Chapter Four - Sleepless Mornings, Sandy Butterflies, and Old Beginnings

Pitch slammed the door to his apartment a bit harder than he'd like to admit.

He cursed under his breath. If he woke up his neighbors not only would he get reamed out by them, he might actually feel a bit of remorse, and thoughts of others can't get in his way. Not now. Not after how far he's come.

Pitch stumbled through his minimally furnished flat to his bedroom and attempted a graceful fall onto his bed. He ended up on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't tired, far from it. He just couldn't get these thoughts out of his head. They wouldn't leave him alone, and every time a small glimmer of hope appeared that they were gone, they'd be back, tearing him apart from the inside out. He grabbed onto the sides of his head with force, as if he could actually press these things from his mind, and curled into the fetal position.

His liquid-gold eyes stung with fast-flowing tears even after he had closed them.

He could still smell that natural scent of cinnamon, and he could still feel wisps of her hair brush his face, and he could still hear her giggles of happiness, and he could still remember how she had looked when she'd died.


An alarm clock rang out in the otherwise silent apartment. Pitch would've stood to silence it, but not even the shrill sound could knock him out of his stupor. He hadn't slept that night; he wasn't able to. Sleep evaded him as much as he wished his memories would.

Instead he just laid there in his little ball of comfort wishing that it would end and that it would last forever at the same time. As much as he couldn't take the horrendous pain wrenching through him, he didn't want it to leave. He didn't want to forget what he had done; didn't want to forget how much she had cried out for him to help her; didn't want to forget the silence that had never left.

The day passed and another night came before he managed to make it to his bed. Exhaustion that would later be thanked crashed over him and he slept blissfully, only sandy butterflies and golden wildflowers entering his dreams.


When he finally awoke, he felt surprisingly well rested. It was now Saturday, and he cursed the fact he'd missed his first day of classes on Friday. Luckily he had the whole weekend to come up with an explanation for his absence, his next class bright and early Monday morning at eight a.m. Pitch grabbed his long, black winter trench coat and his keys and headed out the door to at least get a bit of well needed shopping done.

As he locked the door behind him he heard a soft splashing sound and looked out the window at the far end of the hallway. It was . Of course it would be raining today of all days. The one time I actually get up to do something.

It wasn't that Pitch hated the rain; in fact, he loved it, just not today. Though he felt well-rested, there was still an underlying fear residing in him, and while usually he would welcome the clouded skies and isolated lightening, today he couldn't let the rain make his thoughts focused as they always did. He didn't need a repeat of the other night.

Pitch headed down the stairs and out to his car, not bothering to pop back into his apartment for an umbrella. He just pushed up his collar and trudged out into the rain solemnly.

Whipping his keys out as he approached his car door, he thought that maybe it was a little excessive. The car he had bought, that is. It was absolutely beautifully dangerous. A Mercedes SL65 AMG Black Series, suitably painted black. He remembered seeing it once while reading a book when he had turned on the television to have a little bit of background noise. He can't remember quite where, some sort of British racing show, but he instantly fell in love with it. While the lead had said it wasn't as fast as it could be, and a tad uncomfortable, Pitch went out and tried it out for himself, finding the ability to cruise slowly through the winding roads of Pennsylvania useful, not needing to ever use the supposedly slow max speed of over 300 horse-power, and the inside comfortable for him.

Needless to say, it wasn't exactly worth the large amount of money he'd spent on it from a financial standpoint, but he still melted in the seats when he entered the car. After all, money wasn't much of an issue for him.

The thoroughly melted Pitch, now seated in the car, began his short drive to the small downtown area and found a parking space. He double locked his doors and began trekking down the sidewalk, peering into the local shops for exactly what it was he needed. He wandered into a seemingly locally owned convenience store that doubled as not only a gas station, but a grocery store as well. It was a bit large for Pitch's liking, but thankfully the rain had thinned out the crowd of people he normally would've had to deal with.

