A/N: Thank you BuJyo for your review! Some of you living in the US probably heard about the crazy winter storm that hit California, Arizona, and New Mexico. This storm has driven me crazy, as I was living through the middle of it, and stopped me from writing as my notebook, my wonderful notebook that I love more than anything I own, was left at work, and we closed for the storm because everyone with a key to the store was stuck. Anyway, why I'm saying this is because the chapter of Out of Control I am working on is in that book, and BuJyo gave me an absolutely brilliant idea to help me continue over my four day weekend (It's not going to be even close to how neat and sweet you did it), but I'd had the majority of the chapter already finished, and couldn't figure out where to go without it right in front of me. If I had been smart and kept it with me you would have had another chapter this afternoon. I can promise another chapter soon. This chapter has some language so be warned. I have my fingers crossed that you all like this one. I throughly enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

I've always loved nighttime, but I've always hated all the people during nighttime. Why is this? Because generally, they keep you up at night with random things. Screams from a nightmare, playing music or their TV with the volume up loud, drunks running down the street. The list could go on and on. The reason I bring this up is because, two nights after my death, I was woken up at 2:30 in the morning to insistent banging on the door from a stoner. Before I go on, I need to say what has happened since I found Marshall in the hospital. According to doctors, I am perfectly fine, but the reason I couldn't talk is some psychological BS, full of loads of blah blah blah. Okay, if you really want to know they think the trauma of the accident and losing my parents caused me to stop talking. As soon as the trauma wears off, I'll be able to talk again. Like I'll believe that crap. The Seana bitch took my voice forever and won't give it back. On a better note, Marshall adopted me, as someone under 16 can not live without a parent or guardian with that someone. So much fun. I get to go through the joys of childhood again, and better yet... puberty.

When the pounding started, I reached under the pillow for my gun, until I realized I didn't have one anymore, because no one would seriously give a six year old one unless they were extremely stupid. I heard Marshall's soft footsteps as he moved toward the door cautiously. I followed suit, as even though I couldn't provide even the simplest of defenses, I was curious to know who was at the door, and I was no safer in the bedroom. I saw him check behind the curtains and the peephole, and opened the door as fast as humanly possible.

"Randall! It's 2:30 in the morning!!"

"Dude, I burnt my house down!" Randall sounded almost gleeful, and drunk.

Now a little information on Randall. He's Marshall's cousin, but no one was willing to admit that Randall and Randall's father were part of the family. Marshall was friendly with him because he thought he was a hoot. He's not a bad person, and he was kind of fun. He lived a charmed life of sorts. Despite being a stoner and working as an ice cream man, he was never out of money, it seemed. Marshall suspected it came from Randall's father who, well, did a lot of work down by the docks. There's something not many know about Marshall. He's actually in the program because of Randall's father. Of course, there was no evidence, and Marshall's statement wasn't enough, so he walked, and wanted to kill Marshall for almost blowing his whole operation.

Marshall led Randall into his house, and three smaller people came in behind him. I peeked my head out behind my hiding place, and Marshall nodded at me. I came out and sat down on one of the couches, eying the people who had followed Randall. Marshall started introductions.

The youngest of the two boys was a three year old named Caleb, who seriously looked like he was mentally retarded. His eyes were half closed, and his mouth was open with a bit of drool on the corner.

The next boy and I linked eyes and something completely odd happened. I saw a boy in a hospital bed, hooked up to several machines. His legs were wrapped in casts. The boy flat lined and my vision of Marshall's living room returned. Shake it off, don't go crazier than you already are, I told myself. I barely managed to hear Marshall. This boy was ten and his name was Ben.

I didn't move my sight to the girl until after she'd been introduced. To be honest, I thought the same thing would happen with the girl. Her name was Gabbie, and she was seventeen. Slowly I turned toward her. Unlike what I had hoped, I saw a mouth of a woman, nothing above the mouth, no eyes or nose. I could also see the throat and shoulders of the woman. She was dressed in a green shirt or dress, and wearing a pearl necklace. Her mouth was locked in a scream, and I saw a black gloved hand holding a switchblade and it stabbed the screaming woman in the neck repeatedly.

