So I don't think anyone's had a shiver run through their body as hard as I did when I finally re-wrote this chapter. Four months after the crash and I finished it, can you believe it? I'm back in the game, bitches :D

This is one of the many chapters that I'm excited to put out (not only because the last time I updated was back at the dawn of time) but because of the material, what happens at the end of it. It's very personal and sensitive to me (I'm sure you'll figure out why) and I really need to know what you think of it.

WARNING: THIS IS AN EXTREMELY DARK-THEMED CHAPTER. THE WRITING IS DARKER AND HEAVIER THAN THE REST OF THE STORY, BOTH GFN AND THIS ONE. KEEP THAT IN MIND WHEN YOU GET TO BRANDON'S RESERVED SECTION.

Enjoy :]

Chapter 29 – A New Release

There was a chill in the air that night, the moonlight cutting through the windows' glass without an ounce of concentration. The darkness of the living room's atmosphere wasn't unusual, but the tension was. It was as if a horrifying murder had just been committed and the killer was just waiting for someone who already knew to find the body. Once they did, they would be scarred forever.

Gabriella was that witness, in her own house to make things worse. She couldn't feel her feet trudging up the stairs to inspect the running water that could be heard from the second floor. She was numb all over, everywhere. The only sense of life that she felt was through her foggy vision. It was just like a dream, but one that belonged to some sort of psychic…

Her legs must have been shaking, for she couldn't see straight for more than two seconds. Why was she nervous? There really wasn't a dead body hanging from the ceiling, was there? Surely Brandon would protect her from any type of physical or psychological harm, no matter how psycho he acted at the time. Her stomach plummeted at the thought of his name, accompanying her first fear with an equal amount of terror.

She stepped and turned like a robot until she found herself in front of Brandon's bathroom door. The air was getting colder. Gabriella viewed her hand in front of her face and before she could absorb her actions, the door was open. She stepped inside and scaled the room for another sign of her brother's presence, but came up short. Trying her best to ignore the rusty air, she noticed his clothes weren't kicked to a pile in the corner and his pajama bottoms weren't hanging beside his towel like they usually were. But the water was still running. If Gabriella could feel her face, she knew that it would be twisted with confusion and slight disgust when the bloody scent increased.

There was something there, though, normal and abnormal at the same time. Through the translucent shower curtain, sitting against the tiled floor was a large, black mass. The first words that came to her mind were trash bag but it was too abstract in shape. The more reasonable guess was to say a human being, but it wasn't even colored like one. The 'skin' would have to be the chalkiest white and solid, like frozen plastic. The broad shoulders that were used to standing tall and proud were now slumped, hunched over in some sort of defeat. Her heart was harshly pulled into a thrilling vice. Why did this position seem so familiar to her?

If this was indeed someone slouched on Brandon's shower floor, that would call for limbs: arms and legs. Gabriella didn't pay any attention to the legs underneath this body, but the thick arms lying at his sides. They seemed loose, unable to support even the lightest feather or—in this case—droplet of water from the showerhead above. On the left arm of the stranger was an unusual defect; a dark thin line that ran from what appeared to be an elbow to the drain of the shower. The further away it got from the limb, the wider and more crimson it became.

It was getting too cold to just stand there and do nothing about this confusion that's consumed her dream-like body (and the odor of blood was turning unbearable) She had to find out what—or who—this was and why it was there taking up room in her brother's personal space. Her vision was the only way she had any sense of knowing that she was stepping forward towards the curtain; touching or feeling anything was out of the question since the beginning.

Gabriella raised her pale hand in front of her eyes and gripped a handful of the plastic for a few slow seconds. Was it just her imagination, or was she listening to the steady rhythm of an anxious heart beating?

Thump, thump, thump, more time went by. Thump, thump, thump...if she couldn't feel anything, what was the pounding sensation electrifying her chest?

