Moving purely on adrenaline, Wes jolts out of bed at the sound of raspy screaming coming from the next room over. His bare feet slap against the hardwood floor as he runs to Soul's room and bursts the door open. He pins his arm across his brother's chest and pinches the bridge of his nose, the act so familiar and second nature by now he despises it more than anything. Despises it because this shouldn't be happening anymore; he thought they had worked through Soul's nightmares and concurred his depression, but this is proof they haven't.

Soul's eyes snap open and he sucks in a hard breath.

Releasing Soul's nose, Wes moves off his brother and waits for him to gather his bearings. Soul blinks a few times, the low light from his lamp casting shadows over his face, before his glassy gaze falls on Wes. Wes leans forward and presses the back of his hand against his brother's forehead to check if he has a fever or not. He's clammy and warm, but it isn't alarming.

"You feeling okay?" Wes asks in a quiet tone.

His brother slowly moves away from his hand and groggily shakes his head.

"No, I'm… Where… Where am I?" Soul asks, his voice scratchy and tired. His brows knit together as he feels around at the bedsheets. He grips them tightly and brings them in toward him as if to make sure they're real. "What happened to the monster?"

The last question is so low Wes barely hears it. His heart stops for a millisecond when he remembers exactly what kind of nightmares Soul has - the drawings that used to be mixed with the typical ones of their family and poorly drawn animals coming to mind. He remembers the demon as red and black scribbles on paper, but the soulless whites of its eyes were enough to frighten even him when they were younger. Now he wonders what Soul saw this time to cause him to lose touch with reality.

"You're in your bedroom in our apartment," Wes tells him. "The monster isn't here, and it won't be coming back."

"Promise?"

It's such a simple word, one he's heard a million times in his life, but the way it comes out of Soul reminds him of the six-year-old boy he stayed up with to comfort when the nightmares first started.

"I promise," Wes confirms.

He stands from the bed and grabs the edges of the blanket.

"Get some rest," he says. "Everything'll be better in the morning. I promise."

Soul nods and allows Wes to bury him beneath the blanket. Once his brother's settled, he leans over to where the faded stuffed shark is squished between the mattress and the wall and slides between Soul's folded arms. He waits another minute or two for Soul's breathing to even out and slow before leaving to go back to his own bed.


The next day at work while he's on his lunch, Wes receives a text from Liz asking if it's safe for her to call him. His mind immediately goes straight to the gutter because it's Liz, the girl he's had an on again, off again fling with for the last three years. He silently chuckles to himself as he types out a response.

[[ I'm on my lunch, but my co-workers can still hear me moaning. I'm not quiet you know. ]]

[[ trust me, I know. ]]

He doesn't respond because the next second, his phone rings.

"Liz, I can't do dirty talk right now," he greets.

"Good because that isn't why I'm calling, perv," she sighs. "I'm at work, too, you know? And I work in a high school, and I'd rather not have my students hear me talking about spanking your ass."

"Then why are you calling?"

"I wanna talk about Soul." There's a short pause on the other end. "I'm worried about him."

Sitting his fork down, he nods even though she can't see him. "Yeah. Me too."

"I met him for lunch yesterday, and he didn't seem okay. He was the usual moody Soul that we all know and love, but there was something off about him. How're things at the apartment?"

"Same like before except…," he trails off, briefly debating whether or not to tell her about the nightmares. He isn't sure if she knows or not, and he doesn't want to relay a secret of Soul's without his permission. It almost feels like he's crossing a patient/doctor line even if Soul isn't his patient.

"He's been having restless nights again," he says.

Liz at least knows his brother has trouble sleeping sometimes.

"Do you think he's having nightmares again?"

"You know about them?"

She hums. "He told me about them a couple years ago when we were in college. Come to think of it, he wasn't sleeping then either, and not because he was doing all-nighters," she clarifies. "I think it was because he was stressed out of his mind."

"You think he's stressed?"

"Could be."

Wes doesn't comment.

Rather, he sighs in response.

Deep down, he knows Liz is right because it's the only logical solution as to why his brother's nightmares have returned. It's the same reason they had started when they were kids. Their father put too much emphasis on perfecting his piano playing to the point it became a sickness; Soul dreamt of performing in front of audiences who ridiculed him and booed him off stage. He dreamt of the demon pouring tar around his feet so that Soul could never move and was forced to play piano for eternity.

But the nagging voice in the back of his mind refuses to acknowledge the proof being laid out in front of him.

"Soul's fine, Liz," he says, leaning back in his chair and scratching the edge of his desk. "He's just a little down in the dumps since he can't find a job. That's all."

