I spent most of work in a daze, shaking with worry as I endured my shift. I felt clumsy as I prepared the dishes, unable to shake this extremely uncomfortable, antsy feeling. The meals I sculpted came and went, my arms programmed to stir and sprinkle while my mind was clouded with so many thoughts that I couldn't make a single one out. My lack of sleep was really starting to catch up with me, and I probably should have taken the day off. But there was nothing I hated more than missing work, no matter how exhausted I was.

By the time work was over, I was about ready to pass out. But I tried to contain my drowsiness as I exited the restaurant and spotted Kai sprawled across the bench. The bottoms of his bare feet were black with dirt, but his outfit was a fresh, clean white. He was dressed up to party, but I just couldn't. Not tonight.

"Steve!" he shouted, as if calling to me from a distance. "I've been waiting for you. Do you feel like hitting The Grind tonight? That's where everyone seems to be."

"Not tonight," I sighed. "I don't feel well."

Kai sat up on the bench and stared at me like I was nuts. "What do you mean? Are you sick or something?"

"No," I replied. "I haven't been able to sleep recently. Right now, I just want to go home."

Kai quickly stood up and approached me. "Is something wrong? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. "But for now, I think I should be heading back to my apartment. I just need some peace and quiet, and maybe a month-long nap."

Kai nodded and gave me a firm pat on the back. "Suit yourself. I'll tell you what you missed."

My friend was in his car and speeding down the road in a heartbeat. I shrugged it off and got into my car, then spent my entire commute home struggling to concentrate on the road. I somehow managed to not fall asleep behind the wheel and make it back to my apartment complex, so I rode the elevator up to the twenty-second floor and sleepily fumbled with my keys. But just as I got the right key into the lock, I heard a crash.

I gasped and groaned practically at the same time and thrust the door open. I was shocked to find that most of my apartment had been trashed. The coffee table in front of the couch had been flipped over, and the potted plant on top of it had spilled across the carpet. The curtains blanketing the windows hand been torn down and were in several heaps against the walls. Many kitchen appliances such as pots and plates looked like they had been thrown out of the kitchen. I heard noises coming from there, so I decided to investigate. On my way over, I happened to step in a wet spot on the carpet, and the slight stench told me that it probably wasn't water.

"Ugh, gross!" I snarled. I continued my way to the kitchen where I was greeted by a strong and worrying yet surprisingly delicious odor. I peered into the kitchen to notice that the cabinets were open and empty. A puddle of water spread across the floor and emanated from a pile of broken glass that was once a fishbowl, which I guessed was the source of the crash. The goldfish flailed and flopped about on the floor, and Chuck sat shivering in the corner with his arms drawn in behind his knees. Red streaks were smeared across the linoleum around him, and I knew from the smell that it was plasma.

My mouth watered at the smell, but I was also furious. I stormed over to Chuck and crouched beside him, growling his name. When he looked up at me, he was crying. I wanted to feel bad for him, but rage from my destroyed apartment coupled with my tired crankiness made for a highly unstable combination.

"Let me see," I demanded forcefully, holding my hand out to observe what was bleeding. Chuck stared me in the eye for a split second before his expression grew panicked and he began flailing violently.

"N-No!" he shrieked. "I'm sorry! I'll be good! Don't hurt me, Father!"

This only made me angrier if anything, but I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. "Chuck, I'm not your father. No one's going to hurt you."

Chuck stopped flailing, but continued to whimper in agony. I wanted to read his mind and see if there was some way I could help, but I was too exhausted to use my powers at that point. I noticed that Chuck's right hand, which now rested on the floor, was the source of the plasma. I gently reached over and wrapped my fingers around his wrist, then pulled his arm closer to me to survey the damage. Chuck jolted and squeaked in fright, but did not snap out of the episode he was apparently having. I looked his hand over and observed that a few fragments of glass had gotten lodged in his flesh. Despite the bleeding, his hand didn't look like it needed stitches, and I decided to use some home remedies. Besides, I was in no condition to take him to the hospital.

I let go of his hand and stood up. "I'll be right back, okay Chuck?"

