Oh brother, I see

You burn like me

The singes on our skin like a brand

Oh brother, I confess

There is little of me left that could care about dousing the wildfire

And I left you alone in a house, not a home

And I watched the burning grow as my hair filled with gray

From the ashes that fell

The mountains I knew so well

Burned with hellfire in the blue light of midnight

Brother, I watched the sky burn

And all I learned was smoke fills the lungs like a disease

— "Brother," Madds Buckley

All right, last chapter of the first part!

I honestly did not expect this thing to be a full-length novel, but oh well.

Sorry, I really meant to get this chapter out a lot sooner. Most of my writing time is taken up, but I'm doing what I can. And I'm having way too much fun with writing to quit this story.

I also did not expect Will to get this bad. I really just thought I'd be writing canonical, happy, traumatized but optimistic Will. It went south very fast.

Can't take too much credit for it, though. His story's based on a combination of mine and a bunch of shit I've read about. Not to mention my twisted imagination.

Song in between the lines is "Soap" by Melanie Martinez.

And yes, the end of the chapter was inspired by I'm Thinking Of Ending Things, by Iain Reid. Great book. I'd recommend it for those of you who love physiological horror. Super fun writing style. You should try it.

Apologize for the numerous canon errors in this thing. My lazy ass couldn't be bothered to completely re-read everything, which results in . . . well, canon errors.

As Persassy says, deal with it.

I love writing this story, but I'd be way less motivated if I didn't have a few of you guys cheering me on in the reviews. Massive shoutout to A Person, you leave amazing reviews and they always make my day.

And something I've been meaning to say, if you're dealing with the shit that Will's dealing with — underage drinking, self harm, suicidal thoughts, or other things in the same vein, GET HELP. Do NOT do what Will did. I know exactly how it feels to think that it's your problem to deal with and that nobody's gonna care, and that's bullshit. All these things are painfully real problems. And I know it feels like the whole world's against you, but they're not. Even if you don't have anyone else, you at least have one person. One completely random fanfiction author. Who's addicted to Subway Surfers and dried ginger.

It took me nearly half an hour to remove the bodies, find a pair of clean white sheets, and painstakingly scrub every drop of blood. By then my hands were covered in it; it was soaking through the rips in my gloves.

My shoulder stung like Hades when I moved my arm, but that was alright. I knew it would be even worse tomorrow, and for the next few days, but that was alright too. I didn't mind. It could be — had been — a lot worse. This was the way it should be.

Kiera had asked me if I cared. I decided it wasn't that easy.

This wasn't exactly a home; of course it wasn't. Nobody's home is on their knees on a filthy, cracked floor, scrubbing up congealing blood, their shoulder aching and fresh blood dripping down their shirt. But then again, life doesn't always scatter roses at your feet.

What's the expression? Suck it up? I sucked it into the exosphere.

And get your mind out of the gutter, you dirty freak.

I did find my scalpel — it had been lying inches from Kiera's hand before I moved her. The blade no longer glittered like polished silver—now it was coated with blood, from fresh blood the color of roses to pitch-black blood caked on and congealed, cracks revealing rusty metal beneath.

I pulled the second scalpel out of my pocket. For a moment, I held the two surgical knives side-by-side, examining them. The one I had kept with me had been wiped off, and it wouldn't be rusting. Kiera's knife, however . . .

I slipped that one into my pocket. It would be useful. But first, I only had one slash on my shoulder. My counter was off. With a flick of my wrist and a sharp sting, I took care of that, more warm blood seeping into my shirt.

Two slash marks. Countless others I hadn't bothered to add.

I guess my counter was already off, but I didn't know how to count the battlefield casualties, so . . .

There would be more, I knew that. In my line of work, that's just how it goes. Nothing weird about me. Nothing weird about this — any of this. I did have regrets about Kiera, though. My fault. Both of them . . . my fault. Hence the slashes.

Whatever. It happens. People commit murder-suicides, cut themselves, abandon their younger siblings. Life is shit. May as well start resigning ourselves to the idea.

And I wouldn't be like them. I wouldn't hurt Kayla and Austin. Ever.

I would be better.

By the time all the blood was scrubbed up — as scrubbed up as I could get it, anyway—the sky had started to fade from black to indigo blue. With a regretful sigh, I finished up the stitch job on the older boy, sanitized my needle, admired my work — my stitching was getting better and better— and stood shakily up, my sleeping joints protesting loudly. Kayla and Austin likely wouldn't be up of their own free will for several more minutes, but the sooner we had all hands on deck, the better.

