Author's Note: I wanted to thank you again for the reviews! They mean a lot, and also help inspire me. My plan is to get a chapter posted up once per week—maybe two if I'm feeling extra inspired. Don't forget that all feedback is welcome and appreciated. By the way, there's a Trigger Warning for this chapter: cutting. Other than that, please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own South of Nowhere or the characters. Only the plot.

Chapter Two: My Soul Is Empty

Spencer's POV

It was a quiet, frigid afternoon as I walked on the sidewalk, watching autumn leaves dance as they fell from their branches, twirling and swaying side-by-side before softly landing on the ground in peaceful slumber. Drafty winds cut through the thin layers of my clothes, making me pull my zip-up sweater more tightly around my body. Shaking my hat-covered head—I knew I should have grabbed a coat too.

Up ahead is the entrance to the small cemetery, which causes heaviness to grip my heart like an iron claw—making the urge to turn around and head home much more desperate—but forces me to stay strong. I'll fall apart when I get home. Right now I need to keep it together, for their sake. Taking steady steps, my eyes looked at all the gravestones around me, following the path near the back where Mom's, Dad's, and Glen's graves would be, relieved to notice there was no one else here. Thank God.

"Hey… I'm sorry for being late," I sat down on the dewy grass in front of their gravestones, "you would never believe how crazy it's been and we're only in our second month of senior year. Why did I think attending Rhode Island School of Design was a good idea? Why didn't any of you stop me from moving across the country for college?"

A brittle, high-pitched laugh escaped deep within my chest and vibrated throughout my whole body. The only answer I received was from the wind, which gently nibbled at my cheeks and threatened to make my tears spill over, but managed to swallow them back. No, not here. Outstretching my right hand toward their names, I traced the letters with my index finger for each of them and prayed they somehow could feel my presence.

"I miss you all so much," I watched the sky bleed in shades of purple and red, with hints of orange. "Clay does too—he says hello—and you know… he's living with me now, and Chelsea, my roommate. I think they're crushing on each other but won't admit it to themselves. You'd all like her. She marches to the beat of her own drum."

The temperature began dropping at an alarming rate—and for a while there was only silence. Minutes felt like hours, and the corners of my vision grew blurry and unfocused. My stomach had twisted itself in knots, repeatedly, making me want to throw up. A flash of anger coursed through me so vigorously that I envisioned myself screaming at the top of my lungs until there was nothing left. My hands clenched into fists, fingernails dug deep in the palms, drawing a bit of blood. Why couldn't I just sink into the ground with them? It wasn't fair!

"It's my fault you're all gone," I whispered. "I'm so sorry…" Rotating away from their gravestones, my tears finally broke free. "I-I ha-have… t-to to get go-going."

I couldn't stay here any longer, not with the pain so fresh. With every ounce of strength left in me, my legs are forced to run, and my feet pound against the ground towards the entrance. Turning the corner, like prey managing to escape their predator, there was no stopping me until I made it all the way home.

A few hours later, I was upstairs in my bedroom, lying on my comfortable bed with the TV remote in hand. I was flipping through the channels on Hulu Live, but unfortunately, nothing seemed to catch my interest, so I left it on a random channel as background noise. Neither Clay nor Chelsea were home when I stumbled through the front door earlier—they still aren't. Each of them left their own notes on the kitchen counter for me to read:

Be back later, Spence.
We're running low on food.
Call me if you need anything!
Love, Clay

Hey girl,
Going out with Madison and Sean to the movies.
They really wish you could join us. They miss you.
XOXO Chelsea

Shortly thereafter, I took a long, hot bath, hoping it'd ease the aches forming in my muscles. Then I slipped on a t-shirt and sweatpants. Now, besides the voices babbling from the television, the house was utterly quiet. On the bedside table, my cell phone lit up, indicating notifications—notifications intentionally disregarded. Instead, I closed my eyes, bringing my left hand over my right shoulder, where I gently rubbed at two-day-old scars, and tried to relax.