Thump…thump…thump…they were getting slower and slower…

Thump…

Her heart slammed against her chest one last time before a shockwave ignited her arm and snapped her arm back, bringing the shower curtain with it…

Gabriella jerked awake, tearing Troy's arms from around her waist. The bed quivered from her alarmed spasms, but she was far too traumatized to care—much less attempt to stop them or the icy sweat oozing from her pores. That in itself would tell Troy that she'd had a nightmare when he woke up, but that wasn't what her mind was focused on.

Why was she so scared? She wasn't even positive that the shower heap was Brandon or not. It wasn't like this was a nightmare that a mind filled with Brick's face usually caused. She found it ridiculous that she even considered the stranger to be Brandon, like he would just sit in the freezing shower like a freak waiting to die or something. He wasn't even depressed. He was filled to the brim with a rage that was so much stronger than anything Gabriella's ever seen. He and Isabelle must still be fighting, she thought to herself sadly. It's almost been a whole week. When is enough finally enough for madness?

Gabriella sighed and held her head in her hands. She felt Troy moan and squirm beside her at the sudden withdraw of her body against him. He'd be fine for a few minutes. She had to come up with a way to reunite the two long distance lovers before Brandon went insane, the anger eating him alive from the inside out. She had to talk to him tomorrow.

Her hazel eyes lifted to Troy's window overlooking half of the street. She could see that her mother's bedroom light was off, but Brandon's held something peculiar. A small, repetitive flash flickered again and again through the curtain of his window. She felt bad about not being there with him, trying to pry the issue out of him like they normally tried to do with each other, but Troy was much easier to comfort in these situations. He was always the one who was more selfless in his tirades and had the best vision for the bigger picture, not just his half of the story.

Although when it came to his cousin's safety and well-being—which could've been kept with her boyfriend—he was as blind as he ever was. The Bolton-Montez war was on again and no one was sure how to end it this time. Like Gina had said months before, there was no insane gym teacher to blame now.

As for Gabriella, she didn't know what or who to believe. Isabelle had gotten intimate with someone, that much was obvious. The question was how and why. She could've gotten sick of the unbearable distance, as Brandon believed, and cheated on him. It would make sense. Long distance relationships were never easy no matter how in love the couple was in. But not Isabelle. She was way too sweet and loving to hurt someone that badly, especially her perfect boyfriend. The other thing that didn't make sense was why Greystone? How could Josh get up there to begin with? He was locked up and far too stupid to figure a way out.

So Brandon's idea was out.

That left Troy's theory. Someone had forced themselves onto Izzy and raped her, making sure that Brandon heard just enough to assume her of cheating. That would make sense, too, at least for Josh. He would get his pleasurable revenge (only in his favor) plus a little more: tearing her and Brandon apart. It was the mind of a sick, evil genius.

Except for the parts that still didn't make sense. How the hell did he get to California in the first place without someone smarter behind him to help? Plus Josh was always too damn lazy to follow through with his threats anyway. And how come the report of his escape didn't show up on the local news yet?

Wow, except for the rape, both of their theories seemed pretty stupid.

What happened to Isabelle, one of her best friends, was the exact opposite of stupid, though. It had caused a passionate relationship and rock-solid friendship to both decay and be destroyed in its path. Someone was going to pay for this, and it wasn't going to be a helpless victim. Josh—or whoever started this—was going to be punished.

And Gabriella knew just who to talk to about it tomorrow.

"Hey, Brandon." Gabriella greeted him, stepping into the kitchen with a smile. Brandon inwardly groaned. Great. This was the last thing that he needed right now.

"Hey," he murmured back, taking another bite out of his apple and trying to block out the droning of his sister's suddenly annoying voice.

Gabriella bit her lip and sighed, a sign that she was about to bravely commit an act of whatever she considered brave. "Not like it's any of my business," she started nervously, "but are you okay? I know the whole thing with Troy messed the both of you up, but I don't remember you taking it this hard last time. It's worrying us, especially me. What am I missing?"

Brandon hastily sighed. He knew that this was coming and sadly wasn't prepared for it yet. So he did the only thing that most stuck people would do: he ran.