Liz sighs, and he practically feels the irritation buzzing off her through the line. "Wes, you and I both know he isn't. I'm worried about him. You remember the last time he was like this, and how bad it got then. I don't want it to come down to that."

His heart twists at how quiet her voice grows when she says the last part.

"I'll talk to him at dinner and see if he's really doing okay."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

A pause falls between them in which she lowly blows out, telling Wes she's on a smoke breaks. He almost wants to remind her the dangers of cigarettes and the influence she has on her students if they were to see her, but he doesn't. She's a grown woman; she can do whatever she damn well pleases. Plus, he's sure she's taken the right precautions so no one - not her students, the principal, or other staff - finds her.

"Don't be like your dad, and ignore this shit, she says, her tone strong and powerful. "Soul's fucked up in the head. If he is going through a setback, he needs someone there to help him out of it. Don't fuck it up, Wes."

"I won't, Liz. I'll take care of my little brother like you take care of Patti."

She snorts. "Good. I gotta go, but I'll text you later, ya?"

"Yeah, okay. Talk to you later."

Hanging up the phone, he rests it on top of his des, cups his chin in his hands, and stares out the window directly in front of him. Wes has seen many patients sit across from him, telling him their journey with mental illness and seeking methods of coping with it from him. He's been people's lifeline; has helped guide them on the road to recovery and been there for them when they fall back into the same old routines as before.

Liz is right; he needs to help his brother and not ignore the blatant issue in front of him. Soul isn't okay like he wants to believe.

He only wishes his schooling had prepared him for caring for a family member's mental illness.


Soul lays in bed staring at the ceiling, doing nothing. His body feels numb, his senses are dull, but his mind is moving a mile a minute. Thoughts of him being a worthless human being who has no purpose repeat over and over in his head to the point where he starts to accept it. There's no rebuttal, no excuse he can think of to silence them because they're right. He's a useless part of society who deserves to disappear.

A ding sounds from his open laptop, and he's reminded of how he found himself in this position.

To no one's surprise, he had received another rejection letter. This one, though, was one he had been so sure he'd be offered an interview for since it was in his area of expertise. A spot on the orchestra there in the city; the perfect job for him. While it isn't what he wants to do for the rest of his life - he always imagined himself a teacher or original composer - it was better than nothing. It also would have given him the opportunity to prove his worth as an Evans and uphold the Evans family name by following in the footsteps of his ancestors before him which is probably why it hurts so much to not even get an interview.

You're a disgrace to the family, his father's words echo in his head. You'll amount to nothing of worth or prosperity in this industry. You're a failure.

Closing his eyes, Soul feels two tears roll over his cheeks on either side and the cold stab of a dagger as it twists in his chest. He has no counters against the whispers in his head because they're all true. He isn't worth a damn thing. He's a black mark on the Evans name, a bronze thread in their golden family tree. He's nothing. Absolutely nothing. He doesn't deserve to live or breathe the same air as his family.

Maybe you should off yourself, comes a deep, sinister voice.

His eyes snap open at the sound.

Pushing himself off the bed, Soul searches his room for a source. The voice felt too real, too near, to be disembodied, but he finds nothing. Everything in his room remains the same as it always has been from the familiar portable keyboard he keeps propped up in the corner to the chair littered with dirty clothes. There's no sign that someone else is there with him. He doesn't see the checkered floors or the burgundy curtains or dusk dusted church furnishings. It's the same as it's always been.

Save for the goosebumps on his arms and the chill along his spine like something - or someone - is watching him from the dark corners.

Soul presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until they hurt. He steadies his breathing and rapid beating heart, begging his nerves to calm themselves. None of it is real; he's safe, none of it is real; he's safe, none of it is real; he's safe. Repeats over and over in his head like a prayer for salvation, but no matter how hard he tries, it still doesn't convince him.

"Soul?" comes his brothers voice followed by two knocks, startling Soul out of his mantra. "You awake in there?"

He inhales steadily through his nose and exhales from his mouth, counting to ten in an attempt to calm himself. Wes isn't the type of person to ignore the obvious signs of torment etched on Soul's face especially after having grown up together and dwelling in conjoining rooms. Out of everyone in his life, his brother's the one who can detect when Soul isn't okay, and Soul isn't much in the mood to receive the look from him.

"Soul?" Wes says again.

The doorknob jiggles slightly from Wes' hand resting on it prompting Soul to lean his head back and dig up his best disgruntled facial expression.

After saying a silent prayer to himself, Soul says at the same time the door opens, "Course I'm awake. How do you expect me to sleep with your loud mouth checking up on me?"

