Thanks for your patience, guys. I appreciate it.

This is going to be another short chapter, I think. I also forgot to mention that the story is being told in Ted's point of view. Going to slip some dialogue in there and give some insight on the relationships and interactions with Ted and his family. If you have any suggestions, please send me a message. I'd like to hear what you have to say. And don't forget to review!

Enjoy the story, ok? I'll be off typed the next chapter if you need me.

Chapter 2

I'll need to do what I do best. But first, homework.

My family is an eclectic bunch, to say the least. A small portion of them aren't even relatives but security guards and staff I've known since I was a toddler. Gail, for example, or Mrs. Gail (to show my respect). She's one of the sweetest old ladies you will ever meet. Not like a great grandmother that you needed to put into a home, but more like an aunt or old babysitter, smothering but not the unwelcomed kind of smothering. When I get back to the house, which is at about half past three, she greets me with her usual smile, questions about my day and what I learned (out exchanges are brief, but not socially inadequate) and a snack of some kind. Ants on a log, oatmeal raisin cookies, peanut butter and chocolate chips sandwiched between two apple rings- it's the kind of stuff you would feed kids, but no good ever came from letting Mrs. Gail's food go to waste. That day I think she had. . . oven baked strawberry slices? Yeah, I think so. Really tasty, better than candy. I'd take that to the couch and work on whatever worksheets or papers that need to be filled out for about five minutes until the lazy furball we know as Mooch decides to say "Hello" too.

All over my open textbook.

Ok, let me explain. Mooch is the tabby cat we keep. He meows like a chirping bird, but he got his name because he always used to pester my Dad for some of his lunch everyday as a stray kitten. Dad finally brought him to the vet and back here. That was about two years ago. I could push and shove all I want, but Mooch won't stay off unless I lay out a decoy book. He'd purr in his nap and I can proceed in peace.

I'll have gotten the bulk of what I need to finish out of what way (on a good day) by the time my sister Phoebe comes home at a little after five. Now listen to me here: When Phoebe steps in the house, you know she steps in the house. First, you get the stench. Rancid, sweaty, and only worse when she takes off those awful sneakers. After that, she won't say anything other than a curt "Hi" and rummage through either the cabinets or fridge for some kind of deli meat or jerky from her stash. Finally she plops right next to me in the couch and flips the television. Our conversations usually go along these lines:

"Phoebe! Go take a shower!"

"Cool it, Zippy. I'll do it later."

"That's not soon enough- please."

At that point Mooch would promptly leave, probably off to find a place that didn't smell so bad.

"Ted, I'm bushed. Lemme eat and relax and shut your trap before I shut it for you. Capeesh?"

It's usually better to leave when Bee starts to make threats than to keep fighting, but this is about where she stops too since I need to be in one piece as a tutor. To put it simply, our duplicit rivalry has lasted for thirteen years and is not showing any signs of letting up. And it used to be worse. When she was younger, Phoebe actually had some serious anger problems and violent tendencies. Didn't help that she had dyslexia, either, and had a hard enough time sitting still in class as it was. Just about every special education program at school and outside had failed. Phoebe even had to go to therapy for a short time. It didn't really settle down until she started to partake in extracurricular sports. Soccer, basketball, track- you name it, she tried it. The most effective thus far, and the one she keeps up with to this day, is mixed martial arts. She's gotten good. All the boys on her team know her as the "Bright-Eyed Blackout" because of her skill and the gray eyes she inherited from my Dad. Bee's even sparred with him, a kickboxer, on occasion and they're actually more evenly matched that you would think.

At about. . . Mmm, let's say six. At about six Phoebe's finishing up her shower, long, black dyed hair in a towel, donned in her pajamas and trotting down the stairs. I'll be either reading some book, studying or helping Mrs. Gail with dinner. That's when Mom and Dad arrive home. There's at least a five year age gap between them, but they look about the same age. I blame my Dad- he acts so childishly. I don't have a problem with him smiling all the time, but he always pesters me and Phoebe to play games or sit with him when he plays the piano. If not, he usually hangs out with Mom. To put it simply, he's clingy. I find it hard to believe he's the CEO of the family business. Mom's probably the only normal one out of the four of us. Calm, soft-spoken, usually pleasant and cheerful. A little shy, but overall agreeable.

But I can't say I'm complaining. That's my family- I can't really imagine them any other way and be happy with it.

I'm not going to go into too much detail. We'd eat, Dad'll pester me, I'll give in, and it's upstairs to get ready for bed. I'll hear Phoebe snoring from down the hall if my door's open, thankfully overshadowed at some point by the muffled tweeting of the grand piano. It helps me think when I write, actually, at night- the safest time to indulge in the hobbies of my second self. Eventually, after an hour or so of writing, I'll have fallen asleep, ultimately satisfied with my work for that day. And it would be childish to say that I go and dream of all those things I write about, but hey. Cradled in all those blankets, behind a closed door with only the moon to watch you- that's another safe place, maybe the only true one out there. It's ok to dream that stuff because there's no one to see or anyone you have to tell. At least, that's how it feels for me.

Ok, back up. All the way back to dinner time for that day. That was about the time I started doing that research. First off, Ignatius. It's a type of bible used by Catholics, though the most common one is the New American (as well as King James), I think. Simple enough- that guy was Catholic. Maybe. From the looks of it, Catholics also pray a lot to different saints. That explains the tan booklet. He could have been bilingual if enough of those prayers were written in latin- that would have been pretty cool in my opinion.

