Craig was in his bedroom. He had climbed into bed with a small composition book, writing little bits of poetry and sentence fragments that crossed his dulled mind. There was just the sound of his pen on the paper and the hum of his laptop still open on his desk. The room was quiet, comfortably so. The calm only disrupted by the creaking up the stairs.

Creaking?

Craig looked up and suddenly wondered why his heart was racing. His notebook fell carelessly, forgotten to his side as he scrambled beneath his blankets. He was nearly completely covered when a slit of light came from the bedroom door opening slowly, slowly, all the way. He felt panic catch in his throat and wanted to scream, but he knew he had to be quiet otherwise he (it) would hear.

There was a monster next to his bed. It smelt like alcohol and curses. He could hear every slurred vulgarity in his ear and feel the not-so-slight pressure of its weight on his now dipped mattress. There were hands on him, on the blankets, pulling them down, and there was the mumbling of the words in a voice so close he could understand them. They told him how disgusting he was, how miserable he made others. They told him why he hardly had any friends or anyone to care about him.

Craig wanted to cry.

Craig wanted to cry so very much it hurt and made his chest constrict, but he could not, would not. He could feel the sting behind his eyelids, but he only closed them tighter to stop the feeling. He did not want to feel any more. It would only make him look weak(er), small(er). There were hands lowering beneath the sheets and it (oh God it) was touching him there and there and everywhere. He wanted to scream, wanted someone to help him, but he knew no one would. No one could. No one wanted to.

Then there was the horrible sound of pants unzipping and grunts before pain. Horrible, terrible, splitting pain. Craig tried not to cry. He tried. He was losing against himself to appear stronger, to be what he was supposed to be, what it wanted him to be. Stronger. It was to make him stronger. Craig did not fight. He did not scream. He just let it happen.

Then there was the ending of everything as he found himself unable to hold everything back any more, and he cried. He began to cry only to have his mouth covered and the voice to tell him how "a pathetic little faggot" he was for him to weep like "a little bitch." Craig should have punched. He should have kicked. His mind bit at him to. But he was losing.

He was lost.

Craig wakes up to find himself covered with a quilt and resting on wet carpet. It takes him a while to realise that the water in the carpet is saltwater tears. He tells himself it is sweat. He rubs at his eyes; his lashes are sticking together. The light that had before trickled through the window is now gone. There is only the moon visible through the partway open curtains. He crawls from the floor and to the couch only to discover his sister there.

Craig moves back, not wanting to disturb her. Her face is serious even in her sleep. He can see a frown on her once nonchalant features as she bites her lip unconsciously. Craig moves closer and strokes her hair, hoping he can comfort her some with the simple gesture. Her features only ease in the smallest way possible, the lip biting stopping but her frown still very much there. He sighs and gives up, standing up quietly to walk into the kitchen. He goes and begins fixing himself a cup of peppermint cocoa. The water boils as he adds sugar, cocoa, cinnamon, and peppermints to the mug he places on the table. He has an exact measurement of each ingredient. He is tedious and meticulous, making sure everything is just right.

When the drink is finally finished, Craig refuses to sit down in a chair. His feet need to walk. He needs something to do. He ends up pacing around the room, around the house, and finally finds himself walking outside. Ruby must have taken off his shoes because the cold snow is freezing on his socks. He ignores it and just keeps walking until he is standing on the sidewalk with the mug the only thing warming his hands.

Ruby must have taken his gloves too.

He stands there and sips his mug under the moonlight. He hardly notices the snow that begins to fall and dust him in white. He does not notice that he is slightly shivering from the cold. He finishes the mug as he is covered in the tiny bits of ice. His toes are stiffening in his socks, and his hands are shaking as he puts down his mug. Then he is twirling, catching the snowflakes on his stretched out tongue. It is childish and impulsive, but he does not care because he is happy. He is dancing in the snow with his eyes closed, and he just wants to pretend for a while. He wants to pretend he is normal, and that he is not the teenager with the nightmares and the physically dead father and emotionally dead sister.

Snow is beautiful and can fill in the cracks where he is not so. He only stops twirling when he finds himself getting dizzy from the spinning. Then he merely stands with his arms outstretched and catches the crystals on his arms, on his hand, on his hat. He moves to go back inside, but his body is too stiff from the cold to make it without stumbling. He falls, letting out a small gasp as he hits the ground.

He is half-buried in the snow, but Craig does not dare to stand up. The position is surprisingly cosy despite being freezing. He stays there for a few seconds that turn to minutes that turn to hours. He is still there when the sun begins to come up and he can hear the sounds of cars. The snow has long ago stopped falling. He knows it stopped around the time of the sunrise, but he does not know exact time. The snow had not stopped before covering his chest and legs. The chilling blanket seemed to lull him to asleep, the snow numbing his mind, not only his body. His eyes slide open only when he hears the sound of crunching snow beside him. "Dude, what the fuck are you doing?"