"Nice to see Sleeping Beauty's as normal as ever," Wes mumbles to himself. "I wanted to let you know I'm heading out for work. I'll probably be at the office all day 'cause I'm pretty booked up, and I'm mentoring some students today. So all three of your meals are your choice, but my treat. There's thirty bucks on the table for you."

"Cool. Means I can pig out on junk food without your gross face judging me," he says, giving his brother an award winning smirk.

Wes rolls his eyes. "Your health's gonna hate you later on. Don't stay in bed all day."

"I'll try not to."

"Also, why do you have it so dark in here? Did someone die or something? Open a window or the blinds or something. Get some sunlight in here. You'll ruin your vision if you stay like this."

"Thanks, mom."

"I'm only saying it because I care, Soul."

"You can care a little less," he says under his breath.

"We both know that'll never happen." Wes pauses to check his watch. "Okay. I gotta get going if I don't wanna get stuck in traffic. Be good. See you later."

"See ya."

His brother turns to close the door, but hesitates.

Before Soul can ask him what's wrong, Wes says without sparing a glance at him, "Things'll all work out in the end. You know that, right?"

Confusion washes over Soul at his brother's question, completely taken aback by the choice of words surrounding it. Maybe there's a chance Wes knows he's gone off his meds and stopped seeing his psychologist, and Soul almost blurts everything out on the spot. But he doesn't. The fact his brother is skilled in this particular area of expertise also builds on his suspension that he knows, but Soul's also aware of how dense and logical Wes can be at times. How often has it Soul been the smarter brother when it comes to certain situations because he knows better than Wes to not do something unless he wants to get seriously hurt?

Far too many.

Summing up to Wes being a typical psychologist, Soul snorts. "You don't have to treat me like I'm one of your patients, you know? I'm fine. I'll find a job… eventually."

Tapping his fingers on the doorknob, Wes nods and half-smiles. "I'm sure you will. Just don't give up, okay? Call me if you need anything."

The 'Or if you want to talk' is left floating in the air when he closes the door.

Soul falls back to his mattress. He combs his fingers through his hair, watching patches of yellow sunlight dance across his ceiling as they break through his tightly closed blinds. They're the bits of light begging to wash away the darkness, but he refuses to let them. He doesn't deserve their help. His grave is slowly being dug as time ticks on, waiting for its owner to finally succumb and disappear from the earth, and to finally put his family out of its misery. No one will miss the worthless son who can't amount to anything or even compare to the success of his brother.

There may be a few tears at his funeral, but it won't last long. They'll forget him.

All it'll take is time.

A buzzing right by his ear startles Soul from his daze and blindly snatches at it. Bringing it to his face, he sees Liz's name in a text bubble with her message of concern following suit; a simple conversation starter asking if he's okay. Soul types a quick response back that he hopes will settle her worry before dropping his hand back down. He isn't completely heartless to the point where his brother's and friend's words have no affect on him, but he does know they're done with poor results.

He's a weak link in society whose time is almost up.

The sooner they realize that, the better.


The absolute last place Soul should be is on social media. Seeing post after post of his friends successes does nothing to soothe him or help him with his own misfortune. They only serve to be an unwelcome reminder of how behind he is. Liz rants about her students, how snotty and rude they are, but she still holds onto hope they'll do good. Kilik's younger siblings both graduated middle school and are entering high school while he's undergoing a Master's degree in Engineering. Kim and Jackie announce their engagement with a photo album filled with photos highlighting the couples relationship.

It sickens Soul. The whole lot of his friends from college. They're off having wonderful careers and lives while he's stuck in a cramped apartment mooching off his brother. This isn't exactly how he pictured his life after graduation; he had hoped he'd be working as a musician and performing at different venues, getting his music out into the world.

Soul rests his head on the table after seeing the tenth happy post that day and closes his eyes. His heart feels hallow, empty, as if he's missing out on being a part of everyone's lives. He wishes he could join them in their happiness, celebrate his own successes, but he's a nobody, a good for nothing bum who can't land a job interview. He's better off leaving this world and entering the next. Who needs someone like him to take up space for those who are more talented than him, more ambitious, more go-getters.

He sucks in a deep breath and tenses as claws wrap around his arms. The hairs on his neck rise as he feels something grow closer and closer to him until he can feel their hot, sticky breath slap against his neck. His stomach tightens as he tries to remember if he's dreaming or not. It feels like he's fallen into one of his nightmares. He practically hears the scratchy jazz music thump in his chest, vibrating in his heart, and turning his blood inky black. Even the cackling voice of the Oni sounds real.