Chuck's whimpering had faded into a whisper, but he didn't respond. I quickly decided to save my goldfish and filled a glass of water, then scooped up the fish and dropped him in. After that was taken care of, I wasted no time in rushing to the bathroom. I opened up the MediCabi and withdrew a pair of tweezers and a roll of gauze. I rushed back to Chuck's aid and took his arm again, then began the tedious task of trying to remove the glass shards.

"Augh!" Chuck gasped, his eyes flying open. He tried to yank his arm away, but I had a tight grip on it.

"Calm down," I whispered. "I have to get this glass out of your hand. If I can have your cooperation, we'll be done quicker."

It was still difficult to believe that Chuck looked as old as he did. I felt like I was talking to and coaxing a child. It could have been that Chuck was Childish, but even most Childish Sims I knew weren't this far removed from reality, or their age. In fact, Chuck seemed a bit animal-like when I first found him. I could only imagine it was from his life in the alleyways, on top of his crippled past. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if Chuck's infantile behavior was the result of him not having a childhood.

"Alright, I think I got it all," I mumbled sleepily as I surveyed his hand one last time.

Chuck fell silent and glanced hesitantly at his hand as I wrapped it in gauze. Once I had taped it up sufficiently, he flexed his fingers as if testing out the new sensation.

I felt ready to pass out, but I still had to clean up some of what I assumed was Chuck's mess. I grabbed a mop and began cleaning the linoleum of water and plasma, instructing Chuck to move out of the way. He crawled out of the corner I was cleaning and reunited with his raccoon doll, which I had just noticed on the other side of the kitchen.

When I had at long last finished cleaning the kitchen, I could barely stand up. I stumbled into my bedroom and flopped onto my bed, apathetic toward my unchanged clothes and lack of bed sheets. I would have made a bed out of the floor if I had to.

Just as I was about to fall asleep, Chuck approached me with eyes full of questions. At first I was extremely frustrated, but now that I was lying down, I didn't feel quite as drained, and I could probably hold off a little longer.

"Are you mad?" Chuck asked, his voice high and shaky. "Are you going to...to hurt me?"

"No, Chuck," I replied. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just...I'm in a horrid mood tonight, and I really didn't have to come home to a trashed apartment."

"I'm sorry," he squeaked, growing steadily more nervous. "I...I got scared."

I turned my head weakly to face Chuck. "What on Earth scared you? And how did it drive you to wreck my living space?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, flinching with guilt for his crime. "I...I see things sometimes. Scary things. Y-You wouldn't understand. No...No one does."

"What kinds of things do you see?" I asked curiously.

"Bullwhips," he replied. "And plasma. My plasma. I hear my father. He says he's going to h-hurt me. He says I'm worthless."

"You see your father in visions?" I asked. "Is that it?"

"I guess," Chuck replied. "But I don't know it's a vision. It...It really seems like he's there. I did the only thing I f-felt like I could do: I...I threw stuff at him. T-Tried to ward him off."

"That must be why my apartment's a mess," I mumbled, more to myself than Chuck. But I redirected my attention to him quickly. There was one more thing I had to address with him immediately. "Chuck, did you pee on my carpet?"

"Um..." Chuck paused for a moment. "Y-Yes, I guess I did."

I sighed. "Please don't, okay?"

Chuck's expression became nervous again, and he hugged his raccoon to his chest. "Well, w-what am I supposed to do? I can't...I can't hold it. N-Not for very long, anyway."

I stared dumbfounded at the boy. "There's a toilet in the bathroom over there. Why can't you use that?"

Chuck stared in the direction in which I pointed. "Oh, oh yeah. T-Toilet. Okay. I...I forgot about that."

That was when I realized just how much the abnormalities of Chuck's life affected him. Obviously he had been living out on the streets for quite some time, and he could urinate wherever he pleased. But if he had to be reminded what a toilet was, he must have been out there longer than I could have ever imagined. It was probably some extreme miracle that he managed to stay alive all this time.

"You're sleepy," Chuck observed as my eyes fluttered, begging to close.

I hummed. "Very much so."

"I'll...I'll let you sleep," Chuck whispered, backing away from my bed. "And I'll sleep, too."

I saw Chuck leave my room just as my eyes closed and my exhaustion dragged me into unconsciousness.