He walked gracefully down the aisles with a small basket on his arm, setting various items in it. Mainly it was tea. Lots of tea. He picked up a few boxes of chamomile to help him sleep, a few earl greys to calm him down, and then some standard Red Rose, which he would throw a bag of into whatever flavor he'd decided on at the time for a bit of an extra taste. He then proceeded to grab different types of creamers for it: coconut, hazelnut, vanilla, and regular cream. Fruit followed next, a few star fruits and some green apples, then random boxes of cereals, random types of meats, then eggs, bread, milk, butter, and vegetables. By the end of it all he'd had to pick up another basket.

Pitch headed over to the cashier.

While he set his items up on the belt, he noticed a slightly smudged set of numbers on his hand. Oh right.

He looked at the worker.

"Is it possible to purchase a cellphone here? And a phone card. I'll most likely be needing one of those as well."


Pitch paid with his debit card and headed out of the store, putting the groceries in the back of his car, and slid into his front seat. He reached back and pulled out the thin, slim silver phone, using his keys to saw open the hard plastic around it.

"There we go," he mumbled to himself once he'd got it open and activated with the card. "Now, what was that boy's name again? Jake, Jude, Jackson. Right! Jack."

Pitch tapped the now even more smudged numbers into the phones contacts using the touch screen and labeled it Jack Frost. Without seeing his mother's surname before his last, Pitch found it amusing. I suppose that would be a fitting name for someone with snow white hair, he thought to himself as he breathed a small laugh followed by an even smaller smile. But what was he doing? He was supposed to be avoiding these people and events. He shouldn't want to leave his apartment for anything other than school. It wasn't fair that he could live his life while he knew that she would never be able to live hers.

Pitch practically smashed the keys into the ignition and gunned it down the road much faster than any other person would or could drive in Pennsylvania. He looked out for the nearest desolate place he could lay down in without having to go back to his too-far-away apartment. He finally passed a park after minutes of searching and jumped out of the car, not bothering to lock it, and ran over to the nearest swing-set secluded by a group of trees. The rain was poured down now by the angels and soaked him through his thick coat, and Pitch just sat there.

In the rain.

Alone.

On a swing.

Except that he wasn't as alone as he appeared to be.

A small golden form watched him from the bushes, awaiting a chance to jump out.


Pitch woke up a few hours later on the incredibly wet grass and stared up at the grey clouds, amazed that none of the still-falling rain fell into his eyes, and then he saw the reason why.

Some little tan thing was hovering over his head and licking eagerly at his face. Its tongue was much rougher than any human's should be, and it appeared to be drooling. Pitch's vision was still blurry and in his broken state he still hadn't registered what it was that was really above him. He sat himself up on his elbows in an attempt to clear his head, and immediately wished he hadn't. A throbbing pain shot through the back of his skull and he realized how he'd ended up on the grass. He'd fallen off the swing.

Fighting through the pain, he remained leaning back on his elbows and investigated the wriggling mass in front of him.

It was about the length of Pitch's chest to his abdomen, judging from the way it was laying out on it and not caring about the change in Pitch's position. The previous notation of its color wasn't in fact entirely correct. He peered through his blurry eyes and saw that it was a bright, golden sandy color with white on its mouth, stomach, and paws. Wait, paws? This was when he figured out what the little bundle of practically illuminating fur was: a dog. A Pembroke Welsh Corgi, to be exact. Pitch didn't know much about dogs, but due to his childhood in England, he knew about Corgis. Everyone did. They were the Queen's favorite breed, after all.

The dog didn't have a collar, which was surprising since Pitch had never really seen many stray dogs in this town since he'd moved in a few weeks prior. It stared at him with its oddly bright yellow eyes as if asking him what he was doing lying in the rain in the first place.

"I don't have to answer to you, dog." Pitch hesitated. "Did I really just talk to a dog?"

He tried to push it off but the dog went dead weight and refused to get off of him.

"What in the bleeding hell!? It's freezing out here and I just want to get back to my apartment!"

The dog looked up at Pitch with sad eyes and whined, silently begging Pitch to take him back to the so called apartment.

"Fine, whatever you want if you just get off of me. The rain is getting worse by the minute." At that last word there was a flash of lightening and then a loud rumble of thunder. The dog jumped at the loud noise and Pitch used the opportunity to stand up. He looked down at it.

"Now go home," he said pointing in a random direction through the torrent of rain.

