Chapter Two- Break and Shatter
(Shawn's POV)
"It's only for a month, son." As you look for the things that you want to take with you, your dad is sitting in his usual seat, watching you. He's trying not to be upset, but you can tell that he doesn't like the situation any more than you do.
"I still don't see why I just can't stay here alone," you say for what must be the thousandth time.
"I don't know either. But at least you'll have your friends here."
You smile at the effort your dad is making. "Thank you."
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After school the next day, the social worker, Ms O'Brien, picks you up and takes you to the Petersons' where you will be staying. She assures you that they are 'nice people', and that you will enjoy your stay there. You snort softly.
"Did you say something?" she asks.
"No."
You pull up to the house, an unassuming two story. You grab your duffel and trudge to the porch. A middle- aged woman answers the door. "You must be Shawn. I'm Mrs Peterson, but most of the kids call me Mrs P."
A smart comment jumps into your head, but instead of saying it, you follow her into the house. From what you can see of it, it looks sunny and inviting, but you still have an uneasy feeling about it.
"Why don't you take your things to your bedroom? Upstairs, first door you come to."
You walk up the stairs slowly, trying to hear what the social worker was saying about you. You hear little snatches of words that don't make sense out of context. You finally go up to the bedroom, noting the lack of furniture in the room other than the bed and a dresser. You set the duffel on the full-size bed and go back downstairs.
"Shawn, you're all set. See you in a month." Mrs O'Brien walks out to the car and drives off. You turn to face Mrs P, who is setting out a plate of cookies.
"I was thinking that you might like a snack before dinner. Most boys do."
You thank her as she hands you a glass of milk.
"It's fine. Why don't you tell me a little about yourself."
You talk a bit about school and friends in between bites of the cookies. They are chocolate chip with nuts, and really good.
"Well, before Mr P gets in, I wanted to tell you a little bit about how we do things around here."
You sat back in your seat and wait.
"We're not too strict about curfews and such, as long as we know where you are. Dinner's at 7:30, but if you want to eat with your friends, we understand."
"Will you want me to do chores?"
"You'll be expected to keep your room clean, to do dishes and things, but nothing too strenuous."
This is sounding a little too good to be true, but you let it pass.
"Most of the children who come here are older, so we have to be flexible, you know?" Mrs P takes the empty plate and glass over to the sink. "Do you have any questions?"
You shook your head and get up from the table. "Is it all right if I start on my homework?"
"Sure. If you want, you can work here."
You go back upstairs, grab your books and make yourself comfortable at the table. As you go over history and science, Mrs P starts on dinner. You both work in silence until you hear heavy footsteps. You look up and see a man not physically dissimilar from your father- heavy and imposing. For some reason, a frisson of fear runs across your back, but you don't know why.
"Hello! You must be Shawn!" he booms.
You stand up and shake hands with Mr Peterson. "Nice to meet you," you say politely.
"Kid has some manners! Nice change! I can see that we'll get along nicely."
Something about that makes you feel... uncomfortable, but you turn your attention back to your homework.
Dinner is a quiet affair; Mr and Mrs P make small talk, but really focus on their food, like it's the last time that they'll eat for this week. The food isn't bad, but you don't have much of an appetite. A voice inside your head cautions, 'If you eat too much, you'll be sick later..." but before you can remember where you heard that phrase before, dinner is over.
After dinner, you call Angela, who's mellow, as usual, and Cory, who's extremely hyper. You don't feel like seeing either one of them today, so you tell them that you'll see them in school and go upstairs to 'your' bedroom. As you get ready for bed, you note the lack of a lock on the door. You frown at this, and then tell yourself that you are being silly and climb into bed.
It takes a long time to go to sleep.
You wake up in the morning on the floor, covers and sheets surrounding you. You vaguely remember a dream of trying to get away from something. Whatever it was, your heart is racing and your body's covered with sweat. And you feel something that you haven't felt for a while but still can recall it- a pain in your torso. The pain spreads itself across your stomach and spreads slowly to your arms and legs. For a moment, you sit there, stunned by the whips that seem to be snaking themselves inside your skin.
After you gather your wits enough to get up, you throw the covers back onto the bed and walked with your toiletries to the shower. Sleep for the night is over.
Once the water's running as hot as you can get it, you strip and get in, surprised that there's not a visible mark anywhere on your skin, although you can feel pain still radiating from your belly. As the shower continues, turning your skin redder and redder, the pain intensifies, making you almost quiver with the effort not to scream aloud. The voices in your head also grow louder, not with specific words but... the longer you listen, the more effort it takes for you not to cry.
Finally you reach in the bag that you carried into the bathroom and extract a small case. You haven't needed this for so long, but you kept it just in case. Inside are some scissors that your mother gave you a long time ago. You can't remember why she gave you such a sharp pair at a young age, but you've always kept them- and used them only for one thing.
You trace a line on your left arm. It's pink, faded and stretched with time. Cory asked you once how you got it, and you made up some story about falling off a bike. But it's too perfect a scar to have come from that.
You trace the line again, with the scissors. The blood wells up almost immeadiately, and drips onto the shower mat, but you don't notice. You are transfixed by the sudden silence in your head, and the pain on your arm made the pain inside go away.
Later, on the way to school, Cory asks you why you're wearing a flannel shirt over your usual t-shirt on a sunny day in May.
"Fashion statement, Cor," you say. "I'm one of the disaffected youth of America."
"How was last night?" he asks.
"Fine. I'll be alright."
You go up the stairs to face another day.
Next Chapter: Pieces (Cory's POV)