"Gabriella, the only thing wrong with me right now is my raging headache. So I'm just going to go upstairs." He pushed past her and started for the living room, not seeing the puddle of spilled water directly in his path.

"But-"

It all happened so fast Brandon didn't even have time to process it all: the slip, the fall…the cut. The first cut on his wrist from letting it slice against the sharp nail sticking out of the wall before he slid onto his butt. Seething in pain, Brandon cried "Damn it!" as he grabbed his wrist and clutched it tightly to try and relieve the temporary pain. He felt his hand start to slide down his arm as his blood seeped out of his gash and through his fingers. It stung. Badly.

"Brandon!" Gabriella shrieked, rushing over to her twin brother and getting on the floor to inspect his deep wound. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

That was all Brandon heard before her voice became blurred and faded into nothing. His twisted face calmed back to normal and the death grip on his wrist loosened. He just stared at the broken skin and the dark red liquid spilling out of it with a bit of pain and curiosity evident in his eyes. He knew that Gabriella was talking, but he just droned her out. It was as if he was being controlled by a remote and someone had pressed the mute button. Time slowed, but Brandon's thoughts raced. The questions shuffled into his brain, one after the other: Why did he stop gripping his wrist? Why had it stopped burning? Why did the cut seem comforting? So many unanswered questions poured down on his shoulders as the blood now ran down his arm in little tiny streams, as if they belonged there. And for some reason, Brandon didn't want to clean it up.

Gabriella's voice suddenly brought him back from his trance. Not even bothering to look up into her worried face, Brandon heard her exclaim "Brandon? Brandon, answer me!"

Brandon just barely moved his head to look at her. "What?"

Gabriella repeated "I said, do you want me to wrap that up for you? It looks pretty deep."

"No!" the cut seemed to shout to him. Brandon closed his eyes. What was happening to him?

"Uh…no, it's okay, I'm fine. Just have to go clean it out and wrap it. I'll be upstairs."

He pushed himself up from the floor with his good hand and walked over to the stairs quickly to avoid any further questions from his sister, not taking his eyes off of the cut that was now gently cradled in his other hand.

Once he made it to his room without causing anymore damage, he maneuvered over to his bed and sat down. He sat cross-legged on the mattress, all the while keeping his arm up in front of his face to keep tabs on it. The cut seemed to be clotting up nicely, probably because his heart wasn't pumping the blood through his icy veins quickly enough. The trails of blood were beginning to dry and started to take on a kind of crusty look. They made dark, intricate vines surrounding his pale skin that ran all the way to his elbow. The pain wasn't returning and this wound was brutal. How many times that you know of does that end in success?

As he dimly expected, the throbbing started up again, starting at the cut, then flowing up his arm and soon fell in sync with the beating of his heart. Brandon's eyes slammed shut and his jaw locked again, his right fist clenched around his left forearm.

"Ow, God, ahh!" he groaned through his teeth. The pain was so excruciating that he didn't feel his teeth object to the sudden rush of cold air. Brandon unconsciously curled into his favorite suffering position: rolling his knees under his chin and shoving his head between his legs until the pain subsided. There was nothing that he could focus on to make the time go by faster since every pleasant memory linked his mind back to her.

"Shit!" he cursed when his heart clenched at the thought of her. The throbbing was doubled and didn't seem to be breaking anytime soon.

After much praying and rolling back and forth, his arm seemed to grant mercy on him. Brandon let out a secret breath and relaxed his tense body, letting his legs crash back to the floor. A slight tingling rang throughout his entire body, most prudent in his head. It was like a bell sounding off in a school yard and the children were playing with fire.

But at least he was numb. The pain was gone and the painful blonde images in his head were drowned in the blood that came along with this relief. Relief? Was that what this was? All from a gash?

Could he perhaps get it again? The blood was drying and the bright and cheery pictures were shining through the scab-like color on his pale skin. God only knew how bad the pain would be if they resurfaced completely. If his heart didn't completely give out on him and go into a full-blown heart attack, he'd be surprised—probably enough to beg for one.