As the 'vision' faded, I was shaking. The flashbacks of Chuck dying and my shooting that man had become few and rare. Those memories were up at the surface, and suddenly I was having a hard time breathing.

I froze when I noticed a face inches from mine. Randall's. "Remember those Chucky movies? I think Charlotte looks like him!"

I scrunched up my nose in disgust and I realized I was no longer panicking. "Your breath smells like you ate a shit sandwich," I growled. Chucky? Seriously?

Randall backed away and turned back toward Marshall. "Dude, you're depressed. Why the hell are you depressed?"

Marshall sighed, "Remember the woman I told you about one time, Mary Shannon?"

"Hot babe you crushed on for three years, with a mouth that could make a navel veteran proud?"

I growled at the last remark.

"Mary's dead," Marshall said. "I need to..." He was interrupted by Randall lighting up what I suspected was pot. "You do know I'm a cop, right?"

"Dude," he smoked half of the joint in one breath. "You know we've tried so many times to get me off pot and booze but you've always given me some before I was completely off. Every time we tried it's been fuzzy so I can't remember why I ended up smoking and drinking again."

Marshall sighed. "You're right."

"So dude, I need a change!"

"Seriously a change?" Marshall scoffed. "So you come here so you can get your change? I don't like you having pot, and I still want it as far from me as possible. You still have your job and last time I checked you liked it. Get a change somewhere else!"

Randall laughed. "Yeah, about the job, dude, I got something to show you. Follow me." He lead the way back out side, and all five of us followed. When we reached the driveway, Marshall and I stood in shock. There was an ice-cream truck in the driveway.

"What happened?"

Randall grinned sheepishly. "I got fired."

"You got fired?!"

"I blame it on bad vibes from Mrs. McKenzie. We got into a little fight, and she fired me."

"Why did she fire you?" Marshall asked really wanting to know.

"Well, I had been having a bad day, and beer always makes me feel better, so I brought a couple of six packs with me when I started my route. Before you knew it, the beers were drank, and as I say, I can't be held responsible for what I do in my truck when I pass out behind the wheel. Well, when I regained consciousness, I had driven through someone's backyard and into their swimming pool. When I told Mrs. McKenzie I had been drunk, she fired me."

"So you stole your truck?"

"Oh no, my truck was ruined. I stole a different truck, because she called me a "'Stone brained son of a bitch.'" Marshall shook his head in amusement.

"Will she turn you into the police?"

"Not if she wants her husband to know that she and a few of the boys have been playing hide the ice-cream cone." Everyone six and over laughed at this.

"So can we stay with you?" Randall asked, ice-cream truck completely forgotten.

Marshall sighed, and after a moment of rubbing circles on his temple said, "Only because you're family, and only for one night. Then we'll get you a hotel. In the morning I want all your pot out of my house."

As we went inside, I pulled Marshall's arm. I was confused and I tried to figure out why Marshall wouldn't get rid of his cousin's pot. I pointed at Randall, and acted like I was smoking, then pointed at him, and threw it in the trash, and gave him a questioning glance? He seemed to understand.

"It's impossible to get rid of his pot. He seemingly has it stashed everywhere. I've seen him find a bottle of vodka in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere. I can't turn him in because everyone he encounters while he was detoxing would kill themselves of the torture."

I made a mental reminder to figure out how to ask him why people would kill themselves at Randall detoxing, as I had glanced at the clock and saw it was four in the morning. It was time to go back to bed. But with the dream I was about to have, I was going to wish I hadn't.

A/N: Please, don't judge Randall or my other characters. Randall is my favorite of all the original characters I came up with. I personally hate drugs with a burning passion, but I think it might be fun dealing with someone who could live without drugs, but no one else around him could live with him off drugs. Eventually I will show why Marshall won't keep Randall from pot and booze for long, and I promise, it'll be hilarious. Next chapter is the funeral!