NOTES:

A few things before we start here. This is just for clarification purposes, and to set up a general understanding because I didn't want things to get a bit confusing.

_ Dash is currently 16 years old.

-Danny just turned 15 years old (they are all in the tenth grade at the start of the story), along with Sam being 15, and Tucker still being the oldest at 15 (his birthday is the soonest in the year in January).

-Dash calls himself Dash, but his actual name is Michael for this story (my own personal head canon). He uses it to sort of separate himself from his home identity and as a cooler sort of "alter ego" that he invented for himself when he was younger, and it sort of stuck.

- Most of his friends know his name, but still call him Dash (he's made it perfectly clear that he does not like his name).

- Dash's parents are original characters, and there names are Allen and Mira Baxter.

- I wasn't going to state this originally for fear of not being able to appropriately depict it, but Dash does suffer from mental illness (several, in fact). Which ones they are will be left ambiguous, at least, for the time being.

- (Story Starts Here) -

Tired, weary eyes snapped open to low light breaking through murky window panes, meeting the ceiling with a listless gaze that didn't match the warm breaths of light that filtered around him, almost appearing to be devoured by the pitch black corners that crawled and laid on his midst. Illuminated buds of dust and fine fuzz danced on open air, currents pulling them to and fro as vigorous dancers in carefree whirls just above his head. Like them, fluttering thoughts began to jump and sway between his ears, playing in his head with reckless apathy that refused to be tied down, not that he had tried too hard to form them in the first place. Other things, whispering things, like small fingers along the surface of his mind, pulled and nipped at attention and screamed at him, screamed at him to listen when he felt his will to suppress them grow.

Not yet.

Not right now.

Not this early in morning, though he guessed he shouldn't be surprised, sighing as they began build up in his head.

The boy sighed, pushing himself to move when he, finding his motivation lacking, decided to lie there a moment longer, feeling the ceaseless pull of sleep even as his ears picked up the sound of a distant clock, tick-tocking away, reminding him of the day, the hour, the time, and how little of it he had to remain here, even when he desperately wished he could close his eyes again.

But he knew that it wouldn't be worth the effort or the trouble that he would get in if they found him there, lazing about.

From his spot on the floor, amongst bottles strewn about and waste left to rot on dirtied carpet, he could already tell that it would be a long day. Turning his head, he was careful not to rest his cheek upon a discarded needle, the blood on its tip still fresh, knowing immediately that his mother must have forgotten it again, though he figured she would be back to claim it later.

She usually did.

The other room held the sound of a television, its screen casting streams of light that flickered in time with a man's voice, espousing the news in a low, disinterested drone that felt familiar to him.

He could pick up every few words, just enough to hear that it would be sunny all day, bright but cold, if a little overcast.

Lies.

All lies.

'Why then,' The boy wondered with another sigh, turning over to face the dark wall that had once been behind him as his eyes closed again, registering with quick work the creaking cry of the wood beneath his body, though that, too, proved to be only a distraction whilst his mind tried to finish its thought, '...does my body hurt so much?'

There was no way that, on a day that was supposed to be this beautiful, could a person feel this way.

Again, his eyes opened, peering out, finding nothing but a dark corner to greet him, his back facing the rest of the room. Reaching a single hand, he could feel beneath his calloused fingertips the grainy, splintered wood, gripping it with delicate strain as his nails carved small lines in the fine dust covering the surface, and he thought, through the low ache of his bones, 'I'm sure it's just the rain. That's what...that's what Mom used to say. That the rain would make your bones ache, right? There's no way...,' Pausing, he turned over, the forecast still upon the screen, dim, but just enough for his weary eyes to pick out the words and pictures, '...that a sunny day could make you feel this...bad.' It was then that whispering, quiet little voices that dipped and weaved just out of his touch began to make his head hurt. They were here again, reciting, liked scripted words, empty warnings that he had heard so many time, yet he would listen each and every time, as if he hadn't learned his lesson before.

