The last two years have been... very rough. I suffer from recurring depression and anxiety. Not the endless abyss of darkness and tiredness like the commercials like to put it, but more like a horrible roller coaster varying between 'getting better' and 'I suck at living' - which is quite depressing in and of itself. Constantly thinking it's over and then finding it all collapsing in on itself again. I'm currently on a rather nice and pleasant upswing, and I'd like to say I'm 'over it'. But I've thought that before, and I'm trying to be cautious.
I will get over this. I've been through these bouts before (happen every seven years: apparently my dopamine levels came with a set of El Nino calendars) and I've always gotten over them. Never taken two years before, but this has been a particularly bad one. I'm thoroughly sick of it and want it over.
I am only able to write on upswings. You can track when I have them by when I update. :)
Just a reminder that I don't like unfinished fics. No promises on how long they'll take to finish, but I do plan on finishing them. All of them.
Thanks to those who kept bugging me to get this updated. And to HaiJu, whose awesome fics got me thinking in DP mode again. Shorter than I wanted, but it gets the concept in and doesn't need to be longer. And if I keep sitting on it, waiting for the mysterious faeries or my nonexistent beta to come and 'fix' it, you might not see an update until Hell sets up an ice cream shop next to the Pearly Gates. :p
A little out of practice and lacking in a beta. I had my shadow read it over for me, but she sucks at remembering the difference between colons and semicolons. Please let me know of any remaining grammar issues, which I shall fix a-sap.
-Cori
Plunge
A Danny Phantom FanFiction by Cordria
-5:51pm
There was nothing.
No light.
No sound.
No movement.
It was death, in its own way. The end of existence. Unable to look around at an abyss so dark there should be something, unable to feel the complete lack of cold and warmth and touch, unable to hear the silence scream to the heavens. It was nothing and everything all at once.
Danny wasn't afraid. But then again, there wasn't Danny, not really.
The ghost had Danny. The child-like one with the crazy hair. The one that had tried to take over at school. The one that had succeeded in grabbing him at his parents' house, just as Danny was trying to get his parents to see that he wasn't a ghost. The one that was using his body to do anything and everything it wanted.
Danny might have screamed, if he'd existed enough to scream. He might have fought it, if he'd been aware enough to know what fighting was.
But he didn't. He couldn't.
And that was it.
There was nothing.
-8:19pm
Danny woke on the couch of the living room, disoriented and stiff. There was a thick blanket covering him, warm and heavy, and the feel of someone's hand running through his hair. Slowly, his eyes opened.
The living room looked like a bomb had hit. Charred bits were all that remained of a reclining chair, a fire extinguisher lying next to the still-smoking remnants of the old bookcase. The walls were scuffed and darkened in spots, holes torn in others. Several of the lights were broken and non-functioning, putting strange shadows in the familiar room. The smell of burnt ectoplasm lingered in the air.
His pillow moved. Realizing his head was lying in someone's lap, Danny shifted and tried to sit up. His body protested the movement – as did the person running their fingers through his hair. "Stop moving."
The voice was unmistakable. And, now that his brain was processing what happened, the slight smell of musty greenhouses and flowering lilacs filled his nose. "Sam?" Rolling onto his back, leaving his head in her lap, Danny gazed up at his best friend. "What happened?"
She smiled, just a touch, and picked up a Fenton Thermos. It seemed to glow in the evening light. "Ghost. What else happens to you?" Then her smile faded. "Danny…"
Silence fell. She stared at him.
Memories slotting into place. He stared back at the violet-eyed girl. A broken emptiness passed between them. Her fingers reached forwards and brushed at his hair. It sounded crispy and dirty.
"My parents okay?"
There was a nod. "Tucker and I… the ghost alarm on Tucker's phone went off. We were pretty close by. What do you remember?"
Danny shrugged. His eyes drifted towards the disaster left in the living room, then flickered towards the partly-open kitchen door. Soft voices came from beyond. His eyes closed again. He didn't want to think about it. "There was a ghost. Some little girl with hair. Everything is kind of blank."
"Your mom had the ghost trapped in the corner when we got here. Your dad… he was holding you down. You were screaming at him, fighting him, trying to get away. Tucker sucked the ghost into a Thermos and everything got really quiet." Sam stopped talking. Her fingers stopped moving through his hair.
Danny glanced up at her. "What?"
"Why did you tell them?" Her voice was soft. Barely audible.
Sitting up, ignoring the protesting of his muscles and the tensing of Sam's fingers, Danny stretched his muscles. He focused his attention on his fingernails, noticing that one of them needed to be cut. "It's complicated," he whispered. "I ran out of options."
A hand touched his shoulder and Danny squirmed out from underneath. "Danny." Exasperation colored her voice. "You did the right thing."
Danny glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "You think so?"
She pushed a lock of her frizzy hair behind her ear. A tiny gold earring gleamed and a little smirk settled onto her face. "I know so. You always end up doing the right thing, Danny, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. It's one of those 'things' I've just gotten used to."
"Lancer knows too."
"Figured, being that he was-" Sam broke off, shaking her head.
"He was what?" Danny glanced towards the kitchen door, then back.