His head turned to his bathroom door opposite the foot of his bed. Thank God it was closed, making the newfound fantasies come slower, but they still came. He could imagine himself getting up from his bed and walking over to the open door, opening his mirror cabinet, and moving aside all of the debris concealing the object in mind. It would breathe fresh air at last, like the accident downstairs had allowed him to do, he would be saving it, right? And it was just one little cut, no longer than an inch. Was it really that big of a price to pay for a little, harmless scar?

"What are you doing?" He heard his conscious begin to scream at him, closing his eyes. "Do you not savor the little respect that people still hold for you? Don't make an even bigger ass out of yourself! People will find out and you will be locked up with the people that really are crazy! Don't be stupid!"

Brandon gritted his teeth. The last time he listened to his conscious to make an important decision, he ended up with a conning whore that made him fall into a place deeper than what he's ever known. Just as he was getting comfortable with the feeling of staying there forever, she escaped and turned on the lights of this imaginary world, revealing the angry, bloody demon that he had formed but hidden after five years of living in hatred. He promised himself that he would never cross paths with that monster again.

Soul mates were supposed to bring out the best in each other for the future, not the very worst of their past. Did this mean that she wanted him to think that it was his fault now? How lovely, now she was playing with his head.

Screw you, conscious…

Brandon's feet joined the floor as he got up and turned to the bathroom door. The last time he made this walk was to follow a routine that he carefully crafted so that he wouldn't be late to begin a normal day in a life that he no longer remembered, a life that he had led only a few days ago. It was too full of joy, too perfect for even the richest, snobbiest asshole to reside. He couldn't get any higher than he was already, so naturally he would have to fall eventually. Falling this hard, though, was a story meant for someone that might have been able to handle it better.

After his fingers twisted the knob open and his legs stepped inside the small room, he made his way over to the mirrored cabinet on the wall to the right of the door. At first, he didn't move; just braced his hands on the edge of the sink and stared at his tired reflection. What stared back at him could only be described as hideously beautiful. His once sleek and shiny jet-black hair had now transformed into a frizzy mop upon his head from the sudden absence of grooming. His jaw had been locked shut, as if holding in a betrayed scream from the knife in his back. Yup, the monster was back and starving for a heap of déjà vu: every speck of his life with a side of dignity on a silver platter, with a steaming cup of his self-respect. Order up…

Brandon found his hand in front of his face, grasping the cabinet handle and pulling it towards him. The debris before him was barely seen, like the grayscale around the only colored object in a photograph. He held up two fingers automatically, placing them in between the shaving cream and aftershave like he's done so many times before. Gently pushing them apart, he held his breath as the object in mind came into sight.

The razor looked different now, all prerequisite knowledge gone in a matter of seconds. It was like it wasn't safe anymore. The imaginary yellow tape was nowhere in sight to say 'careful not to hurt yourself'. Brandon almost grinned.

He took the blade in between his fingers slowly, inspecting them in the faint sunlight that glowed from the window behind him. It seemed to glisten sickeningly in the light, a huge smile forming on its sharp edge to egg him on, drawing him to the dark side. But it wasn't like he had to be convinced anymore than he already was. The first cut, the accident, had that down already.

Brandon carried the razor to his room and sat cross-legged on his bed to stare at it a little more. The shine still hadn't let up, even in the blue plastic concealing most of it's evil beauty. It was just a simple disposable razor, the kind that comes in packs of ten for $5. It was a little dirty, most likely from the long-term storage under his sink. It was just a replacement until he remembered to get a new one at the store. That was its only intended purpose, the one it was built for. Until now. How could something change so drastically in such a short amount of time?

He looked to his right on his bedside table, only one object standing out to him. Sharpay's pink nail clippers lay in between a stack of old receipts and flash cards for English. She must have left them here from their sleepover early last week; him, Shar, Troy, and Gabriella spent the night in his room watching TV and having a usually great time. He quickly kicked the memory to the back of his mind before it triggered anything else to bubble inside of him.