But they were hard to disregard, to ignore.

Sometimes, he thought with a degree of disturbed realization, they felt like his own.

Other times, it was hard to tell.

He would quietly mourn those scarce moments of quiet, peaceful silence amongst the ceaseless drone of the television that served as an early morning friend and a late night companion when the noise died off, and only he remained, after all was said and done.

When they had finished with him, that was what he would listen to.

Sleep often wasn't exactly a...relief, recalling with a flicker of an unknown emotion the many dream, the many night terrors, his sleeping mind would bring to him, finding little relief unless he didn't dream at all.

That was when he relented, when his mind could finally...rest.

Though, it was also the other things that he could hear, the other breaths of life that mulled about in the early morning that made waking up...pleasant, at least...sometimes.

Bird songs and cricket trills were kind and familiar, too, much in the same way that news anchor was; even if their name was unknown, the boy could recall pleasant laughing at their bad jokes, their silly banter, smiling when they came on in the mornings and when the shows late at night came on, and he had the chance to listen.

Just a few minutes were all he needed to feel like that.

He couldn't really ask for more.

Who would he be to do something like, to act so entitled?

As nice as it was, the quiet, the lost moments such as these, so few and far in between, couldn't last. Those sickly itches of many tongues were scratching, clawing inside his head, as if to remind him that they were there all along, even in the stillness and the peace, and they were right. They were always right out of reach, resting where his mind couldn't get them, yet right where it was forced to acknowledge them, to recognize them, to hear them, but something was strange.

They were thinking, talking; they always had so much to say, for as far and as long as he could remember, he knew, though, he couldn't recall how long that had actually been.

A year?

A month?

A day?

Time wasn't something he often thought about; moments and seconds and minutes and hours...all of it was the same.

What good what it do him to keep track of it all if nothing ever changed?

He was fine just living in each moment, even if some were less...pleasant than others.

In fact, he couldn't quite recall when they had started, when the sounds and touches and visions came to him, but they did.

Creeping behind closed doors, in dark corners that he couldn't make sense of, above and below him and all around; at times, it was like he didn't have enough eyes and ears to see and hear them all, and some a way, that scared him more. More than the angry voices that would scream at him, or the black shadows that would eat at the edges of his vision; they were loud and mad, and that was enough to make him want to crawl under his blanket and hide...hide until he...disappeared.

Vanished from this world.

Wouldn't that be nice?

'If only you could, wouldn't it? Then you could be gone and stop annoying everyone.'

'Disappear already.'

'You'll probably mess up next time, too.'

Yeah, right. He probably would, just like...like everything else, so he wouldn't be surprised. Not one bit, feeling a flash of a tingle along his wrist where long scars laid, old and puckered, others...fresh, red and inflamed beneath the sleeve of his jacket. His eyes didn't catch them, though, appearing to be repelled and closing as he, through the muck and grime of his own thoughts, strained for the sound of bird's songs, but it was difficult, impossible, even, not with them talking, muttering, whispering. Louder and louder until, through gritted teeth, the boy pulled the blanket away, forcing himself to sit up.

No, he remarked with a sharp prickling voice of his own thoughts, manifesting in a familiar scolding voice that boomed in his own mind much like his father's often did.

He didn't have time to think like that.

He could handle them.

He had to get up.

They were telling him to (they wouldn't stop until he did), though it wasn't as if he needed them to.

Besides...Dad wouldn't be happy to see him still in his sleeping spot when it was time for him to go.

No, no he wouldn't.

There were rules! The last thing he would want to do was make his Mom and Dad angry at him.

He didn't like when they were angry.

He didn't like when his Dad was angry.

Yet despite that, their talking was making it hard to focus, but he tried to hum, passing them on with the hopes that they would let up some, but they refused to be quieted.

Typical.