"Why don't you just do it, Soul-boy?" the demon asks. "Kill yourself. Take your own life. It'll make Wes' life a hell of a lot easier without you to worry about. Think about how much happier he'll be."

The corners of Soul's mouth turn up into a wicked grin as he says, "It would, wouldn't it?"

"It's not like he'll miss you. So why not do it? You've been wanting to do it for a long time, haven't you?"

"I have."

"It's not like you have anyone else."

"I don't."

"Everyone else is moving on in their lives. They have families, careers, happiness. They've all forgotten little Soul, the musician who never was. None of them will care if you kill yourself. None of them will even notice. You'll disappear from this planet completely. How good does that sound?"

"Wonderful."

"So do it," the demon purrs, and a chill runs down Soul's spine like a spiders web. It's cold and tingly, spreading dread across his body as it goes. "Kill yourself."

A buzz on the table next to him startles Soul awake. He glances around the kitchen in a mad frantic in search for the demon or any sign of someone else in the apartment, but finds no one. It's still only him. His heart pounds in his chest as he relaxes against the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. So it indeed was a dream.

The chill and dread running through his body still remains, though.

Along with the idea the demon planted in his brain which scares Soul more than he'd like to admit. It's been so long since he's thought of suicide and actually wanted to do it. Years, in fact. Since he had started seeing a therapist and taken medication for his depression and anxiety.

Soul's phone buzzes again, drawing his attention to where it lays on the table a few feet from him. He reaches it to see two texts from Liz. One asks if he's alright while the other asks if he's even awake.

He doesn't respond as he gets up, gathers his things, and leaves.


Wes' first client of the day is someone he's worked with for the past year. The youngest client he's had to date since joining the group of psychologists he shares the building with and one of his harder clients. He's a boy of about sixteen whose parents admitted him immediately after a failed suicide attempt via drug overdose merely hours after the hospital discharged him. They had brought him to Wes for two reasons.

The first being Wes' specialty focused on adolescences and young adults. He had spent his undergrad and graduate years reading every article and study that had been done on the age range, and they felt he had the best expertise in the area. The second reason they chose Wes was because they had somehow hoped with his extensive background he could cure their son.

Sadly, that wasn't the case.

There's no curing mental illness. He had told the boys parents that countless of times over the last year after they continuously asked him if their son was better. Mental illness isn't like cancer or the flu. It's something that lives with people forever, something that's sometimes passed down through generations. Their son will never be cured of his depression or the desire to kill himself. His only hope is to learn to live with it, to understand what his brain is thinking, and take the medication his psychiatrist gives him.

But no matter how many times Wes tells the kids parents that, they still push Wes to cure him.

They remind him of another set of parents he knows far too well.

"Alright. Our time's almost up, but I do want to ask you one more question, Andrew," Wes says in his chair across from his client. No desk or table between them. He likes to keep an open environment when seeing young people.

Andrew only stares at him in response so he continues.

"Are you feeling these sessions are helping you?"

"Yeah," Andrew shrugs. "I like talking to you. You actually listen. My mom and dad, they..." he trails off and sighs. "They keep telling me I'll get better and I won't have to keep coming to see you, but seeing you helps me. I haven't thought about suicide since coming here and that makes me happy."

"I'm glad to hear that," Wes says with a sympathetic smile. "I wish I could help your parents, too, but if you ever need me or someone to talk to when you aren't scheduled to, you're more than welcome to drop by. I can make time for you."

"Thank you, Dr. Evans."

"You're welcome." Wes glances at the clock again and stands. "I'll see you next month? Same day, same time?"

"For sure." Andrew shakes his hand before Wes guides him back out to the reception area where his next client sits.

A few hours later, while Wes is on his break, he searches for information packets to give to Andrew's parents to help them understand. Andrew reminds him so much of Soul he can't help to feel the need to assist him with his home life in some way. He's seen first hand what the stress of trying to live up to family members expectations can do to a kid. He saw the way it destroyed Soul, the way his music changed to a more somber and depressing mood. He heard his brother scream in the dead of night after one of his nightmares, saw him struggle with trying to keep up with those around him.

Wes knows how difficult it can be for someone Andrew's age, and he feels it's his duty as his psychiatrist to help him.

Exactly like it's his duty as Soul's brother to help him when he needs it. When Soul is ready to talk and ask for assistance.

After this morning's encounter, he isn't entirely sure when that'll be, if ever.