The dog just flattened its big ears as best as it could and lay down in the grass as if trying to prove to Pitch that the park was his home.

"You irritate me." Pitch briskly walked over to his car and was about to open the door went he felt a tug on the back of his pant leg. He looked down to see the Corgi softly gripping it in its teeth.

"Oh fine! Get in the bloody car you twit." He opened the door and motioned for the dog to get in. It jumped up onto the driver's seat and then across the gear-shift to the passenger's side. Pitch leaned in the car and the Corgi gave a short bark that sounded like a laugh to him. He quickly climbed in and closed the door, leering at the sandy ball of fur. "You're coming with me."

Pitch turned on the car and drove back the way he had come to the store he'd been at only a few hours prior. He picked up the dog and held it as he went into the big shop.

"Uh, sir, we don't allow dogs in here-," a short man said to Pitch once he'd entered. The man stared at him like he was the strangest thing he'd ever seen, and Pitch figured that maybe he wasn't too far off on that matter. He was drenched, in a winter coat and the same clothes he'd worn two days prior due to his breakdown, still had all of his piercings in (the man looked to be the age where he didn't agree with men wearing jewelry), and he was carrying an equally drenched tiny Corgi who looked as happy as it could ever be.

"I understand. Most places don't. It's not hard to come to the conclusion this store doesn't as well," Pitch cut him off.

The man just stared wide-eyed.

"Do you have one of those community bulletin boards?"

Now he looked puzzled.

Pitch gave an exasperated sigh. "Where members of the community hang up want ads, fliers, and missing pet reports? It shouldn't be this difficult to comprehend. If we had them in England then you Americans definitely should."

The man finally seemed to get what he was trying to say. "Uh, over there, by the other entrance. Most everyone in town uses it, sir."

"Thank you," Pitch nodded curtly and headed over to it.

"Uh, sir, you still can't have that dog in here." The man called after him.

"Bite me," he said without looking back.

The Corgi he was holding must've thought that comment was addressed to it and started gnawing on Pitch's sleeve.

"Will you stop it?" He glared at the dog as they finally neared the bulletin.

It looked up at him gingerly and then kept gnawing.

"You'd be a very fluffy coat. Just realize that fact."

It stopped.

Pitch chuckled and looked through the papers nailed to the board. "I can't do this while holding you," he muttered to the dog. He looked behind him at the few other shoppers and workers that were all staring at him. Bite me.

He grabbed the nearest shopping cart and set the dog down in it and pulled it up beside him. "There we go," he smiled brightly as the dog looked up at him in disdain.

Pitch went back to leafing through the papers. After about twenty minutes and seeing every flier he gave up.

"Nothing at all. Not even one missing dog report. Either nobody wanted you, or you really must have lived in that sad little park." The dog barked in agreement to both statements. "But really, it must've been the former." It turned away from him this time, seemingly with an air of Look at all the fucks I give.

Pitch pushed the cart back over to where that short man was still staring at him open-mouthed.

"Which way's the pet aisle?"

The man pointed towards the back of the store.

"And the crafts?"

He pointed again.

"Thank you," Pitch said turning his back and heading in that direction, ignoring the still staring people.

"But, sir-"

"Say one more thing about the dog. I dare you."

The man didn't dare, and Pitch kept moving along.

He heard a few of the children exclaim at the cute little dog in the shopping cart that wagged its tail eagerly at each of them before their parents grabbed their hands and pulled them away from the strange soaked man who broke the rules of their store.

But it wasn't like Pitch could take it back to the park now. The little thing was annoying as all hell, but in a way that reminded Pitch of his sister-

This was the first time Pitch had ever thanked God for anything, He dropped down in the pet aisle he had finally made it to and laid his head on his knees that he clutched. No one was around this section of the store, and he was eternally grateful for that.

The Corgi bent its head in puzzlement and tried to sniff at the wire meshing of the cart to see what it was its new master was doing. It barked when Pitch didn't get up immediately and then again after ten minutes had gone by. The dog rocked the cart back and forth trying to tip it over, and jumped out when the cart leaned enough to the left for it to be able to.