The voices in his head, once something that would come once in a blue moon, a rarity that, whilst annoying, sometimes...scary, even, were manageable more than they had been before (or maybe he was just used to having them there with him, he couldn't tell), perhaps even negligible as they came from time-to-time, though they had been staying longer as of late. It was strange, though, as at the time, they usually only ever came if he was feeling sad...really, really sad.

Those times when it felt like he was...dying.

Not physically, no, but that tiredness that didn't go away with sleep, or with a smile.

When just getting up would be exhausting, and trying anything to do anything felt like he had to run a million miles to do so.

When he was a kid, those times would come and go, and with them, the voices too, though he did still see weird things, and even strange smells, too.

But now?

It was like...like they never went away, and that sadness lingered longer, stronger than before.

Sometimes it would let up and his head would become quieter, but...that didn't seem to be the case anymore.

Now they were always there, and so was that sadness, that tiredness.

Knocking around in his mind, chiming in when he never asked them to, whispering, muttering, everything that was the opposite of what he wanted them to do.

And other times...they would tell him to do things.

It was funny at first, especially when they would be about others around him, to poke some someone, or to pull someone's arm.

Little things.

Others it was simple things, like what is going on around him or when he needs to look out for something, but really, most of them were about him, but to be honest, he didn't like them very much when they were.

It's always mean words, things that he could do without.

He had plenty of that for himself, so having someone else say it more...felt worse.

Of course, he tried to ignore them, but...it was difficult, you know?

He was probably a kid when he started noticing them, but honestly, he had a hard time really pinpointing when they started. Maybe when he was younger they would were harder to notice, more difficult to make sense of, maybe. They may not have said as much, or they were quieter...for him, it was sort of nice having them there, like secret club or friends only he could hear.

That maybe everyone had them, and that no one else could hear their friends in their head, as least, he thought so. People in your head that went with you everywhere you went and said weird things, but were mostly nice, sometimes, but...that wasn't always the case.

Over time, that stopped being true.

After a while, they became...harsher, crueler, meaner.

What was once just a few voices, meager whispering, began, after awhile, to blend together, like...like white noise, a constant drone he couldn't quite get out of his head.

Noise that critiqued, commented, or mused about every little thing that he did, or even things he didn't.

Things that he had thought about, and things that he didn't.

What he looked at, and what he wanted.

Everything.

Not that what they said wasn't true; even now, as he peeled himself from the floor with more effort than he thought he should have had to put forth, forcing down the inky black that inched up from the depths of his mind as the sadness came (not this morning, he forced himself to think) and into a hunched stand, listening as they became louder and louder before they worked their way into the forefront of his mind, muttering and mumbling about something or other until they began to bleed, twisting together into a cacophony of sounds, just as they always did.

'Are you listening? Listen! Listen, you little bitch.'

'Why are you ignoring me? Stop doing that!'

'Get up. You're going to get in trouble again, just like you always do.'

Others voiced themselves, making their distaste known, decrying his lack of action even when he'd come to a stand just as they'd wanted him to, stock still as, despite the sound of their words and angered shouts, he could still pick up the smallest of sounds, straining his ears to listen for the thundering snores that tore through the air which were, delightfully (at least for the time being) undisturbed.

'If I could just...just get dressed while they're asleep, that would be nice. Yeah, then I wouldn't have to disturb them. I don't think I want to wake them up.' Padding softly along the grimy wooden floors, avoiding the strewn garbage and debris to reach the kitchen table where a small, broken hand mirror laid, taking its ragged handle in hand where its many fragments split his reflection into pieces, framing his sallow, pale face and matted hair, and in it, too, was his own disgusted expression.

Of course, they had something to say.

Which was why he tried not to look at himself too much, or too long.

He couldn't stand it.

Even more because they would have something to say about it.

Something to say as he recoiled from his own appearance, even when he knew how hideous he was, how disgusting he was.

They didn't even have to tell him that for him to know.

Even now...

They were talking, gossiping, not that what they said wasn't true; it was always true, and he hated to admit, but what could he say to defend himself? How could he when he was just as ugly they would tell him he was?

