been healed days ago, and if Christopher had not run off he would have done it himself. But no, stubborn little Christopher had to run off and hide in a hospital, calling out for their deadbeat dad in a last attempt to aid his aching body. Wyatt was rather enraged with his father for not coming down to help his own son, especially in the condition that the boy was in. Leo was never known for his parenting skills though when it came to Christopher, so Wyatt was not surprised.
"Christopher," Wyatt called as he paced the room, taking on an irritated tone, "let me heal you, dammit. Stop being such a goddamn martyr. She's dead, get over it."
Chris let out a scoff at this, "Get over it?" he repeated, unbelievably, "Get over it? Wyatt, you just killed our six year old cousin! She was innocent and... so young," he paused, shutting his eyes tight as the snap echoed through his head and a glimpse of her face flashed across his mind, "She was family, Wyatt!"
"She was going to get in the way, Christopher," Wyatt told him as he crossed his arms and paced, "I've been over this with you. Our family doesn't see the world like I do. They were all still stuck in the whole idea of good and evil. Those are all just concepts of the mind, Christopher, it is all just power. They would have gotten in my way, and I could not let any Halliwell who opposed me live."
"What about me then?" Chris asked, adjusting his body slightly, causing a soft moan to escape his lips before continuing, "I'm against this whole concept you've come up with. I still believe in good and evil. Why haven't you killed me yet?"
Wyatt's pacing stopped and he turned to face the young witch laying on the bed, arms crossed. A few moments of thought passed before he spoke, "Because, you're different, Christopher." He made his way up to the bed and sat down beside his brother, meeting the boy's dull, green eyes, "I have hope for you." He paused, noting the droplets of sweat that seemed to be covering the boy's forehead and the nasty cut that was crusted over, covered by a few sweaty strands of hair. The infections were getting worse. He paused and adjusted himself on the bed--gently though, so Chris would not feel much pain--before continuing, "Christopher, you are my brother, and I love you dearly." Chris rolled his eyes at this, a small scoff escaping his lips, "I know you love me too, Chris. We're brothers, we're family--the only family each other has last."
Chris looked up at his brother again, meeting eye contact with the boy, the words catching him like bait.
"Now, Christopher, I can't lose you, you hear me," Wyatt gave his brother a small smile, "I don't know what I'd do if you died, I wouldn't be able to handle it."
Chris' gaze had quickly diverted off to a fixed point on the ceiling, avoiding Wyatt's brown eyes as much as possible, "Let me heal you Chris, please."
His brother's pleading tone had caught his attention, and Chris' eyes instantly locked with his. The expression matched the tone, and his brother's features were creased with worry and his brown eyes were pleading with him to just let him heal the wounds. It was times like these, times when his brother was showing such care and worry for him, that Chris got a glimpse of the old Wyatt. It gave him some sort of odd hope, that maybe if there was still a part of the old Wyatt in there that he could somehow be saved. There had to be a way for him to do it, a way that would not involve killing him. Wyatt was right: he did love him, and that fact that he was the only family Chris really had left kept him from being able to fight him to the death. Family always comes first--that damn saying had been forced into his head by his mother, and he could never forget it.
Chris gave his brother a small nod, somewhat with a hint of defeat, and Wyatt let out the breath he seemed to be holding in. If his brother had said no, if they had kept up their fighting and he was not healed, he would have died in a little less than two hours. Wyatt held out his hands towards the wound on his forehead and the golden light illuminated from his hands, causing the wound to heal within seconds. A sense of relief fell over his brother as he started healing each wound with such precision and care. Just like Leo. Just like their father would have. Hell, maybe if Wyatt hadn't taken up being the Source of all Evil, he would have become a doctor.
Just like dad.
"Chris!"
The young boy's eyes shot open and he was met by the matching jade orbs that belonged to his father, the ones he had inherited. His father was sitting on the bed, towering over him, two hands holding onto his upper arms, worry creasing his features. His eyes shot over to the other figure who was hovering over him--his mother, wearing that concerned and worry creased expression as well.
"What are you doing, Leo?" Chris asked with somewhat of a tinge of distaste in his voice. This was the man who he had called numerous times over the years for help and who had never come for him. He had been close to death at that hospital, and--wait, what was he thinking? That wasn't this Leo, this was his Leo. His dad. The man who had been there for him since he was a little boy, the man who would drop everything to check him over after a fall or demon attack.