Leaving the infirmary was a breath of fresh air, literally. The air was cool and clean, still smelling of pine and honeysuckle. I inhaled deeply as I crossed the campground on unsteady pins-and-needles legs. The air was almost addicting; I couldn't get enough of it, breathing it in like a madman.

Hey, ease up, one of the voices said. The last thing we need right now is for you to get high off pine sap.

I don't think you can actually get high off pine sap, the logical part of my brain pointed out. It's not like it's coke or glue.

"What are you two doing, having a Uno tournament?" I grumbled. "Shut up."

The voices had nothing to say to this, so they kept resolutely to themselves. Probably meant that they had actually been having an uno tournament, and I had nailed it. Yes, sir! Give that kid a box of Cheez-Its and a machete to open it with!

The cabin was silent when I carefully opened the door, wincing at the soft creeeeaaak. Kayla and Austin were sharing a bunk bed, Austin on the bottom bunk, Kayla on the top. Austin had his arm hanging over the edge, and Kayla was reaching up. Their fingers were interlaced across the gap.

My heart had melted slightly. It was almost enough to make me regret what I let Kiera do.

These two, I would protect. No matter what happened.

But I still had to drag their lazy asses out of bed.

"Hey," I said gently, shaking Kayla's shoulder. "Come on. We gotta get moving."

She groggily opened one crusted eye and stared blearily at me. "What?" she muttered. "Sun's not up."

"I know, but we still have work." I gently squeezed her shoulder. "Get your brother and get ready. Five minutes. I'll wait outside."

She grumbled something indistinct but sat up, sleepily rubbing her eyes. I affectionately tousled her hair — the previously emerald-green tips were now so dirty they looked more like dirt with pine needles scattered in, despite my earlier take-a-shower comment—and left.

I leaned against the blindingly bright side of the cabin, taking in more deep breaths of fresh air. Everything was scented like pine; I was surrounded by the deep green trees. I closed my eyes, and it felt like I was standing in a forest of air fresheners.

I hadn't even realized how oppressive and suffocating the air in the infirmary had become. I might have thought it once or twice, but that was when I was younger and a long time ago.

I wasn't sure whether the full five minutes had passed or not, but the sun was just starting to peek over the tops of the mountains, and like it or not, at least one of us had to get back to work.

I went to knock on the door, prepared to tell Kayla and Austin to speed up the process, but right before my fist could make contact with the gleaming metal, the door creaked open.

"Move it, we're coming," Kayla grumbled, shaking shaggy pine-tinted bangs out of her eyes. Austin was right behind her, looking like a reanimated corpse. I obediently stepped aside and allowed them to stagger out of the cabin, blinking at the harsh glint of the gold and the first dazzling light rays.

They both looked relieved to be out of the cabin, and I wholeheartedly understood why. I had been in there exactly once, to wake up Kayla, and I had stared at the floor the entire time, trying to ignore the complete and overwhelming wrongness of it. The cabin was full of beds with sheets, blankets, and pillows; photos hung on the walls of my siblings' families, friends, and pets; water bottles in the wall alcoves; abandoned archery, medical, and musical equipment; books; backpacks; trunks; and a million other former possessions that each told the story of a life.

I suspected we might find a few empty pill and bug juice bottles under the beds, too.

I rested a hand on Austin's shoulder and softly ruffled Kayla's hair. "You two sleep okay?"

Austin rubbed an eye. "Not great . . ." He trailed off and shook his head. "I dunno. Could be worse."

I gently squeezed his shoulder. "Nightmares?"

"You could say that," said Kayla with a sigh. "It . . . can — can we talk about it later?"

I pressed a soft kiss to her wild hair. "Of course."

The three of us stood silently together for a moment, feeling the first rays of sun on our backs. It was over; we had made it. We were alive. The words had always meant a lot to me; more, I think, than to other people, but even I couldn't believe how grateful I was for that simple fact, right now, in the moment. If I hadn't seen so many deaths . . . I never would have really understood what it meant. Ever. It didn't. . . . It was hard. Hard to comprehend. Hard to think about. So I didn't think about it.

For a few glorious, stolen seconds, it was just the three of us.