Soul sits on some rocks in a secluded section of the beach, watching the waves as they kiss the sand before going back out again. The air tastes of salty and humidity, sticking to his skin, but he feels a small sense of ease wash over him. He's always found the ocean calming, soothing from the sound of the waves racing each other to reach land to only drift away once again to the dark blue that goes on for miles and miles. It feels like an endless road lays in front of him. A road he can get lost in and forget about all his troubles as he lets it take him away.

A road he can drown in without anyone finding his body for a long time.

The thought tempts him as he sits there. He can easily walk out into the ocean, let it carry him away, and lose himself beneath her crashing waves without anyone knowing he's gone. There won't be a body until an unlucky fisherman reels him with the their latest catch for the day. No one will know he's gone missing. No one will care. It's the easiest form of suicide he can think of.

It's quick, easy, and clean. There's no blood for someone to clean up, no wounds to hide when they prep his body.

His phone buzzes for the fifth time that day, and Soul pulls it out of his pocket to see another text from Liz. It's in the same format as the other ones she sent him earlier. A generic greeting, a comment about how her day was, and the familiar question he's read over and over since he left the house a few hours ago. How are things with you?

For all intents and purposes, her concern is sweet and touching. It keeps the last glimpse of hope he holds in his heart before the darkness completely consumes him to think someone in his life cares, but that's where it stops. They're still empty words, empty cares, and they can't reach him completely. He's gone, lost. He's walked into the ocean and let it take him to the next life.

He stares back to the ocean, and Soul swears he sees the demon grinning back at him in the reflection of the waves.


A couple days have passed since he saw Andrew when Wes gets a phone call during his lunch break from Liz.

"Glad to hear from you again," he says in greeting. "How long has it been? A week? A month? A year, perhaps?"

"Chill. It's only been two weeks since I last called you. I've been busy with things at the school so I haven't had a chance to call until now."

"What's the occasion? Kids away or are you taking a smoke break on the roof again? What will your boss say when he finds out?"

"Kid'll get over it. Him and his perfectionist ass can handle a little cigarette debris on the roof. It's not like he doesn't come up here anyways."

"My, my, Liz. Aren't you a terrible influence."

"I thought you had a thing for the wild types," she says, her smug grin practically shining in her voice.

"Are you flirting with me, Miss Thompson," Wes says with a smile. "I have to warn you, I'm at work and these doors aren't exactly sound proof so I'll have to keep my moaning to a minimum."

There's a pause long enough for Wes to be concerned he lost connection with her.

"Sorry, buddy," Liz says with a small sigh, "but I'm kinda with someone already, and last I checked, she's not into the whole threesome thing."

Wes lightly laughs, his smile transforming from smug to genuine happiness for his friend. "Congrats. Is this one serious?"

"Might be. Only been with her for two weeks, but she's pretty damn special." A pause. "Guess you gotta put your dick in someone else now."

"So long as you're happy and she treats you right, I'm willing to sacrifice."

"Good lucking guy like you can probably find a hot piece of ass to screw around with in a heartbeat."

"Won't be as hot as yours," he says smugly.

Liz sighs. It's annoyed, but still has a softness to it he recognizes as flattered. "That's enough shitty mushy stuff and time for the serious shit. I called for a reason."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I called to ask how Soul's doing. He isn't answering any of my texts or calls, and I'm worried. Is he still good?"

Wes sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

Soul hasn't changed much since a couple days ago. He still mopes around the house, hasn't showered since Saturday, and refuses to eat a single thing. Wes had to push him to the bathroom to get him to brush his teeth and put water in his hair so it looked somewhat decent compared to the tangled mess it was in when he woke up. His brother's slow decline into depression is obvious, and Wes knows what it looks like better than anyone. If Soul keeps it up, he isn't going to do much better.

"He went off his meds," Wes tells her somberly.

"Shit," Liz hisses. "I knew there was something fucked up going with him when we met a while back, but he didn't tell me anything. Why the fuck did he go off his meds? He knows better."

"Your guess is as good as mine. Soul isn't exactly on speaking terms with me right now, either. Every time I ask him about his therapy sessions and his medication, he pushes me away. I've even asked if he's doing okay."

"And what does he say?"

"The same thing normal Soul says."

Another pause falls between them.

"Do you think it's worse compared to last time this happened?" Liz asks after a while.

He remembers the time Liz is talking about, back when they were in college together.

Back when she found him in his room in tears because the stress of his first semester in college wasn't something he had anticipated. Back when their parents were lecturing Soul every day about how his pursuit of being a music teacher was idiotic and he'll never make money off it. Back when Wes wasn't around to help him. It had been Liz who helped push him to realize he needed help and guidance to be better and get through college.

Now, it's Wes' turn.

"I'm not entirely sure, to be truthful with you," he tells her. "But I'm watching him, and I'm making sure he doesn't go to the deep end."