That his parents told him he was, too.

And if the voices had always stood to confirm it all, his beliefs, his fears, his...insecurities...

Part of him still wondered if there had been times where others could hear them too, the people in his head, or if it was...normal.

...

...

...

No.

That was stupid.

'If they could...then wouldn't they answer them, too? Not unless they were ignoring them? Should I ignore them more?' Of course, no one answered his question. He was met with only silence as he placed the mirror back upon the kitchenette table, trying his to remember it clearly, still lingering on the question, a distant recollection of where his young mind had questioned it then, sitting in the gym of his middle-school with his friends all of those years ago, just as lost as he was now, and he remembered, also, why he never tried to ask about it again.

But he couldn't be bothered to reminiscence, not when the hands of time seemed to crush down on him, sparking a flurry of panic at the realization that he had been sitting their for what seemed like forever, scrambling back to his small area on the floor to grab his broken drawstring bag and ratty notebook.

But he couldn't help thinking back, way back, even as he tried to focus on his task. It was very seldom that he got the opportunity to really think of back then, simpler times, he imagined, though it was a bit foggy, and with an odd sense of clarity of forlorn, something struck him, low and dark, so imperceptible that he didn't even notice the thought until the words flashed at the front of his mind with stunning definition.

Could he say that he'd ever really been happy?

...

...

...

'I'm fine, I'm fine...,' Shaking his head, the boy sucked in an irritated breath, brushing a frantic hand along the sleeve of his jacket roughly as the mantra played, over and over in his head until the sensation, that tingling sensation that settled heavily on his heart dissipated enough for him to actually breathe, Dash hardly noticing that he hadn't breathed out over the seconds that he recited to himself, over and over again.

He was fine.

He was fine.

Fine.

FINE.

F I N E.

...

...

...

Now.

Back to other things.

He had to make a good impression, casting a sudden thought to what he had to look forward to, forcing his attention to the clock once again with a erratic spin on his heel, thoroughly ejecting what was on his mind before from his mind, and with a swift, careful movement, paced over to counter behind him where cartridges of makeup laid, almost as if it had been waiting for him, hoping, no, expecting to be used.

Not that it had been wrong.

Even it had realized his routine by now.

Brushing off a bit of the dust from the container, Dash set the items upon the kitchenette, and taking the mirror in hand once again, he set out to work, trying his best to angle the mirror to capture the best portion of his face as he could.

Foundation here, dabbing bit of concealer there, Dash would have smiled if that sickening feeling didn't rear it's head at the sight of what they were covering, at the thought that perhaps he wished he could look this..pretty all the time.

...

...

...

Setting the small container of toner back upon the kitchenette table, the thought gave him pause. Dark splotches still cleared the edges of what he could do, fresher, dark ones clear just below the rim of his shirt. Tugging at his clothes, he couldn't help the frustrated click of his teeth, picking his features apart piece by piece, part by part,

"His nose was a bit too wide."

"His eyes too far apart."

"His forehead was a bit uneven."

So many things, so many things, and he couldn't cover them all, looking at the little makeup he had left.

So much to fix.

So little time.

He would have continued to do so had he not frozen at the sound of movement from the other room.

One breath.

Two breaths.

At some point, he realized with a glimmer of fear, he had stopped breathing as the floor creaked from the other room, and that latent urge in him grew to throw himself underneath the table to hide, but his body was still with shock.

So still, silent, and horribly relieved when the creaking stopped and all signs of activity ceased at once.

Releasing his breath for the second time that morning, the boy took a morning to look in the mirror at himself and the odd dark splotches that poked out from beneath the makeup.

How would he possibly be able to hide these?

