Er, to warn you. This is trippy.

I don't own Sky High.

I didn't go to Sky High the next day.

Or the day after.

Or the day after that.

In fact, I'd been stuck inside my mind so long, that I don't even know how long it'd been since the day that Peace had caught my arm to keep me from falling.

I knew that no matter what I did between now and the day that I die, that nothing will kill me -nothing.

The first day that I didn't go to school, I had slept and slept and cried and bathed and slept. I didn't eat, I didn't do anything substantial, just got trapped inside my head and the looping thoughts that I drowned in.

There's a finality in knowing when you're going to die. There isn't a freedom. There isn't a relief.

There's a suffrage and a despair, that tastes like stale nicotine and numbs you like Novocain.

The second day I called an old friend of mine and bought a few paychecks worth of drugs.

I lit up and floated in static and waves, trying to gain a calm that would never come and slow things down and stretch time out into forever. When that didn't work I rushed, trying to speed past everything, hoping somehow sanity would find me along the way.

Weed.

Then.

Speed.

Then.

Heroine.

Then.

Acid.

Then.

LSD.

They blurred and meshed together in swirling mass of static and tittering nerves and colors and feelings and premonitions and reality.

Nothing worked to make the world the way that I needed it to be. Nothing made everything straight and crisp but not too sharp. Nothing made it bright enough, or sane enough.

Nothing made me happy.

Nothing make me whole.

Nothing made it right.

I don't know how long I drifted though the clouds of drugs, or how many days that I ignored the calls, or what day that I cut into my skin and let my blood crust over my kitchen cabinets, or if that even happened at all, or if the sparkling black blood was only my imagination.

All that I know is that one day, or minute, or color, or feeling, a scream came and his sobs echoed my name around the empty house matching the pitch of my still beating heart. He wasn't supposed to come, ever, at all. I'd told him not to visit, not to be near me, because his skin had sent me pictures of his death, and of my face etched in shadows. And, if I wasn't near him, it wouldn't happen- I wouldn't have to watch my brother die.

His face cut the world into rainbows and my fingers felt like worms and my skin like a sponge. The world smelt like forget-me-not's and dirt and mistakes and promises. He says I whispered sorry and quotes on his skin when he held me and called for help, but I don't remember.

Pig isn't dumb and the sobs fell into the shouts of strangers and I felt like the world was tilting up from underneath me, and wondered if I was dying after all.

But, then again, when aren't we all dying?

The light was dark and death was sitting next to me, trapped in flames and whispering things about harmonicas and cult classics. The future mixed with reality and fiction and non fiction blended in a surrealist blur until I didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

Piano benches and old women playing cars with demons. A white wedding. A black mask. Christmas lights showing bloody children smiling a waving. Wedding rings in cigarette boxes. Faces melting into sand. Angels kissing the sky.

At some point, Pig was gone and the flag was wrapped around me. Red and blue and white and strong, and faces were there, alien and wrong. I wished my Pig was back, and that the world was the way that I needed it to be, and that the people would go away, and the fear would stop choking me.

I think they tried to tell me that I was alright.

"Know. Know. Know." I chanted. "Powers' will tell you. Fine. Fine. Fine."

Or, at least, that's what they tell me. I don't remember much.

I do remember seeing Peace, and his stupid red streaked hair, but I don't know if it was real.

I don't know if any of it was real, because at some point in time, the walls started dripping colors and feelings, and the room was full of angels who sounded like rain.

"Peace will kill me. This won't kill. I don't die. Don't die. Don't die. Not yet."

No one knew what I meant, but they remember it, because I never shut the hell up. The hospital footage has be babbling nonsense for a half and hour straight- talking about crosses and burning and conferences and bombings and villains escaping prisons and weddings and births and feelings and colors.

My powers went all haywire, obviously, and only supers would dare come close enough to me to help me because anyone who got within four feet of me ran screaming away. God help whoever got me to the hospital, because they must have gone though hell to do it.

They say that I'd been gone for four days.

That's four days on no food and water, and three on no sleep and nothing but drugs.

They don't know when I cut myself, and I don't really remember doing it, or if I do it's clouded up with the hundred other things that I saw.

When I'm conscious of my surroundings and sane enough to know the laws of the universe and what the hell is actually going on, they sit me down and tell me that I'm lucky to be alive.

"Lucky?" I ask.

"Yes." Says the obnoxious man in the flag outfit, with a cleft chin and self righteous air about him, next to Powers, who looks to pitying for my liking. I think I recognize him, but I don't know from where, and I don't spend too much time trying to figure it out, because it's still a little hard to focus.

"Well, then I guess you don't know luck when you see it." I muttered.

He tells me that I should value my life, and what a precious gift it is, and how I shouldn't just try to throw it away. Powers doesn't say anything, but stares at me in my hospital gown and cries like this is somehow all her fault. Which it might be, because if she would offered to cuff me the day that I went to her office -the day Peace caught me- then I might not be in this position.

"I'm dying." I tell him, but he doesn't believe me.

"No," I reassure him. "Every minute, I get closer to dying. So what's the point in having fate fuck with me? If I'm going to die, I'd like to do it on my terms, not on some godforsaken rooftop looking for someone that I don't want to find in the first place. I never fucking asked for this, you know. I never asked for powers, or the chance to save people. I never wanted to know the future, or how I was going to die. Do you want to know how you die Mr. Patriotism? Do you want to know every gory detail, and know that no matter what you do, it'll happen? Do you want me to tell you how your wife dies, or who kills your children?"

That shut him the hell up.

"Charlotte, you still have time left, you know. Don't throw it all away." Powers whispered. "Think of all the good you could do. Think of all the lives you could better, and the people you could save."

"Is there any good left in this world?" I asked, and left the room, dragging my fluids stand with me, knowing the answer was in my weak knees and my visions.