It clambered up Pitch's back and sat half on his head, nuzzling it. When Pitch didn't respond, it went dead-weight like it'd done in the park causing him to fall over and smack his head on the ground. The pain of the blow that the linoleum caused mixed with the already present pain of the fall off of the swing woke Pitch from his horrendous thoughts. The dog licked the side of Pitch's face apologetically before he sat up.

"Thanks, I guess," he mumbled as he patted the top of the dog's head. It yipped happily and nuzzled his hand. "Alright, that's quite enough… Uh, boy?" Another happy yip. "I guess I'll have to take your… Uh, bark, on that…" Like brutally bleeding hell I'm going to check that.

Now really only half-conscious, Pitch continued his saunter down the aisle with the Corgi back in the cart. He plucked everything off of the shelves that the dog barked at: wet food, dry food, animal-safe shampoo, a wire brush for the small matts the dog obviously had in his fur, chew toys, a Frisbee, treats, a leash, a brown collar, and a bed. They went to the crafts aisle and picked up a thin poster board and a set of black sharpies before they checked out.

As they left the store the short man stood in front of the bulletin, staring at what they had left, wearing his little pin that told his title of manager. A poster board was tacked up sloppily with the words, "Annoying, yellow male Pembroke Welsh Corgi found. If you want it back, call this number. If not, and I could honestly understand why you wouldn't, don't call. It's simple." The mentioned number was scrawled underneath the short paragraph. The poster in question covered the entire bulletin and all of its other papers.

The man thought to remove it, and then decided not to, picturing the strange man's face when he came back for more groceries if he saw it was gone. But at least now he understood why that strange man had a dog with him, even if it wasn't allowed.


Once they arrived back at his apartment, Pitch unloaded the groceries from the first trip he had made alone, and then unloaded the rest from the second trip while the dog ran around excitedly, getting everything in sight wet.

Pitch hung up his drenched coat on the rack by the door and sat down in front of the door after he did, looking at everything else that was now soaked due to the dog. It was amazing how quickly it could cover his large apartment that was the entire top floor of the complex in rainwater.

To his left was a small wall, about two feet long if he had to guess, where the coat rack and mat where he kept his shoes were cornered. At the end of the wall it indented into a big kitchen with an island and various cooking utensils and wares hanging from the ceiling above it. The side of the island Pitch could see had a couple of barstools and an area for eating, while the far side had an indent downwards where the stove was and the rest of the indented counter. There was a step up from the ground floor that ran along where the wall would've continued had it been longer.

The left wall of the kitchen had a closet filled with assorted non-refrigerated items. The right wall had a small glass table with two chairs, not that he'd ever had guests, and a black vase of white roses in the center of it with two matching black placemats. The far wall had a dark silver fridge in the right corner and an equally silver sink built into the countertop with a window above it with black blinds. All of the countertops were a dark black marble, and the wood underneath them was a charcoal grey that went with the cupboards that were above everything on the far wall. The walls themselves were a jungle green that Pitch had mixed with black so it was a few shades darker when he specially ordered it.

Straight ahead of him was a hallway, and after the eight foot long step that went up to the kitchen, the wall continued down that hallway. There was a door to the left that was a bathroom, all of the amenities either dark black or dark silver like the kitchen, and it also doubled as the laundry room, containing a washer, drier, and hamper on the opposite wall of the cornered shower.

The door at the end of the hall was the master bedroom where he slept. It had its own bathroom that matched the other except for the dark golden walls. In fact, the walls of the actual bedroom were painted the same color. He had a king-sized four poster bed at the far end of the room in between two windows with black curtains, an ebony piano in the front right next to a cherry-wood violin, and black bookshelves covering the front left that went up to the celling and over where the door was to the private bathroom and finished off covering the entire left wall up to the far one. The far right wall had a black bureau cornered in it, and the actual right wall had beautiful and colorful paintings that went from floor to ceiling all over it, only two inches between each one on all sides, and each one was a different size. They all depicted different settings of nature, works of architecture, or mythology, except for the one in the middle. It was the largest, painted on a seemingly black canvas, and it had a small, golden, sandy butterfly in the bottom far right of it flying up to the top left where a blue-white light shown down. The butterfly left a trail of sand behind it, though Pitch always thought of it more as dust or the wings of the butterfly fading away, and he should know, since it was the one painting he had done himself. There was a nightstand to the left of the bed, a music player sat atop it, along with an alarm clock. The bedspread matched the walls, the pillows, the ornately-patterned rug that was half out from under the bed that spread across the room, and the butterfly.

