Author's Note- [Kaila] Wow. I am now officially addicted to Conway angst. :grins evilly: So I wrote this instead of revising my Lit paper.

Disclaimer- Fuck it, go back a chapter if you're desperate to read it.

~*~

Charlie trudged unwillingly up the stairs to the place where he had spent so many years. Without stopping he groaned rolling his eyes, seeing that the dim bulb that attempted (and always failed) to light the staircase had died, just like it had time after time before. In some respects it was a good thing, it hid the dark damp cement walls from view, the grime and grunge and bodily fluids that stained the walls, that added to the sense of despair were out of sight. But the fact remained that they were still there, no matter how hard you shut your eyes or turned off the lights, you couldn't veil yourself from reality he taunted himself.

He climbed the last step, his feet dragging aimlessly along the tattered and stained carpet, the colour of crimson and midnight, all the better to hide the stains. He presumed that at one point in time the apartment complex may have been presentable, the stairs proud and painted, the light shining bright, for people to climb towards their new apartments, passing over the fresh carpeting. But this was long before he and his mom had moved in, 14 years ago. His earliest memories were from the building, the filthiest dingiest corners. The gunshot that had rung through the air from the apartment downstairs when he was only 7 haunted him to this day. The shrieks and moans and cries that pierced the air night and day. The constant stench of alcohol that flooded the air, the tell tale bloodstains that sometimes appeared the next morning on the floor. The sounds and memories of his youth.

Taking a final deep breath, hoping to flood out the images he opened the battered door to the apartment stepping inside. A silent hum filled the air of the main room. He looked around, to the small 3 room dwelling. The blinds were pulled shut, the room lit only by small rays of moonlight that had battled past the plastic shades. A respectable blue couch sat to his left near the window, the fabric worn by age. A decent sized framed picture of him and his mom tried to fill the barren walls with a sense of warmth. Charlie remembered the photo well, he was only about 5, and it was on the shore of some lake in upper Minnesota. They drove up there, just the two of them to camp the last time she had been able to take time off. It sent memories rebounding through his head, of the small amount sick days he spent lying there, alone, with only the small antennaed TV to keep him company. His mom could never get time off work without risking loosing their welfare benefits. The TV was gone, the card table only holding a couple magazines and a tattered paperback book that she probably hadn't the time to read the cover of yet. He shrugged figuring she had sold the TV at a Pawn Shop or something after he left for Eden Hall. She had no need for it. The kitchen was neat and meager, a small fridge humming monotonously in the corner, yellowed and cracked with age. A battered microwave stood next to the sink on the small linoleum cupboard. His mom probably heated up occasional TV Dinners just like he had if he had the misfortune of eating at home as opposed to the diner or a friend's. The residence was tidy yet bare, nothing to be proud of, but not dismantled enough to earn shame. Charlie remembered the days he sat at the diner after school through elementary and middle school, his mom sometimes dreaming of fixing the place up, putting a fresh coat of paint on the walls, maybe some more pictures. He'd smile and nod envisioning the fix ups, but even then he knew it'd never happen, she just didn't have the time.

He glanced at his watch, which read 11:30. The diner didn't close until midnight on weekends, and she always had run the closing shift. He knew better than to wait up, still pondering why he had even come by to visit as opposed to staying at school for the weekend. There was no food, no real washing machine besides the one that sat solemnly in the damp mildewy basement, which probably didn't even work anymore, and no family. But he knew not to muse it too long, without sinking into a never ending cycle of analyzation.

Rubbing his eyes groggily, he dropped the duffle bag full of dirty clothes onto the kitchen floor, and stumbled down the short hallway to his room. He no longer felt the need to observe every passing light and object, he was a slave to his emotional exhaustion. Just like all those years before he knew the only place he could temporarily escape reality was in his dreams. Not at Eden Hall, not in Los Angeles, not in the diner. Only the subconscious held the gateway to contentment. With that last thought in mind he fell wearily onto the bare futon on the floor, engulfed by slumber and dreams.

~*~

Casey staggered into the apartment, stuck in the nauseatingly monotonous cycle of her life. Work from 7 in the morning to either 10 or 12 just to make ends meet, pay taxes, pay of debts she had developed while Charlie lived at home and to stay on welfare. It had been like that for as long as she remembered since she left Robert when Charlie was two. As she set her purse on the kitchen cupboard she tripped clumsily over something on the floor. She looked down running her hand through her thick curly hair noticing the plain black duffle. She smiled, the first time in a few weeks. Charlie must have come home for the weekend.

