Thank you so much for all of the reviews – they are so lovely to read! Here is part three. It's a bit depressing (yes, again!), but this is only because the more hopeful (I'm loathed to say 'happy' because I don't want to make any false promises!) stuff is coming in the next chapter – this was originally part of another, longer chapter but… well, it worked ending it where I did, which explains why it's so short - so don't kill me!

I don't really understand how ratings work… some drug references and some swearing in this chapter. Don't get offended or scarred for life or anything…

III

"You said you'd clean up, Dad!" Marcus burst into the bathroom. "You promised me you'd clean up!"

His father met his gaze unflinchingly, his vision half covered by a distorted haze. It was more comfortable that way; to see properly was to live in fear. Chandler had feared for long enough.

He did not say a word. He didn't speak when he was in one of his phases. He didn't speak. He didn't think – yeah, and that was the point. He didn't do anything but lie on the linoleum, cushioned by a mattress of needles and broken glass, and dream. It was always the same dream. Blurred, like his vision, as if filmed by a handheld video camera, and there was a woman. There was a woman standing there under the flickering fluorescent light with coal black hair and bewitching eyes. Magic lights, he used to call them, and she'd blink with pleasure, and they would disappear and then reappear with an alarming rhythm. From the first note of the symphony, he had been mesmerised.

But then she would disappear. She always did. No puff of smoke; no dramatic exit, no violins screeching their discordant sympathy. She just… stopped existing. That was the point of the dream that got him every time.

He let out a helpless sob.

"Sam found you," muttered Marcus. "Samantha. Your daughter. Remember her – or are you too screwed up to even remember yourself? She found you. She's only fourteen, Dad, and she finds her own father sticking some fucking needle in his arm. Look at you! Just look at yourself for a second, okay?"

He paused, the breath sticking in his throat. The room was warm. "But you can't, can you? You're too fucking wasted to look at anyone – yeah, but I'll look, Dad. I'll look. You know what the hell I see? I see a wreck. You take drugs. You drink. You disappear for days at a time, and then you come back and you won't even talk to us! I'm sick of being the one who does all the talking… my throat hurts from lying for you! The social workers come round and you're so high you don't even know they're there and I have to pretend that – I don't know – everything's normal and we're living some kind of normal life, because I'm scared of… you know what, Dad? I don't even know what I'm scared of any more! Scared of having to leave this shithole… of having a decent life with people who actually care about me?" He leaned closer and Chandler could feel his breath on his neck. Hot. "Of losing the maniac who's been screwing up my life for as long as I can remember?"

Chandler closed his eyes. Dark. Peaceful – so peaceful. He used to be afraid of the dark – thought that it was a veil for demons and nightmares to hide beneath. But, now? Now, he knew. He knew that a night light couldn't destroy the demon. It was right there – right inside him. There was no escape.

No, there was no escape.

Maybe if he just kept his eyes shut, then everything would go away.

"Dad! No! I didn't mean it, okay? Just open your eyes, Dad! You can't close them!"

"Don't take me to the hospital." The words were choked – hoarse and almost inaudible.

"You're not leaving me with much choice here, man! Don't go to sleep yet. Don't go to sleep!" It became a rhythmic chanting – a strange form of anti-lullaby. "Don't go to sleep. Don't go to sleep…"

Chandler ignored him.

-

-

"He's gone, isn't he?" Samantha's voice from the doorway was weary. Shaking, Marcus rose, struck by a desire to protect his younger sister – no, that was too selfless. Maybe he just longed to protect himself.

"No."

"Is he awake?"

"Does he look awake to you, Samantha?"

"Fair point." She paused. "What do we do, Marc?"

He shrugged. "No idea. Why do we do anything? We're not under any obligation to do anything – we're not the adults here… he lied to us, Sam…"

"Again."

"Yep." He regarded his father's limp body. "He doesn't care about us. Why should we care about him?"

"We do, though…"

"Yeah. Yeah, we do."

"So we're going to do something?"

"I suppose we are."

"What do we do, Marcus?"

"Sleep." The words were soft. "We follow Daddy's example, and we sleep. It'll all be better in the morning."

"It'll all be better in the morning…"

"You're repeating what I just said, Sam. Second sign of madness – watch out, or you'll find yourself taking after Dad…"

"He used to say that to me," she murmured. Memories of the life before were rare. Precious. They clung to them like limpets but it was still painful to know that they had once had what they now longed for – and they had lost it without a fair fight. Everything was painful. "In the old days. When he was still Daddy and we were still normal. It'll all be better in the morning… and then he'd kiss me, and he'd tell me that I was beautiful. I miss that…" She swallowed. "Anyway. I guess we'd better get him into bed."

"Yes – I suppose we better had."

As they dragged him slowly and achingly out of the room, Marcus spoke softly into the darkness. "This isn't right, Sam. It's not meant to be like this."

"I know."

"You ever wonder… what it would be like if we still had a Mom and a Dad?"

"I used to."

"Why'd you stop?"

"It hurt too bad."