The door on the right of the hallway was a spare bedroom Pitch rarely used that had a window at the end of it. It was where he kept all of his unused paints and music sheets in neatly stacked piles in a cabinet, and it was the only room in the house with brightly colored-blue walls.

To his right, from the start of the hallway to the door he sat in front of, was where the living room branched out. It had a step down from the width of wood flooring that continued in front of him down the hall. In the center of the living room was a fireplace whose chimney led up to the celling and out of it onto the roof. It only cost a few flashes of bills to convince the manager to let him have one here, and it upped the value of the apartment as well, so really it was a win-win situation. The apartment itself already had a nice view of the city, being on the top floor. The fireplace was bricked and had a metal grate in front of it and more bricking underneath in a small square radius. There were two black leather seats cocked in opposite parallels that faced the fire with a small black stand between them that had wall-matching green coasters and a rug patterned the same way the one in his room was only colored green this time.

On the opposite side of the fireplace a 39' flat-screen TV was mounted to the chimney, jutting out ever so slightly on the sides. A black leather couch sat facing it with a glass coffee table in front of it that had a few books piled in one corner and a sketchpad topped with remotes and a mechanical pencil in the other. A rug was underneath it all that equaled the one on the opposite side of the fireplace. There was a step back up behind the couch and the wall behind it was completely bricked with an ornate metal sculpture hanging from it. In the right corner was a pine tree undecorated in a black pot and in the left a cornered black bookcase. The wall that was the spare bedroom's outer wall, or the living room's left wall, had three squares of faux brick that were separated three inches apart and in the middle one a metal butterfly, that was done by the same sculptor that did the one behind the couch, hung.

All of the flooring throughout the apartment that might as well have been a house was hardwood like the kitchen with darker hardwood for the trim along the steps, and all of the lighting came from either the windows that were in every room besides the living room, or the overhead metal lamps that were present in every room.

Almost everything in this house-apartment had water on it, and the now exhausted Corgi sat down in front of Pitch, panting heavily, and seemed to say I cleaned things up for you. You're welcome.

"Why did it have to be a dog?" Pitch said to the ceiling before rising up off of the floor and grabbing a towel from atop the drier. He then went to work wiping up all of the water he could find before he realized he was dripping water everywhere too. "Bloody hell…"

Pitch grabbed the dog and carried him into the bathroom, wiping him dry and putting the new collar on him. He took him to the spare bedroom once he was done and set out food, water, and the dog's bed. The Corgi ate quickly and hungrily, and Pitch had to set out more food before turning on the light and leaving, closing the door behind him.

He quickly remembered something and went back in, throwing a few of the chew toys down near the dog, who looked at him, questioning. "I, uh, thought you might… Alright, I'm done with this. It's ridiculous. I'm not going to explain my thinking to a dog." He stormed back out, closing the door again, and went across the hall to the bathroom and began peeling off his wet clothes. He threw them in the washer along with the towels he'd used on the floors and the dog and stepped into the shower.

He turned the pressure on low and the heat on high in an attempt to get the chill out of his bones. The warm water helped, and eventually he gave in and just ran a bath. It was nobody's business what he kept in his house, but he had some bubble-bath under the sink and he poured that into his tub before getting back in. After it filled, he turned off the tap and lay peacefully until he finally felt his coldness ebb away and the water's start.

Pitch climbed out and wrapped a towel around his waist before he headed to his bedroom. He pulled out a pair of boxers from his bureau and put them on before he once again headed to the spare bedroom he rarely entered. He opened the door and looked down at the dog that lay curled in his dog bed, almost asleep.