Sam bit her lip and looked away. "Your mom," she hesitated. "After we caught the ghost she kind of spun around and looked ready to attack you. Lancer was the one who stepped in front of her."
"She thinks I'm a ghost." It hurt to say.
There was the sound of a chair squeaking in the kitchen, probably having been pushed away from the table quickly. Footsteps. Someone had gotten up, was pacing. Louder voices, but still unintelligible. Danny turned his attention to the door, tensing. Every fiber in his body was focused, expecting the door to move, to swing open, to admit people with questions. With accusations. With demands for answers to questions he couldn't even start to answer.
The door didn't move.
Slowly, Danny's body relaxed. "When did I turn human?"
"You were human when I got here. Did you show… your parents?"
Nodding, Danny finally tore his eyes away from the kitchen door. He turned back to Sam, whose face was a picture of sympathy and worry. Quietly, he reached out and picked up the simmering Thermos. He could feel the ghost curled up inside. Volatile, full of energy, prickling with potential. The sensation against his hands was a distraction from the curling in his stomach. "They all in there?" The thought of what was in the kitchen, waiting, made his eyes burn.
"Yep." Silence. "You going to go talk to them?"
A swirl of energy scrambled up his arm, making the muscles in his shoulder twitch. The energy inside of Danny's body responded, reaching upwards with a chilling sensation that sent a shiver down his back. The increase of energy in his body called to the ghost in the Thermos – a quiet cycle of building power that thrummed in Danny's mind.
"Danny?"
The Thermos was taken from his hands. Danny glanced up at his best friend. His eyes blinked a few times as his brain focused back on what was going on around him.
"I think you need to talk to them," Sam said softly, cradling the Thermos in an elbow.
Danny looked towards the kitchen door again. It was simple and brown. Light gleamed around the edge, casting a strange L-shaped glow on the floor. His stomach clenched. His leg bounced up and down. His fingers tapped and tapped and tapped against his knee.
"Danny."
A hand grabbed his moving fingers, warm and soft, and pulled. Danny followed the hand, gliding to his feet. Sam's body was against his side, holding him up while his protesting muscles adjusted to the idea of standing. Danny glanced back at the couch, at the messy folds of the thick quilt someone – probably Sam – had dug out of a closet. He wanted to sit back down, to bury his head in a pillow, to ignore the kitchen.
But Sam's hand was tight around his and her forward movement was endless and persistent. His feet shuffled, shifted, and then moved to follow. Sam pushed against the kitchen door, pulling them onto the old linoleum.
Silence.
-8:42pm
Four people sat at the kitchen table, their attention momentarily focused on the two newcomers. Danny's father had his arm around his wife's shoulders, holding her close. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest; a blank look on her face as she sat slumped in a chair against her husband. Lancer was leaning forwards, his arms crossed and limp on the table, sitting next to the only teenager at the table. Tucker's eyes were red, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, not willing to look up.
"Danny," his father welcomed, his voice soft and cracked. A dark bruise was blossoming under one of the large man's eyes, scratches and scrapes along his arms. The curiosity, the interest, that had sparkled in his gaze was gone. It had been replaced by an empty deadness. "Feeling better?"
His mother shifted. Her eyes were dark. Her arms tensed, fingers digging into her arms.
Danny stared at his father. His eyes couldn't seem to stop tracing over the cuts and specks of blood. He didn't remember – the ghost made sure of that – but Danny knew. He knew who had caused all that.
The knowledge hurt. It made his heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vice. His body moved, trying to back up, trying to get away from the sight of what he'd done.
"Danny, come sit down." It was Lancer. His voice calm and commanding, but with a stressed tone. Obviously the person who was trying to keep a lid on a tense situation.
Danny's eyes flicked over to Tucker. The teen's shoulders were curled forwards, a broken expression in his eyes. Danny could picture what had happened so easily in his head. Hours of sitting at the kitchen table with his parents, fielding questions, struggling with demanding accusations of wrong-doing.
It should have been Danny sitting there. Not Tucker.
Tucker didn't deserve this.
Danny knew what he should do. He should stalk over there, push Tucker out of the chair, and insist that his parents ask him the questions. Let Tucker go home, or at least let him out of the spotlight. None of this was Tucker's fault.
But Danny couldn't move. His feet felt glued to the floor. The muscles in his stomach and back seemed to be trembling, creating a strange sensation of standing on a waterbed. The shaky feeling spread to his arms and legs.
His mother's night-shaded eyes fixed on his and the floor felt like it was giving way.
Sam pushed at his shoulder, but Danny pushed back. Lancer rose out of his chair – probably to come escort him to a chair. His father's shoulders squared, the rare look of parental authority sparking in his face.
It was all too much. Danny hadn't wanted to do this in the first place, not really. He firmly believed his life was better with his parents in the dark about the whole ghost thing.
He'd screwed up with Lancer, letting the teacher know his secret. He'd allowed the man to logic him into telling his parents. He'd told his parents, only it hadn't gone at all right. His mother was staring at him like death warmed over and his father had been attacked. The ghost…
"Danny, don't!"
Sam's voice was distant, a scream at the empty air. Because Danny couldn't take it anymore. Because he was already gone.
To be continued...