When the small pair of clippers were in his right hand, he paused. Looking over the razor, he realized that the plastic wasn't going to put up much of a fight if—when—he tried to rip it apart. Just by holding it in his hands, he could tell that it was weak and flimsy by it's too-light weight. Why did this have to be so easy?

Since his self-control ditched him a while ago, Brandon allowed his hand to his right hand meet his left, the clippers connecting with the plastic closest to the razor itself. His fingers squeezed the handles, tighter and tighter while he watched as the navy plastic quickly faded to a dull white, until…snap. One crack down, not enough left to go.

It didn't take long to break the plastic down into tiny shards in a little pile on his comforter. The fact that time was being extremely bi-polar, freezing and chasing him at random intervals, didn't help either, so that just made the time seem even shorter. He had to use his fingernails to pick a few stubborn bits off, but even that could've been done in his deepest sleep.

When the final shred of plastic fell to his lap, Brandon took a second before gazing at the single, flexible blade between his fingers. Although the plastic was cheap and feeble, it must have done its job and protected the blade the best it could. There was barely a single spot on it, the shining glare reflecting into Brandon's flat, dead eyes like the cut was doing earlier. There was no point in trying to resist it's calls; look at how the last attempt turned out.

"Are you insane?" he heard it bellow in his mind again, "If you do this, you're done! There's no going back and you WILL be finished! You're dead!"

"Tell me something I don't know…" he thought to himself as a reply.

Brandon's skin was a prisoner to the hardened blood that seemed to now be permanently attached to his surface. He couldn't move his arm without feeling like his arm was trapped in a form-fitting tube. And again, the last thing he wanted to do was scrape it off. It was too haunting, too beautiful to just be thrown in the trash as if it never brought any kind of comfort in the first place.

"You idiot," his conscious finally sighed, easing his imaginary ears from the brink of going deaf from all the screaming, "You deserve this."

Brandon cut his breath, his hand beginning to tremble as the blade suddenly felt to be scorching his skin.

"Just let me close my eyes. I can't watch this…"

Brandon's desperate plea to himself seemed to go through mercifully before he blindly lifted his arm and settled it comfortably in his lap. The first step was over, out of the way, as his eyes fluttered open again. He gazed down at the space right below the first cut, concentrating on the skin while the countdown began in his head.

3…

"So you're telling me that if Isabelle ever disappeared from your life, you wouldn't find some way to hurt yourself…"

"You have to swear to me that you'll never cut yourself. I can't have someone else that I care about do that to themselves again. Please, just promise me that…"

His past promises to Mike and Gabriella resounded in his head as he lifted his right hand and positioned it above his wrist, the blade sparkling once more before it hypnotized Brandon's hand into lowering itself down.

…2…

His friends' words repeated faster and faster, louder and louder until they were just blurred into a high-pitched rush of wind passing through his ears. If he had given himself even more time, stalled a little longer, maybe he would've realized his breath catching up with this thoughts.

If his promises to two people that he loved were really that important, wouldn't it break through this insanity, grab his pale face, and snap it in the right direction, towards the light? No, they should've done that by now. It's been a week since his dramatic attitude change; they should've tried harder to interrogate him into telling the truth about what happened that night. They didn't care. No one did, except the glittering razor he held in his fingers. The paper-thin edge lightly kissed his skin before it turned into a gradual bite, sinking its flat teeth onto his skin hard enough to create a mark but no penetration. He still had time to stop this, to chuck the razor across the room and run downstairs into the arms of his sister. He was eighteen years old and his hormones were still acting up, there was no reason do this.

…1…

"I promise to love you forever, no matter what happens. I love you, Brandon. I really do."