"Don't let him leave us, Wes," Liz says. Her voice is broken, cracked, and his own heart pains at the sound of it. "Promise me that, okay?"

"I promise."


Later that night when Wes arrives home, he finds Soul sprawled on the couch in nothing but his sleep pants. He smells a faint scent of body odor mixed with pizza as he walks into the apartment and wrinkles his nose. Soul doesn't take notice to him as he sets his keys in the bowl they keep by the door or when he takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat hanger. He doesn't even budge when Wes rests on the couch next to him.

Wes takes the moment to observe him, notice how he stares at the TV without soaking anything in. He looks like a corpse, and Wes almost thinks he's walked into an opening episode of The Walking Dead if it isn't for the slight rise and fall of Soul's chest.

"You doing okay, little brother?" Wes asks, startling Soul out of whatever daze he had been.

Soul breathes in heavily through his nose, blinking a few times as he looks at Wes back to the TV, and runs a hand through his greasy hair.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seemed a little out of it there for a while. I wanted to make sure you're still part of the land of the living."

His brother's eyes shift quickly at the word living. A habit Wes is familiar with.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just thought I was part of a zombie movie when I walked in you were so spaced out." To lighten some of the tension, Wes says, "You haven't started taking weed, have you?"

"Fuck you. You know I haven't touched that shit in years."

Wes puts his palms out in surrender. "Not saying I would blame you. It's good stuff. All I would say is be careful and only smoke in the house. You can't really trust cops nowadays."

"Thanks, but I'm not taking drugs."

"Not any?" Wes pauses before saying, "Not even the ones your doctor prescribes you?"

He doesn't say anything.

Instead, Soul stands up and heads toward his room. "I'm going to bed. Night."

"It's barely six o'clock," Wes says.

"Yeah, and I'm tired," Soul mutters under his breath loud enough for Wes to hear.

"At least take a shower later, okay? You stink."

There's no response save for the closing Soul's bedroom door, and Wes sighs. Soul isn't okay, but there is't anything he can do to help when his brother insists on pushing him away. He's helpless when he gets like this.


The dream tonight is one he's familiar with.

Soul wakes to see himself sitting at a black grand piano sitting in the middle of a stage. The black curtains are pulled tightly in front of him, but he can still hear the crowd muttering in loud whispers on the other side. Near the edge of the stage, he sees Wes talking to their parents, their faces are shrouded in darkness but from their body language Soul can tell what they're talking about isn't good. He can guess what the conversation is about; the same one his brother argued about with them for years, a whole decade.

His brother is defending him and telling their parents how much help Soul needs.

It's the same thing every time he relives this nightmare.

Glancing around him, Soul searches for the demon. He checks for an imprint of the imps face on the curtains, somewhere hiding in the shadows grinning for him, up on light fixtures controlling the strings attached to Soul, but comes up empty. The imp is nowhere to be found. Odd considering this is the little demons favorite nightmare Soul has and always seems to make an appearance.

He doesn't have long to mull it over as the curtains draw back to reveal the audience. They stare at Soul, he stares back, someone coughs, and a murmuring slowly starts from the front and flows toward the back. Soul turns his gaze on his parents; his brother has long since disappeared. His parents wave their hands to egg him on, telling him it's time to play, and Soul rests his hands over the ivory keys. The same keys he's played for years upon years, but a heavy dread sits in the pit of his belly this time because they won't like his music.

It's changed; he's changed.

Still, that doesn't prevent him pressing down on the first chord. A G minor, a rouse to have the audience believe he's sane and controlled, and expect him to play Mozart's finest symphony he's practiced for the last few months. But the chords that follow are not the ones of Mozart's 40th Symphony. They're one's Soul has written himself over the last few months while he was cooped up in his room dealing with the worse of his depression.

The music he plays is evil and demonic, rising in pitch the further he goes along and growing more and more sinister with each passing second. Soul feels the chords vibrate in his fingers as they fly across the keyboards, his back slowing hunching over as he feels himself falling into the madness. His song is the product of a nightmare when demons and monsters take over the night, rising from the ground as the devil himself encourages them to ride and create chaos over the world. He doesn't need to see his parents face to know they're horrified. How can their precious son perform something so evil?

Easily, he thinks.

Since of course his music is the result of their own mischoosings and pressures.

As he grows near the climax of the song, Soul feels an evil presence crawl on stage behind him. He feels the stage cave in as the creature takes tentative steps toward him, feels its hot, sticky breath fill the air around him. The audience doesn't acknowledge it with gasps nor screams. It's a creature that's come for him and solely for him. Soul gladly welcomes it.

