A\N: Well...I just can't leave Trent alone. Guess this is gonna be at least a threeshot...so, happy angstfest! (Was that an oxymoron? Probably. Not worrying about it. Enjoy!)

They hadn't spoken in two days.

The only sign Trent was even living in Anton's house were the new drawings. Trent left them for Anton to see. Silently. When Anton wasn't around.

The boy had become rather good at avoiding him, Anton thought dryly. A side effect of the monster that had lived inside of him.

But Trent still put the drawings on his desk. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

They were old drawings, Anton could tell. Always showing a dark and light, a balance between them. Trent's newer drawings were kept secret. They were an intimate part of him, and like a fresh wound, Trent kept them close to his heart, nurturing them in a hopeless attempt at true healing.

Anton was content. Elsa was helping him with the worst of Mesegog, and Trent had Tommy and his teammates. They would both survive, recover. They would go back to being alive.

Then, one night, Trent walked out of his room.

It was midnight, Trent knew. He should be in bed. But he couldn't sleep. In his arms were a small stack of drawings, painful wounds that seemed to be covered in his own blood. He walked to Anton's study slowly, like a man walking to the light at the end of a tunnel years long.

He didn't want to see his scars in the light.

He pushed the door open slowly.

Anton was sitting at his desk. Carefully, deliberately, Trent walked up to him. He set the pictures on the table, letting them say what words couldn't.

Anton picked up the first one. It was Kira, wings spreading majestically out on one side, the other wing broken and limp. A song flew from her mouth, taking the place of her broken wings. The second was Conner, kicking a soccer ball to a boy who mirrored him. The second Conner was covered in bruises and wounds, but held a jester's staff in his hands. The third was Ethan, curled up inside a sphere of stone, while outside a sickeningly familiar Mesegog struck the stone with his talons, the other Rangers defenseless and strapped to tables. The fourth was Tommy, a small planet in his hands, but his eyes staring at an archaic symbol for the Pink Ranger.

The last was Trent.

Trent was the White Ranger, but Trent also stood opposite his suit, the two facing each other. The White Ranger held a paintbrush in one hand. In the mirroring hand, Trent held a dagger.

Both were bleeding.

Anton slowly looked up. "They're good drawings, son." He said calmly. "I suppose as hobbies go, this one is better than throwing a football, isn't it?" He set the drawings aside calmly. "It'll help you make friends in college, I suppose. That's better than nothing."

And just like that, Trent remembered who he was talking to. Just as silently, he turned and left. Without speaking a word, he lay on his perfectly made bed and fell asleep.

He dreamed that he opened his eyes in the middle of the night. Anton was stroking his hair, the moon shining on him.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I know I hurt you, son. I'm so sorry. I'm going to be a better dad, Trent. I'll be the father you always dreamed of."

But Trent opened his eyes, and it was just a dream.

The next day, Anton found a new picture on his desk.

A clawed, scaled hand pierced the world, making its southern hemisphere bleed. A human hand rested atop it.

Below the hand, everything died.