…Oh my God…

The words meant nothing to him now. The blade had pierced his skin.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't even blink as he watched the razor sever his flesh, not trying to stop it as he allowed it to crawl deeper and deeper into his arm and watched the layers of his skin appear before his eyes. It didn't bleed at first. It seemed to be designing its own little prologue before the main act, the one he had come to see. The first wave of pain was nowhere to be found, unlike the first time where it was all he could concentrate on until it stopped. But he knew it would end, just like everything else he's ever known and loved: friendship, innocence, and love. She had promised him eternal love. She lied and she could burn in Hell, along with Brick and Troy.

He waited for the pull in his heart to return, agonizing spasms of bright memories that had once supported his life that now left him feeling around in the dark. That's what happened, what always happened when someone had hurt him, what would always happen.

Until now. He couldn't feel anything. Not in his mind, not flashing in front of his eyes, not trying to claw its way into his heart to reign more hell there. He was already cut, broken. The job was done. Especially when the blood came.

It started as a faint pink line trying to fill the disturbance of his skin, but then spilled out over the surface and began seeping down his arm, joining the crusty vines and creating a beautiful contrast. Pale white skin, bright red blood—vibrant and stark—and maroon scabs. It was pure art. And he created it, something beautiful and fresh. No one was suffering, not even him. The pain had yet to show its ugly face in his foggy head, the coward.

Three Days Grace lied, Adam didn't sing the truth after all like Brandon liked to once think he did. Why would he rather feel pain than nothing at all if it made him feel this safe, this free? Everyone lies, he reminded himself, even though you give them everything in your soul and expect nothing back.

And it was then that the hideous, blonde face of pure pain appeared in his head, its blue eyes even more piercing and stark than the blood remaining on the razor. It was then that he felt how much this level of relief would cost him when he felt it breathe its way up his arm and start throbbing in sync with his heart. Brandon could barely think, his teeth searing from the cold air and sharp breaths and the clenching of his body to the point where he was trembling.

Which is how, he finally came to realize, that the ended up with five identical, parallel lines under the first cut, bleeding their sympathy while still taking control over him. But he didn't look at it like that from the outside: he was in control. He had the power. If ever someone on the other side of this new wall tried to punch a hole through to him or knock it down with their never-ending bullshit, he could just grab the razor and plug it with the relief that was so beautifully crimson. It was unbreakable. An imperfect hole, fixed with the sorrow and shame that ran so thick in his fragile veins.

Yes, he had the power and that pair of cyan-eyed, evil cousins would never steal it from him, never. Not without a fight…

"Brandon," Gabriella's voice seemed further than it should have been, even though she was downstairs in the kitchen, "Mom's on the phone."

He didn't reply, just watched as a thin sliver of blood decided to take a risk and continue running, slipping from his elbow to the razor that lay on his knee directly beneath. It seemed to shine brighter as it hit the silver, like every drop of his life made it hungrier, always wanting more.

Brandon took a deep breath through his nose and bounced off of his bed, not noticing the fresh blood running down his forearm, down his hand, until it finally hit the pale tan line surrounding his ring finger. And even when he rushed to his bathroom to retrieve a towel, throwing it over his arm, Brandon felt a new sense of promise to himself. This was who he was now. He was stronger. No longer would he succumb to the anger by letting it fill his mind so much that he'd have to escape in a nightmare. No. Whenever he felt haunted and stripped of the little control he had left in his life, this was his way out. The only answer. This was his chance to let himself know that he was still alive and able to control his thoughts again. He couldn't take the anger anymore, the horrors of that night six days ago. This was his life. There was no way he was going to let her, him, them fuck it up anymore.

He walked away from it now, leaving his painful memories in the blood on the razor until it became hungry for more. And he had a feeling he'd be more than happy to feed it anytime it called for him…

Just leave your reviews on the chapter, because if I find any flames on cutting/cutters, I will come after you like Troy came after Brandon for hanging up on Isabelle.

The next chapter is already half-done, so you can probably expect in in the next week or two. I need to get back to work on Ultimate Manhunt first. I don't want to leave those readers hanging like I've left you guys (if there's any more of you left...:[)

REVIEW! Thnx :]

~Rachel :]