"I'll leave this door open in case you want to get the lay of the flat in the night." If Pitch wasn't so tired he would've thought the dog nodded, but then again, his breed was one of the smartest, so it wouldn't be all that uncommon for him to understand basic words. Especially if he had a previous owner. Pitch shut out the light and cracked the door, giving a last look at the tired-out dog, and padded down the hall for the last time that night. He crawled into his bed under the covers and discarded the towel he'd left draped on it to the floor. It wasn't long before he was asleep.


"Please, just take me, don't hurt her. We didn't do anything wrong. Just take me! If you have to take one of us then take me! No, stop it! Let her go! What are you doing to her! Stop! STOP! STOP IT! GET AWAY FROM HER!"

Pitch charged at the intruders in a rage-filled attempt to get his sister back to him. He was only eleven years old; his sister was even younger, a mere six years old. He wasn't strong enough to get her back; there was no way he could. But even though deep down he knew he wouldn't be able to, even though he knew his parents were already gone upstairs in their beds and no one would hear their screams, and even though he knew it was already too late to save her, he fought hard. Kicking and screaming with everything he had.

"Big brother…" And Pitch stopped trying to get free and made eye contact with his little sister. His darling little sister that he loved unconditionally. Who was more of a daughter to him than a sibling. He made eye contact with her just in time to see one of the intruders cut her throat and drop her to the floor.

The tears that already stung at his eyes spread and spread until he couldn't see her anymore. Couldn't see her lying on the ground lifeless, a slightly smiling expression in a last attempt to comfort Pitch plastered to her face.

"Phina…" He whispered, choking back his own vomit. "SERAPHINA!"


Pitch woke with a jolt screaming out his little sister's name like he must've been doing in his sleep. He started crying so hard he started coughing, and then coughing so hard he had to run to his bathroom and be sick. When he returned to his bed he still felt tears running down his face and could see them gently drop onto the comforter and soak in slowly. His curtains were drawn and he didn't notice the time of day, but he didn't need to. He went under the covers and continued to cry until he felt a weight on top of him. He wiped his face sloppily and pulled down the blanket so he could see what it was.

The little Corgi that reminded Pitch so much of her, so much of Seraphina, sat on his chest staring down at him with as worried an expression a dog could have.

"I'm fine. Go back to your bed," Pitch mumbled unconvincingly. The dog nuzzled Pitch for a moment before pulling back the covers with his teeth and un-stealthily climbing under them to lie next to Pitch.

Pitch still felt the tremors and the fears of his memory-filled nightmare and hugged the dog to him, crying into his fur and shaking. He didn't know when, but as some point, they both fell asleep.


When Pitch woke up he realized one: that he didn't have another bad dream that night, and two: that the dog had drooled all over his sheets. Pitch sighed and moved to get the thing out of his bed so he could wash his sheets but gave up when he noticed the dog was already awake. It had gone dead-weight yet again.

It wasn't that Pitch couldn't lift up this surprisingly large for his breed Corgi, it was that every time the dog did this it somehow added twenty pounds to its weight and always managed to do it at a time when Pitch couldn't properly sit up for the leverage needed to push it off. It really was quite the clever little bastard.

The dog continued to fake asleep but Pitch knew better.

"Remember how fun it was sitting in the rain yesterday all alone in the park? Would you like to do that again?"

The dog rolled off of Pitch and onto his back glaring at him, causing Pitch to laugh as he sat up and the dog to bark.

"But I do suppose if it wasn't for you I would've had another…" He trailed off, not wanting to remember. "It's a bit like you cause good dreams. I suppose that makes you the Sandman." Pitch chuckled and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

The dog barked happily and jumped up.

"Oh please, that you like? Come on. We need a better name for you, like, Mansnoozie, because I bet you snooze like that of a man." Pitch laughed to himself at his horrible pun he found genuinely amusing. The dog just sat down, put a paw on Pitch's hand, and looked at him with eyes that seemed to say You really need to get some help, don't you? This sobered Pitch up from his awful laughing fit and he glared at the dog for not finding his joke funny.

"Fine, fine. Sandman it is, but by bloody hell if I'll call you all that. How about Sandy, for short?"

Sandy barked happily yet again and jumped on top of Pitch, knocking him back down, and licked his face.

"That fur coat is sounding better and better by the minute…"

Sandy hopped off of the bed and ran out of the room.