Standing at the doorway of her son's room, she sighed contently. The 16 year old lay passed out on the bare white futon, still in an old hockey jersey and jeans. His moppy curly hair fell defiantly into his eyes, his face peaceful with sleep. She kneeled down to his side, now numb to her uncomfortable uniform and worn coat, running her fingers raw from an unfortunate bout of dish duty through the thick curls. She softly kissed his cheek, before standing up and pausing surveying the room. The only illumination gave from the open door to her room across the hallway. The dim moonlight radiated off the bare white walls chipped from posters and hockey sticks, an occasional glossy hockey player stared back at her. Other than that and the futon the rest of his meager possessions had been moved to the dorm. Inhaling the lingering scent of sweat that still inhabited the room, she smiled softly, somehow knowing all the work she had put in over the years was worth something. Worth it to watch him play hockey all those years, and get into Eden Hall, where he'd have opportunities to get out of this dump. To get out of the welfare cycle, to get out of the city. She turned around to the door, her thoughts becoming incoherent from exhaustion, looking back once at her child.  'If I can't give him anything else than what I have I can at least be motherly and do his laundry' she thought mind wandering back to the full duffel bag.

Picking up the heavy sack, she lugged it downstairs being careful to stay silent until she was out of her apartment, even though she knew Charlie could sleep through a nuclear bomb.  Instinctively she pulled the string attached to the light above head, which flickered sporadically until a dim light filled the room. With practiced ease, she shuffled all the clothes so two loads were separated within the bag.  Picking up the darks, she habitually checked pockets. As she acquired a pen, a three-fourths eaten pack of Extra gum, a dollar and his school ID, she picked up his wind pants.  A plastic bag fell into her hand as she scrutinized the substance. Her eyes widened in recognition of the sickly sweet smell, the scent that brought back painful recognitions from decades before.  Forgetting his clothes in the basement she barged into his room and kicked the futon screeching, "CHARLES CONWAY! What the HELL is this?"

Charlie darted up, eyes wide in delusional shock, stating bluntly "Banks? What dude?". Within seconds he regained his composure and his sense of reality, shaking his head gazing quickly around the room.

"Mom… what time is it?" he croaked, voice dry.

"It doesn't matter. I just want you to tell me what this is," she spat impatiently throwing the baggie in his lap. His reflexes slow, he picked up the bag with one hand holding it inches from his face in an attempt to see what it was in the dim light. Completely oblivious, he took one sniff of it, and his eyes opened wide in shock.

"I-I-I don't know what the hell it is mom, why'd you wake me up?" he stumbled on his words frantically, trying to sound innocent.

"Don't play dumb," she snarled ripping the bag from his hands. "You know exactly what it is."

"Seriously, I don't," he responded, his words more fluid, yet still shaking. Blood pounded through his temples, his mind murky with pressure and confusion.

"Charles Andrew. I did not work my ass of for all those years to keep our heads above water and for you to go become, some- some-," she paused, her clear blue eyes glazed over with venomous anger. "Druggie."

"You think I? No way. I don't do that shit. I'd get kicked off of the team, loose my scholarship, have to come back he-" he paused in midsentance. He bit his lip, looking at the stained blue carpet, cheeks flushing with the heat of shame. Slowly he looked up, his mom silent, her eyes closed in what appeared to be a combination of grief and rage. "M-mom, I didn't mean it," he stuttered softly. "I really di-"

"You did," she muttered. "You meant it. And right now I don't care. I'm fed up with all this shit. I've worked more than you can ever comprehend, I missed you growing up so you didn't turn out like this. It was all worthless. Completely fucking worthless," she began to speak without pausing, her words gaining power and velocity like an oncoming engine. "I don't give a shit anymore. I don't care if you turn out like your good for nothing piece of shit father, some drug addict living in a damned ally way. Maybe then, you'll finally realize how fucking lucky you are."

A burning and deafening silence echoed through the room before Charlie responded. "You know what mom. Maybe I'd be better off if you hadn't done anything. My childhood was fucking nothing. Absolutely nothing. We spent real time away from this place once in 16 years. All the nights alone, the games you never showed up for, and the conferences you missed, for this piece of shit hole in the dump. I'm surprised I haven't been shot yet. You think you've done everything right and I'm the fucked up ungrateful little bitch, well look in the mirror," growled back, tears of rage burning down his cheeks, his throat knotted in fury, his breaths raspy and deep. He stood up to face the woman, looking down at her petite frame. "Thanks for nothing… mom," he spat.

He may as well have just slapped her in the face for his words appeared to have a more profound effect. "You know what," she whispered biting her lip, trying to choke back tears. "Leave. Get the hell out of this house. You don't deserve it. Go back to your friends at your rich school and forget about everything. Forget about me," she shrieked. "Forget about everything and see where it gets you."

"Fine…" he growled, head down walking out the door. "If you even call this dump a house. I will. I fucking will."

Casey stood there shaking in rage as she heard the echoing footsteps pick up speed towards the door, which slammed shut echoing through the apartment. With that sound in mind, she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.