But how thin he was- that was definitely not normal. I leaned back in the chair and bit my thumb. It looks like fasting is a part of their practices. Or rather, certain diet restrictions on certain holidays, like Lent or the Eucharist, whatever that is. You know: Don't eat meat, but fish is ok? It's more along the lines of abstinence, from what I found. But very rarely is full out starvation- that's the extreme. You're supposed to consult with health professionals and your pastor if you plan on doing that. That eventually lead to Anorexia Mirabilis, something from the middle ages that lead to death. I recalled the guy's words from earlier that day with a sickening dread. ". . . Yesterday morning."

Ok, there has to be something he can eat, right? Or a way to convince him? My research continued until I fell asleep at the computer. I don't think I got to write anything that night. Mom had to wake me up and drag me up to my room.

My dreams had been tainted with skeptical brown eyes and golden letters that night.

FST

Knocking . . .

A long creak. . .

Foot steps. . .

"Ted? Are you alright?"

There was a gentle tapping on my shoulder. Finally I was awake. It must have been at least one in the morning. The only light I could see was from the street lamp outside that seeped through the blinds. Dad was barely visible outside of the faintest outline, but surely standing at the side of my bed. He quickly apologized and said he would leave, but I flipped on the bed lamp before he could leave. Red eyes. Pale skin. Hands up in defense. Backing away. I've seen this before.

"Dad, it's fine. C'mon, on the bed."

There was no smiling, no laughing, no pestering. Not even half a grin. It's times like those that Dad finally looks his age. "I shouldn't have to lean on you like this-"

"I already told you it's fine. On the bed. Tell me about the nightmare."

The silence hung even after he had sat down at the foot. This is something of a common occurrence. Phoebe sleeps like she's in a coma and Dad never likes to wake Mom up, so he comes to me sometimes. There's no way he'll be able to get back to sleep unless I talk it through with him. Sure, he's been put on anxiety medication, but the nightmares still come. Believe me, though, when I say it's gotten better. I remember hearing him scream in the middle of the night multiple times. I never force an answer out of him- it's usually best to be patient. Dad's kind of a private person, but honest to a fault if you give him time and promise to guard his secrets.

". . . It was a crack overdose."

But he still cooks up ridiculous and paranoid thoughts. Last week it was suicide. The week before it was gang activity, then underaged drinking. And before that it was gambling debt and muggers! Sometimes it's just me, sometimes it's my sister or mother, sometimes it's all three of us. But none of these- they just annoy me with how little sense they make.

"We were fighting about something, you and I. It got loud and violent. Can't remember what it was about- hopefully something important. You ran up, slammed and locked the door. . . Ted, I was angry. So angry. I didn't even check on you or apologize. And by the time I did it was too late."

I heard my grandma say that he thinks the worst in everyone, especially himself. It's so true, it's scary. But I guess you couldn't tell that just by looking at him. Putting on a face to keep from troubling anyone unnecessarily- I admire that, except when it gets to extreme extents like this.

"The bathroom door was locked. I had to bust it down myself, even bruised my arm doing it. The white powder was all over the tiles and your clothes. I-I think you were just coming down from a seizure. And I was just. . . just paralyzed. Didn't move, didn't try to wake you up, didn't even breathe- It was my fault, my-"

I think that's all the stupidity I can handle for one night. I usually kick my blanket off at that point and drape it over his shoulders. He accepted it and I explained why that wouldn't happen. "First off, I don't even know where to get drugs like that. And I'm not about to go looking for them. Second, we don't even have the money for that. We either spend it on travel, games, charity or necessities. Not to mention all your nesquik. And third, I figured you would have more faith in me as a responsible individual. You and Mom raised us better than that, remember?"

". . . I can't keep out all those demons, Ted. And believe me, I would if I could. It's a dark world out there, and I'm afraid you'll be all too eager to jump into it."

"I've had health class- I know what's out there and I know better."

Dad turned his head to me with the worn, gray eyes of a veteran. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. "Y-you're right." Dad stood up and cracked his knuckles. "Thanks, Ted. I'll let you sleep- I know you have school tomorrow."

We're not done here. I know you don't want to go back to sleep yet. I hopped off the bed. "C'mon, let's get something to drink. This talk of nesquik made me thirsty."

"Huh? Ted, didn't you just hear-"

"Yes, I did. But I want something to drink. C'mon."

He signs. "Fine, but not for too long."

We sat at the island after that, him with his wine and me with a cup of chamomile tea, and chatted idly, mostly about the upcoming trip for our fall break. I guess since me and Phoebe were old enough, the wealth didn't go into material items so much as it went into rich life experiences. That usually meant good food and family vacations. We only recently started visiting places outside the United States now that we're "of age". Dad was thinking Canada or Alaska, for the natural beauty before everything freezes over. Gradually he calmed down, forgot his wine. The childish light returned to his eyes as he rattled on about whale watching and Glacier Bay. This is right. The norm. You could say it was healthy.

I often wondered how many families were like this: So open and close that the ugliest lows are just as visible as the most radiant highs; Secure and strong enough so that maybe the parents can lean on the kids every now and again, not like dumping chores on them but breaking down and admitting that they don't have every part of life figured out. Or maybe I didn't have any right to say that. After all, I was still the one who hid. The writing habit, the lack of interest in business, my. . . condition. But that was then, the blissful ignorance, the give and take before it had been corrupted by my own burdens. That was the job I happily took upon my shoulders and wouldn't ruin for the world. And if I could keep it that way for such a small price, to help him forget the frivolous worry and give myself a purpose, so be it.

I was the first to yawn. After that half hour of conversation, we had assumed it was best to return to bed. The drinks had been downed, the dishes placed in the washer, and we retired. No other distressed actions or sounds disturbed me for the rest of the night.

FST

These chapters are somewhat impromptu. But please review. We'll see the mystery redhead in the next chapter, don't worry. I appreciate the support. Otherwise, have a good day! :)

-Magician Irono