The scars still had a slight sting to them, reminding me not only of how fragile we are as human beings, but how fragile I am. Being strong, or pretending to be strong, was difficult and inconsequential. Yet, the two times I came close to witnessing those lights that'd lead me away to the other side, I always found myself in a hospital bed—Clay and Chelsea were there—and it was infuriating. They just couldn't leave me well enough alone. They've made it their mission that I never find solace. So it came as no surprise when, a minute later, I jumped out of bed and scurried to the bathroom. The mirror cabinet door slammed against the wall as my fingers fumbled through a pill case that looked like a coin purse, filled with cotton balls and q-tips, to remove a double-edged thin razor blade hidden at the bottom.

In the light, it glistened like a diamond—the stainless steel casting rainbows—every time I moved it side-by-side between my index and thumb fingers. Wasting no more time, I closed the bathroom door before sitting on the cold tiled floor, where a chill briefly shuddered over me. That chill made me hesitate, the hand with the razor blade somewhat shaking. Maybe waiting was best. Clay or Chelsea could come home any minute, and the thought of going back to the psychiatric hospital for a third time filled me with unmitigated dread.

I started to chew on the inside of my cheek, anxiety restless to the point there was a loud ringing. A ringing that gave the impression someone had plunged my head deep underwater and didn't intend on letting me surface. As though a light switch was flicked on, I rolled up the left sleeve of my t-shirt, exposing weeks of healed scars, and pressed the tip of the blade into the flesh where blood instantly spilled out the surface and cascaded down my arm.

Pain, hot and searing, ripped through me like I was punching a brick wall in a fit of rage, but it immediately dispersed from the adrenaline rush. Right below the first I made another cut, then another, and one more for good measure. Fascinated as always, I watched the blood flow—dripping to the floor—for a few seconds; then, in haste, I grabbed handfuls of toilet paper and pushed them hard on the cuts. Outside, sudden heavy winds moved tree branches and blew leaves against the bathroom window, and the abrupt noise startled me.

The sound of cars driving by the house gripped me in panic, so I checked my cuts to see if the bleeding had stopped. It mostly had. I made the handfuls smaller so when in the toilet, they readily flushed. Opening the cabinet door under the sink to grab paper towels, I wetted a couple and wiped away the dried blood from the floor. I even cleaned between the tiles. When done, I stuffed these papers in my pocket because I didn't trust that Clay or Chelsea wouldn't somehow notice them when using the bathroom. Which was absolutely the last thing I needed.

Nervousness swirled in my stomach as I double-checked everything, and at the same time heard a car (maybe two?) pull into the driveway. Shit. I practically tripped over myself, making it back to my bedroom, and deliberately left the door ajar. Blankets covered me swiftly just as the front door was being opened and a voice carried itself upstairs.

"Spencer, I'm home!" Clay shouted. "Sorry, I took so long."

Hearing him shuffle to the kitchen, I assumed he was placing multiple bags of groceries on the table. Then I heard the fridge open, and what sounded like him putting the food away. Usually, I'd have gone downstairs to help my brother with the groceries. However, for obvious reasons, that was out of the question and only made me feel more like an awful person. Hopefully, Clay thought I was simply asleep.

About five or ten minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the light from the hall disappeared when a shadow covered the small space that came from my ajar door. Then I heard a knock, and right after it, my name.

"Spencer."

"Mmf," was my response.

Clay swung my door the rest of the way open, looking over at me with a gentle smile, and buried his hands in his jean pockets. "You seem pretty comfy. Uh, but I wanted to know how today went… If you feel like sharing."

I sat up, biting back a whimper that almost escaped. Clearing my throat, I answered, "Today was fine. I made sure they knew you said hello."

An awkward silence passed between us, while I anxiously awaited Clay's response. Finally, he said, "I appreciate that," and let out the breath I had been holding. Nodding, I leaned into the pillow and got comfortable, careful not to press my left shoulder against anything.

"So, yeah—just thought I'd check in on you. But I'll let you get back to"—he tipped his head at the television—"whatever you're watching."

"Okay."

God, even this lack of conversation made me feel awful. Clay grabbed the door knot, yanking it closed without another word. Ever since they died, Clay and I've struggled to have real discussions. Everything was different... We, especially.

I slipped under the blankets again, shifting my body to the side intent on disappearing, but upon doing so noticed blood seeping through the sleeve. "Perfect," I said aloud, then let the blissful, all-encompassing sleep overtake me.

Author's Notes: Must like the first chapter; I had a tough time writing this. I feel like my writing is too… simple. Like a middle schooler wrote it. I don't know. Anyway, let me know what you think. Until next time!