'It isn't as if I didn't ask for it. It's always...it's always my fault, so if anyone should have to deal with it, it's me,., so...,' Looking at the little makeup he had left Dash sighed, chancing a look at his face before standing up, and in that one moment, his heart could have burst, spilling from his chest as his leg collided with the table in a lot, clattering mess, sending the offending items on the floor with too loud of a sound to compliment the even thrum of the morning sounds, and right there, Dash could could have collapsed.

The fine thuds of the brush and bottles couldn't have felt louder, but none louder than the desperate pounding of his heart in his chest, still as a deer in headlights through each patter of the muscle lying in his chest.

One moment, then another, and another following were met with tense silence before the boy made any attempt to move, or more like, before his body was willing to listen to him.

And when the voices would let him regain his focus, stunning him into inaction as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

They definitely didn't help.

'You idiot!'

'Stupid! You're going to get in so much trouble!.'

'They'll wake up.'

'How could you be so careless?!'

'What's wrong with you?'

'Stupid!'

Fuck-up!'

'You don't think I know that? I...I know that; I didn't mean to do it...,' When he was certain that the silence remained, and his body wouldn't keel over with fear, Dash bent down, taking each item into his hands and setting it back upon the table. Whirls of dust danced on the still air with each movement he'd made, and eventually, each of the items were back where they had started, though the frantic patter of his heart never ceased. No, not even when he paused to breathe, did it settle.

As if it knew better than him that it wasn't over, but he thought it silly, stretching his hearing as far as it would go, but he would hear nothing.

He tried to tell himself that it was fine, yet for some reason, he just couldn't find it in him to believe it.

'I really need to be more careful. Seriously, Dash...,' Standing back up, making sure to push the items squarely onto the surface of the table, the boy sighed, stepping away from the kitchenette and nearer to the fridge, avoiding the strewn bottles, trash, and waste, this time taking extra care avoid the offending articles.

Dad wouldn't like being woken up.

And that gave him all the more reason to be more careful, pinching his leg with annoyance at himself.

At the command of his stomach, gurgling softly over the hum of the television, Dash was suddenly acutely aware of the softened pain of hunger, twisting and pulling his gut with desperate dreams of fullness he couldn't remember ever fulfilling. Unsurprisingly, as far as he could see when opening the shelves, there were only clear shelves, a familiar brush of lukewarm air blowing across his face welcoming him to the sight of the few items that were left over, which were little to begin with.

Most were moldy, mostly eaten, other hardly scraps that even he couldn't scrounge together to make into something palatable.

Over course, that isn't to say that he didn't appreciate what he'd been given. Mom and Dad were nice enough to let him look for himself, to find things that he could eat at all, to search when he deserved so little in the first place, so how could he complain?

He was just glad to have something.

Anything at all.

In his sight was a meager slice of bread, partially eaten with several bites taken out of it, coming in tiny, torn chunks, wrapped carelessly in a section of plastic wrap left stained with residue of unknown origin. Sure, it was small, probably stale, but it was there.

That would be enough, and he wasn't picky.

His parents always told him to take what he could get.

Who was he to get all choosy, huh?

Opening a nearby cabinet, he didn't have to stand on his tiptoes to see into the dusty space, wiggling his hand as a few cockroaches crawled from the innermost corners, away from the startling light that had invaded their little home. There wasn't much, as was the case before, but the handful of peanuts that hid beside some of the insects looked, at least as far as he could tell, promising.

Of course, he swiped what he could.

What would a few eggs hurt?

Closing it back, he took a small section of the plastic wrap from the bread and put the peanuts into it, placing both into the front of his stringy draw-bag.

Despite the temptation to devour both right then and there, he resisted the urge, remembering something else that he had to do before he could.

Even as the pain of hunger screamed and begged for him to.

She needed it, too.

He'd hold out, if just a bit longer.

It wouldn't be the first time.

With a last look to the clock, its lazy hands tick-tocking at their own, drawing pace, he snatched up his bag, doing gazing once more around the room for what he may need.

Hand outstretched for the door knob of the exit from their home, he froze at the sight of his father in the corner of his eye.