Then I sighed regretfully, shaking my head. "We do have to get moving. We still have seven patients, and at least two of them are probably going to need some help doing . . . everything."

Kayla grimaced. "What is everything?"

"It's exactly what you think it is." I shook my head again. "Mollie and Sierra. They've gone a little . . ." I trailed off, unsure of how to continue the sentence.

"Not there," Austin finished. "So, we have to feed them and stuff?"

"Pretty much. Don't worry, I'll do all the worst parts." I had a lot of practice keeping a straight face while completely disgusted, and it stood me in good stead now.

Austin winced. "Well, then? Let's get this day over with."

As I continued the previous night's work, I remembered what I had talked with Kayla about, having to know all the weird and uncomfortable details about everyone's lives. This was absolutely one hundred percent worse, not to mention it was exacerbated by the fact that Sierra and Mollie were both girls.

Nothing in life had the capability to prepare a thirteen-year-old boy for helping an older girl use the toilet, bathing her, feeding her, helping her with her period, and about a million other things that I found out about soon enough.

The only dubious ray of hope came about an hour after we had started work. It came from Mollie — I remembered her as the girl who had managed to take some ambrosia and nectar by herself. She had been sitting stock-still on the edge of her bed for several minutes. I had disappeared into No Man's Land for less than thirty seconds to grab a new jar of salve, and she was in exactly the same position when I came back.

She didn't move when she saw me, or when I gently took hold of her sliced-up arm, or when I spread the salve on the lacerations, or when I healed the cuts, foregoing the usual healing chants, seeing as the cuts weren't very deep.

It was when I was finishing up on the last cut that I heard a small intake of breath, the same one every human in the world makes when they're about to say something but for some reason don't.

My head whirled around, and I stared at Mollie. She had been the one to make the noise, I was sure of it — had it been anyone else, I wouldn't have heard them.

"Mollie?" I asked quietly.

Silence.

"Did you want to say something?"

More silence.

A vacant stare.

Shit.

"Did you forget what it was?" Why did I bother? Why didn't I just shut up?

Then — so subtly I hardly noticed, still staring blankly into space, she slowly nodded her head.

My heart was still beating wildly with a combination of relief and lingering confusion, but I also nodded. "Yeah . . ." I said slowly. "I hate when that happens."

She made no more noises, no more gestures to show that she was still here as I finished up her other arm. The only thing that gave me hope was at the end.

As I was standing up, slipping the jar of salve into my pocket, something in her eyes seemed to . . . clear. Like she was finally seeing, really seeing. As I turned away, a small voice behind me said, "Will?"

I immediately turned around, a strange sensation I hadn't felt in a while tugging at my chest. "Yeah?"

For a few moments, she was silent again, but it wasn't empty, vacant silence. It was more as if she was trying to compose her erratic thoughts. Then she said, almost shyly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mollie."

By the time I turned around again, the light in her eyes had gone out.

I stayed in the infirmary that night. Again.

Kayla and Austin argued, but I responded with the logical argument that neither of them were well trained enough yet to run the infirmary by themselves, and if something happened, they would have to come and get me, which would result in me being woken up anyway. All that was true, but it wasn't the real reason; I just didn't want Kayla and Austin to have to work the night shift.

But they wouldn't have been on board with that, so I kept my mouth shut.

Work was much less eventful that night.

Nobody actually needed healing or a full-on operation, which left me with preparation shit — filling field medic kits, stocking the salve shelf, scrubbing bedpans, and, yes, cutting bandages.

I remembered what Michael had once told me about never escaping the world of bandage-cutting. The memory, which usually made me grin ruefully, now made my eyes burn and my throat close up.

They hadn't done that in a while. How long? I'd lost count. I thought I'd trained myself better than that.

God, I wish I'd never brought up that memory.

Brimming with fury and humiliation, I slammed down the jar of salve I was holding hard enough to shake the legs of the spindly table (though not hard enough to crack the salve jar; we had enough of those in No Man's Land) and leaped to my feet. Angrily rubbing at my eyes, I stalked along the wall, running my finger along one of the cracks that had split the wall when the Ares girl — that fucking bullheaded idiot — lost her temper.

(Who's the fucking bullheaded idiot? It's not the Ares girl)

I was nearly to the old, rusty door that marked the entrance to No Man's Land — it was a good thing I now knew the way by memory because my eyes were so blurred with tears that seeing was difficult.