His hands halt in their playing as something grabs a hold of his back and drags him down, but rather than the floor, Soul is met with inky blood similar to the one from his previous nightmare. It wraps around his chest like spiderwebs, thin, and pulls him into a gaping hole where the demons stomach should be. Soul's mouth opens in a silent scream as he falls back, back into the darkness; his lungs fill with the black blood making it difficult for him to breath. He's suffocating, dying.

The last thing he sees is the imps grinning face, those hollow pupils gleaming as Soul succumbs to the inevitable.


Soul wakes crying.

Hot tears roll down his cheeks as he blinks himself awake. His heart aches in his chest and he feels pressure sitting on top of him while he lays there and lets them flow on their own accord. Crying helps, though he doesn't know why he's crying. Maybe it's because the stress and pressure he's been holding within himself this last month has become too much or maybe it's a result of the impending doom he faces if he doesn't change something. Whatever it is, the crying helps.

He feels the tension slowly leave his body with each wracking sob that escapes passed his lips. The fears he had felt before going to bed dissipate within the tears and his body shakes off the stress. It's a relief, really, to feel this way. It reminds him he's human and real and alive. It reminds him he does still feel pain and lonesome and has emotions that are real. He's real. Where he's at right now is real; this isn't a dream or a daydream or some twisted form of reality. This is a real, true, and emotional thing he's undergoing currently, and it hurts.

It hurts so good.

After a while, once the crying has calmed down, Soul crawls out of bed and goes to the bathroom where he washes his face and looks at himself in the mirror. Red rims around the pupils of his eyes making him look more demonic than normal or like someone's shitty devil Halloween costume, but it's still him. He still has his white, bedhead induced hair, the oblique scar over his chest, and his razor sharp teeth. There are no scratches on his arms, no cuts or bruises; no sign of abuse or harm.

But a part of him still feels empty.

"God, you're one fucked up kid, aren't you?" he mutters to himself. Sighing, he says, "And you need help."

The word sits thick and heavy over his heart as he says it. Help. He's been sustaining his downward spiral by himself for far too long, and he needs help from those who offer it to him.


Wes watches as Soul slinks around the apartment the next day. Calculates the way he moves and keeps a keen eye on him without alerting his brother to his presence. He studies his brother's face, noting the black circles outlining the underside of his eyes, the way they droop more than normal, and he finally decides to fuck it all. Fuck waiting for his brother to come to him and ask for help. Fuck sitting around doing jack shit to help his brother. Forcing someone to listen to him isn't exactly the ideal tactic a therapist should go about when treating a patient, but this is his brother, dammit.

And he'll be damned if he has to make funeral arrangements for his twenty-one year old brother.

"Let's go for a ride," Wes announces. He grabs the spare house key to their Gran's house and turns and smiles at his brother. "How about we get away for the day. Leave city life and enjoy Gran's garden for a bit? You'd like that, right?"

Their Gran's house, specifically her garden, had always been a sanctuary for Soul. When their parents would fight and argue with the elderly woman about the proper way to care for their sons (mostly Soul), the garden was the one place Wes knew he would find his brother, and it never surprised him. The flowers the woman grew and planted were done with love and sunshine. She cared for each one by hand, took the time to water them, and had even shown Soul how to care for his own section of the garden where red anemones grew in abundance.

Wes hopes seeing the garden and Soul's flowers again will help his brother.

Soul lazily lifts his gaze to meet his brothers and shrugs.

"Come on. It'll be good for you," Wes says, and he drags Soul out of the house and into their car.


Soul presses his face against the window as he watches the trees roll by in a green blur.

He has a feeling he knows why Wes suddenly decided to drive up to their Gran's house, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead he stays cooped up in his head, replaying the last month over and over in his head, viewing the decay of his mind. The way his depression worsened over time. It all plays inside his head like an old movie reel from the 1920's, blending into the background of the trees, and it's time for him to come clean with his brother.

Especially when Wes is going to the effort of taking him to the one place that makes Soul happy.

And if he can't trust his brother to help him, who can he trust?

The car comes to a halt in the driveway, the gear shift clicking into place as it's placed in park, and Wes sighs. Soul slowly pushes himself from the window to look at his brother who's smiling wide at him.

"Haven't been here in a long time, huh? Since before you graduated college," Wes says in a poor attempt to make conversation. "You excited to see the garden?"

"I guess," Soul shrugs.

Wes nods and unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door. Soul doesn't do the same, though, and stops his brother from stepping out and leaving him there.