Leo felt a sting at the sound of his son using his name, but had to push aside his hurt for the moment, his worry and paternal instincts kicking in, "Chris, what happened?" The boy sat up and pushed his father's hands off of his arms, "Did you hit your head?"
His father quickly pushed aside his long bangs from his forehead and gripped his head gently, examining him with care and precision, just like Wyatt had in the vision. Like father like son, he supposed.
"What?" Chris moved his head and tried to fight off his father's hold, hands shooting up and grabbing onto his father's wrists, trying to pry them off, "No, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Leo was thankful to see no indication of injury and obliged his son, letting go of the boy's head.
"Chris," his mother started, face filled with so much worry, "you looked like you were about to collapse downstairs. I heard a slam right before your father returned from magic school, and when we got in here, you were passed out on your bed." The two parents watched as their son rub at his temples rigorously, still feeling the slight aches from his other injured selfs unhealed wounds.
"I was just feeling a bit faint," he looked over towards his father from between his fingers. His eyes shot to his mother before adding, "I don't really know why, but I was."
"Maybe from lack of sleep," Leo suggested, both Piper and Chris looking his way, the boy letting his hands drop from his face, "You seem so tired lately, and excessive yawning and dizziness are signs of sleep deprivation." Leo looked towards his wife, the two seeming to agree that his hypothesis seemed right.
"Hmm," Chris gave a nod at this, thanking God that his father had went the non magical route with his explanation. It gave him a way to push aside what had really happened and get out of trying to make up some elaborate lie. He had a feeling his parents were starting to pick up on his lies more often anyway, "I haven't been sleeping well lately," he confessed, feeling rather good about telling them something that wasn't a blatant lie.
"We've noticed," Piper told her son, who raised a questioning eyebrow at this. He hadn't thought it was that noticeable. He tried to act as normal as possible, but it was somewhat hard given how tired he truly was. Running on only two to three hours of sleep a night really got to you after a few months.
"We're your parents, Chris," she explained to him, a small smile growing on her lips, "we catch onto these things faster than you think."
That statement sent Chris a small warning, not intentional by his mother, of course. They would start to catch on to what was going on with him sooner or later, they knew him too well, and with everything getting so much worse, he didn't know how long he could keep up hiding it all. Things only got worse, not better, and he had a feeling things would be getting dreadfully terrible soon. Everything was just building up--the visions getting worse and worse, the pains were almost unbearable, and he had coughed up actual blood, real fucking blood--it felt like he was about to hit the climax of a story, the rest had all been the rising action. He hoped he wasn't though, because of what he remembered about climaxes, nothing good ever seemed to come of them.
"Try to get some sleep," Leo ordered his son, giving him a gentle smile, "We'll skip your second training session for today, so just worry about getting some rest, alright buddy?"
Chris gave a nod and his father gently ruffled his hair, "One of us will come to get you once dinner is ready," he told the boy before starting his way to the door.
He looked over towards his mother, who was staring at him with a small smile, worry hidden in her eyes. He let a smile stretch across his lips, a sort of smile that was meant to tell her not to worry about him, because everything would be fine. That smile was filled with small traces of disbelief and lies though; he really doubted that everything would end up being alright, and his mother really did have valid reason to worry.
His mother reached his way and pushed his bangs away from his forehead before leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his pale skin. She kept her smile beaming as she backed away and stood up, making her way to the door where his father stood. The two exited the room as Chris laid down on his bed, curling up, knees bent slightly, against the warm comforter. Once he heard the door shut and the sound of two sets of footsteps retreating down the stairs, Chris sat up and ran a hand through his hair. There was no way in hell he was going to sleep. He was not giving those visions an open invitation to intrude his mind again.
He stood up and went to dig under his bed, patting around until he found his pack of cigarettes. He quickly stuffed them in his pocket--along with his lighter--before orbing out to the park in hope that Landon may be there, willing to down a bottle with him, cause damn, did he really need a drink right about then.
Thank you all for reading and hopefully reviewing!
I will try to get the next chapter up around Christmas Eve, but I have to get writing it first. If I don't though, I will get it up shortly after.
Thanks again for reading and I hope you review!
Happy Holidays!
:)