Had I been in a car, I would have been pulled over for DWI. Which wasn't that far off from the truth. Only I was high on bitterness. High on pine sap.

I feel it comin' out my throat

Recalling the memory of how the trees had smelled, the scent that had seemed so delicious in the moment, intoxicating, even, I gagged. It was real; I could smell it; it had followed me.

Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

I groped blindly, and found the old door handle. Flakes of rust crumbled into the cracks in my fingers. With the other hand, I reached out, and felt a sharp sting in my palm. There; medical scissors, discarded on a chair.

God, I wish I never spoke

I clenched my fist around the scissors, not taking my blurred eyes off the cracked-up door, and felt them slide, another sting. I didn't feel the pain, though, only a lingering resignation and regret.

Now I gotta wash my mouth out with soap

With trembling hands, I fumbled with the doorknob, trying in vain for several moments before I realized that I was trying to turn it the wrong direction.

I feel it comin' out my throat

As soon as I realized that, I felt a deep, inexplicable course of anger surge through me. I wanted to force the handle to turn the way I was turning it. I wanted to break the fucking door into splinters.

Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

"You have to do better, Solace," I muttered to myself, forcing myself to turn the doorknob — gently — in the correct direction. The fire in my chest flared up higher than ever. As quick as a cat, I ducked into the room, slamming the door— slamming it quietly — behind me. "Shoulda done better. Now you gotta wash your mouth out with soap." I giggled at my own joke. The rusty, creaky scissors were anything but soap.

God, I wish I never spoke

Then I sank to the ground, legs shaking too hard to hold me up anymore, laughing, no longer laughing, the bloody scissors still clenched in an equally bloody fist.

Now I gotta wash my mouth out with soap

I'd never cried so hard or so long in my life.

All the blood smearing the legs, shoulders, hands, and scissors did nothing to stop the flow of tears; if anything, it encouraged them. But that didn't stop the flood of wild fear.

I was still curled up in the corner, bloody slashes all over my shoulders and legs, my lower back, my stomach and my chest. I'd washed out everything but my mouth. Funny how that works sometimes. Only I wasn't laughing. Not anymore.

I was sobbing now, hyperventilating, ugly as fuck, my face and clothes smeared with a mixture of tears, snot, blood, and, in the case of my pants, a dark liquid that any idiot could have identified on sight. I didn't remember pissing my pants, although that didn't mean it didn't happen.

My entire body was erupting with pain, although all I took notice of was the chest-swallowing, gut-wrenching fear. I had cried; I deserved this. All my fault. Damn, if I'd have just not brought up that particular memory. . . . But I had. And now I knew exactly what I might do to myself, what he might do to me, and I was fucking terrified.

"I'm sorry," I whispered in a broken sob. "I won't cry anymore, I swear; I'll be good, I —" My words were cut off by a fresh wave of sobs, and, next, a fresh wave of blood.

I didn't fucking kid myself. I knew it wouldn't be the last time. It felt too damn good to ever give up.

I was just backward like that.

I curled on my side now, crying too hard to breathe properly, gasping for air like a drowning man. I was, in a way. Only every time I sucked in a shuddering breath, the sickly scent of pine sap filled my head, wrapping its tendrils around my brain. I wanted to throw up, but that would be even more mess that I would have to clean up. I was alone on that particular janitorial team.

I remember the dream.

I don't remember falling asleep.

I don't remember hearing his voice.

I didn't know he was with me.

I don't remember what I did, either, or what I made him do, but that didn't mean it didn't happen.

I didn't know.

I swear I didn't know.

I wasn't on the battlefield.

In any other situation, that would have been a relief.

But it wasn't.

I was in a hospital.

It was bright, clean, shining, modern, everything out pair of broken-down rooms in the Big House weren't. It would have been a nice place to work — had I not been born like this, I might have tried my hand at getting a job there. But no use dwelling on things like that.

Only it wasn't the usual scent of antiseptic that would have pervaded the air.

It was pine sap.

It was everywhere, seeping through every corridor, out from under every table and bed, seeping through the air, noxious, suffocating, poisonous.

I flipped my shit.

I ran.

It wasn't the first time.

I sprinted up the nearest white-tiled corridor, already gasping for breath although I had only been running for a few seconds. My lungs burned. The pine-scented air was crushing down on me, forcing me into a tighter and tighter box.