"Are you proud of me?" Soul asks, not making eye contact with Wes.

There's a short pause between them before he hears the driver side door close and the squeaking of the seat as Wes faces him.

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm proud of you. Why wouldn't I be?" Wes asks.

"Because I still haven't found a job, and I've been spending the past year mooching off you. You're paying for me to continue living." Soul swallows. "Isn't it kinda a burden?"

"Soul," Wes says after a moment, placing his hand on his brother's shoulder, "I know you're trying to find a job, and I know how hard it can be. Do you think I got to where I'm at straight out of college? I didn't. I had to sleep on my friends couches for a good two months before I finally landed something. And I know the same is true for you. You'll find something eventually."

"That's the problem, though." Soul stares at the dashboard as he says, "I don't want to wait for an eventually. I want something now. Everyone I went to college with have careers ahead of them, and I feel like I'm stuck in the same place, mooching off my brother because he's too kind for his own good. I feel like everyone is judging me because they know I'm not successful. Soul Evans the college graduate who can't find a job like the rest of his family because they disowned him. The family fuck up and disappointment."

"You're not a-"

"But that's what it feels like." Soul faces his brother and fights back the last remnants of tears stinging his eyes. "It feels like everyone's judging me and laughing at me behind my back. Like they're encouraging me to screw up and end up sad and alone, and I hate it. I just want to feel like I belong in this stupid society and be a helping hand in it… I'm tired of feeling like a fuck up."

Another pause falls between them.

The car is completely silent, but the birds chirping outside and the low whistle of the trees can still be heard, and Soul feels a calm ease over him at the sound.

"I know it's hard to see it right now, but things are going to get better," Wes says. His face is more somber than before, more serious. "You just gotta hold on which I know is tough right now for you to believe, but you gotta trust me when I say you're gonna survive this. I know you hate seeing your friends be successful and live their lives, but you're gonna get there one day. It's just taking a little more time for you. You aren't gonna feel like a fuck up forever, and if it's any consolation, I don't think you're a burden. You're a kid straight out of college who's seeing that it isn't as easy as your professors made it seem, and that's okay."

Wes gives Soul's should a gentle squeeze, and the calm Soul felt before washes over him. Something hot slides down his cheek. When he goes to brush it off, Soul is surprised to find its wet.

"Just know that however long it takes you, no matter how many times you feel worthless and insignificant, I'm always gonna be here for you. I won't desert you like our parents did. I love you, Soul. You know that, right?"

Soul turns his face away as another tear rolls down his cheek and he sniffs. A weird sense of love and adoration falls over him, and he feels silly for even believing Wes didn't care before. Wes his brother, the one who didn't turn his back on Soul when he went to a public university rather than Juilliard like his parents had wished, and not once tried to push Soul away when he needed help. He's always been there for Soul. Either standing in the shadows while he performed a song or in the audience; Wes never gave up.

"Come on. Let's go see the garden. I heard Gran finished that pond she told you about last year. The one by the flowers you had planted forever ago."

He can only nod in response, not trusting his voice.

His brother opens the driver side door and exits.

Before he closes it, Soul says, "Thank you, Wes."


Gran's pond is beautiful. It sits right on the edge of where the anemones he planted when he was fifteen are, the red petals reaching out over the water and exposing the white and purple middles. He remember when his Gran gave them to him she had said they were like tiny versions of Soul. The red for his eyes, white for his hair, and purple for his devotion.

A koi fish comes to the surface of the pond, and Soul smiles.


Soul ends up applying for the position at the school where Liz works at and gets it after an interesting interview with the principal Theodore Kidman. Though young to be a principal, he runs the school under a tight schedule and knows his shit and Soul respects him for it. He can be neurotic at times, yes, but Liz promises Soul Kid isn't so bad so long as you never call him Theodore. Apparently the guy hates his first name and refuses to go by it. Ever. Another aspect about Soul he can respect considering there are plenty of times he'd rather not be called by his last name.

The school isn't where he ultimately wants to be, but it's a good start.

He feels lighter, happier on the first day of classes, and Wes has assured him plenty of times before things will only go up from here. There are still some nights where he's plagued by nightmares and stays up until five in the morning after enduring one, but they aren't as intense as before. Soul started going back to therapy, asked his doctor to renew his medications, and he started taking them again and the combination of the two (therapy and meds) help him. His journey is far from over, but he knows he'll survive because Wes is there for him every step of the way.

There's always a rainbow after the storm. He only needs to survive and ask for help to see it.

"Welcome to the first day of class," Soul tells his students. "I'm Mr. Evans, and I'll be your new music teacher for the year. Let's make it a good one."