The industrial lights ahead of me were all off, the corridor becoming steadily dimmer and dimmer until it plunged into blackness ahead of me.

But the lights, motion activated, flickered on with loud clicking sounds as I ran. The corridor seemed to go on forever in front of me. The rooms, one about every twenty feet, were all uniform, the numbers on the plates steadily reaching up and up.

I wondered if I had stumbled into some undiscovered level of the Backrooms. It would certainly explain a lot.

I finally screeched to a stop, gasping for air so hard my entire body was shaking. My chest burned as if the fire inside it had been doused with gasoline. My legs buckled, and I collapsed forward onto the immaculately clean floor, choking and gagging. I lurched forward and threw up onto the cold tiles, coughing and spitting out every trace of pine and soap that I could. But it was no use, it lived there now; I was its home, I had allowed it in.

Dead. Gone. Too late.

I struggled back to my feet, giggling now, my body still shaking from physical exertion. Well, guess the floor ain't perfect anymore! Laughing now, I ran my hand over my shoulders and legs, all pain gone, no more hate, no more anger, just laughter, relief, release, all fingers loose on the rocks, several more gone, gone, let go, so easy, so simple . . .

Still laughing, laughing hard, we began sprinting down the hallway. The lights continued flickering on as I passed, but we hardly noticed.

So easy, this. Relief. Release. Like a god-damned spa ad.

The slices and slashes no longer throbbed with pain as I ran, it was good, very good, running is hard while we're burned and bleeding and shredded inside.

I knew they were still there, I could feel them, as we should, I put them there, I knew every bloody scratch by heart.

The pine sap was still there, but I no longer pushed it out. We welcomed it, it brought this, and, fuck, if I wanted to inhale it until my chest ached, then by all means, it was well within my right to do so.

The lights are flickering now, as we slow our pace, and I see the reason why. She's standing there, at the end — well, we think it's the end, it's hard for me to see — and although she isn't standing in the complete blackness, she's fucking near close, but dark gray, really, not black, she's smart, she isn't gonna get swallowed. Not like me. Not like us. She's smarter, always was, not like him with his giant or her with her pills or him with his bridge or me, fucking me, with my scalpel and my knives and my scissors and my fingernails and our teeth and it's bloody, it hurts, but good, to good to stop now

(oh fuck am I in deep water now)

but she's standing there, her, and I've never seen her before but I've seen the picture (have I? It's hard to remember) but we know her, would know her anywhere, it's her with the blond curls like hers and the dark eyes like his and the beat-down world-weary look like me, like us, and she hold up her hand with the same sad face

(i know that hand. i know that face)

and shes talking, but this isnt right, we cant hear and its too dark to see good and she tries to talk but its all fuzz in my ears and and she telling us no, dont do it, dont go there, they always tell us that and theres something we should be hearing, should be knowing, dont drink it, dont drink it, theres another name shes saying, we know it, we heard it all out lives but its no good, not when we're lost and gone and drunk and high and bleeding, bleeding now, we can see the red bits dotting our shirt and pants, leaking down, smearing our skin, and our hands all over our hands, and shes telling us something, no good now, too late, washed it out with the calm and the peace and the hope and shes saying more and looking worse than sever, shes flickering, glitching, and we can hear a voice now, screaming, crying, but it might be ours, no problem, blood and broken glass and (we know where they keep the moonshine) but no good now, all gone, broken glass, bleeding, hes bleeding, we're bleeding, no use now, and shes flickering, glitching, and shes screaming too and im clutching my head (just me just me just me) and the others are crowding around, but its no good, i cant ignore them, theyre in here, in here with me, and its dark now, shadows all over the walls, theres writing but i cant make it out and they think i might have written it, dear god, and i think i might have too—

Ddddddddddddddddddhkjhrghuerhienrjkn ndaSJ:KAO=

1-]

1 \9=]2ijoi[2 \1482t4u09y3

dsoif04h44ugr

ERROR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ERROR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ERROR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ERROR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ERROR . . . . . . . . . . .

I wrote it.

I did.

I love you.

I'm sorry.

We're sorry.

I always knew where they kept the moonshine.

They told me.

They made sure I knew.

I shouldn't have made him drink it.

I'm sorry.

The glass hurts.

My hands.

Blood.

Broken glass.

Everywhere.

The writing.

On the wall.

I left a note.

He'll find it.

I shouldn't have made him drink it.

I'm sorry.