Scream 2: A Drake Parker Story

by CHOOSELIFE

A year has passed since the massacre that killed many of Drake's loved ones. Living in a rundown apartment with Megan and his biological father, Drake has dropped out of school and struggles to make ends meet with his new job at the Premiere, where a movie made about the tragedy is playing on the big screen. Even worse, Ghostface has returned, and he's thirsty for blood.

2. In A Violent Nature

It was 4 a.m. when Drake trudged his way up the thirteen flights of stairs to his apartment. He couldn't wait to fall into the loveseat and leave this world for a while. He was exhausted both physically and mentally after the events of the day. He'd spent a couple hours answering questions at the police station, and thankfully, Vance and Ja'won were there to give him a ride home. He pushed his way through the door, entering his hallway, then made his way to his room. The key didn't work the first time, of course, and he swore under his breath, too fed up to be dealing with it.

Once he got the door open, he went inside. The living room was dark and quiet, with only the purple glow from his sister's room illuminating the small space. She must be home. He figured Megan would stay the night at her babysitter's, but she probably asked their father to come get her.

He closed the door and was met with a shock. Standing behind it was a towering figure donning a glittery black cloak and a white elongated mask. Drake screamed, and his knees buckled, causing him to fall backwards. He pushed himself away further, but his back came into contact with the outer wall of Megan's closet, stopping him from creating more distance.

Ghostface really was back, and he wasn't wasting time this go-around. Just hours ago, he'd murdered Drake's assistant manager, and now he was in his living room. Wait, if he was here, did that mean that something had happened to Megan and his father? Were they...?

He heard laughter coming from the mask, but it wasn't creepy and distorted. It was the opposite actually. It was the laughter of a little girl. The gloved hand raised and gripped the bottom of the mask, then pulled it off, revealing his sister's smiling face.

"Scared you, didn't I?" she said, jumping down from the chair she was standing on.

Drake was nearly hyperventilating, just like he had back at the Premiere. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. The fear had sucked every last ounce of energy from him, leaving him to speechlessly stare at the girl in disbelief.

Here she was fucking around about something so traumatizing, and he'd just been thinking that she was dead. Now she was laughing like it was funny? What the hell was the matter with her? He still had Anthony's blood under his fingernails, and she was doing this?!

Megan's smile fell when her brother's face contorted and he choked out a sob. She immediately felt sick to her stomach. He didn't cry that much — at least not in front of her. Sometimes, he couldn't hide it, like in moments that their father got extra violent, but as far as weeping over things that had happened last year, she wasn't used to seeing that happen. Therefore, this wasn't the reaction she expected from him, and now she wanted to cry, too.

"It was just a joke," she said as he finally managed to find the strength to get to his feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—" She tried to give him a hug, but he pushed her away and opened the door. "I'm sorry," she tried again, but he shut it behind him, leaving her standing there alone with her Ghostface mask.

Drake went back to the stairwell and made it a few flights down before his legs stopped working. He sat down, then hid his face in his hands as he sobbed. His entire body was trembling, for he still hadn't recovered from the scare or the hellish events of the day.

This entire day felt like a nightmare, and he so badly wanted to sleep so he could wake up tomorrow and find that it was all just a bad dream. He didn't want to go through this one again. Although Josh had turned out to be the bad guy in the end, before revealing himself as the killer, he'd been there for Drake, comforting him through his nightmares and panic attacks. Now Drake had no one. He was on his own.

Well, he had his own way of dealing with things. When he was able to pick himself up again, he headed back up, but he didn't go to the thirteenth floor. He stopped at the tenth, then pushed his way through the door. He made his way to the end of the hallway and knocked. As he waited, he sniffled and wiped the tears from his eyes, embarrassed that he was still weeping.

There was movement on the other side of the wood — someone checking the peephole — then it opened. Drake walked inside, and the door was closed behind him.

"What you need, man?"

"Do you have any more oxy's?"

"Yeah, sit down."

Drake took a seat on the dark blue couch, waiting anxiously. The setup was similar to his own apartment, but shittier somehow, which he hadn't thought was possible. The living area had a full couch, which made it more cramped, and his kitchen had dirty dishes piled high in the sink and on the counters. Empty food containers and beer cans littered the coffee table, and there was also an overflowing ash tray and several unopened envelopes. Drake glanced at one, which was addressed to Rezza Rafiq. Interesting. He'd never known this guy's name before. In his mind, he just thought of him as "My Dealer".

"You alright?" the man asked, opening his kitchen cabinet. He could tell that Drake had been crying, but he didn't mention it outright.

"Yeah, I just need something." He sniffled again and used his shirt to dry his face this time. When Rezza joined him, he asked, "Can I pay you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure. How many you want?"

"These are twenty milligrams?"

"Yeah."

"Uh..." He was struggling to do the math with his brain so all over the place. "Ten."

"I have nine. You want that?"

"Yeah."

"Or I got H. It's cheaper and way better."

"I'll stick with this." Drake took the bottle from him, then opened it and poured two onto the coffee table. "Do you have something to crush this with?" While his dealer disappeared to his bedroom, Drake pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and picked one dollar out of three bills inside. That's all the money he had to his name right now.

When his supplier returned, Drake was given a heavy paperweight in the shape of a human skull. It felt like a bad omen, but he brushed past it. He pressed the flattest part against the pills, crushing them, then he used the dollar to shape the powder into a single line. Afterwards, he rolled it up, leaned over the table, stuck an end of the green bill into his nostril, then inhaled deeply.

---

He hung around until he couldn't possibly hold his eyes open anymore, then he headed home. Megan was asleep, and once Drake's body hit the loveseat, he passed out, too.

He slept dreamlessly, and when he was woken up just a few hours later, it felt like no time had gone by.

Winston was standing in front of him, running a comb through his wet hair. "Aren't you gonna be late for work?" the man asked. He seemed to be in a rush himself.

"I got someone to cover my shift," Drake slurred tiredly, closing his eyes again.

"Why the hell would you do that?" He waited for an answer, but didn't get one, so he spoke more firmly now. "Drake? I'm talking to you."

A noise that sounded like a combination between a groan and a whine left the boy's lips. He exhaustedly pushed himself into a sitting position, mentally preparing himself for a fight. "What?"

Their conversation woke Megan up, and she opened the closet door, watching the discussion, anxiously awaiting the inevitable blow-up.

"I said why did you call out? You know we need this money."

"I know." He rubbed his eyes tiredly, still trying to fight the pills and wake up.

"So what the hell?"

He moaned tiredly as he continued rubbing his eye, unaware that he'd been doing this for an abnormally long time.

"Drake!" Winston said, getting frustrated.

"What?" he said defensively.

His father growled as he turned away and snatched one of the dining chairs back. He sat down, then slipped on one of his boots and tied it. "You're starting to piss me off."

Drake noticed Megan watching him with worry, and he knew he needed to calm their father. Finally, he looked at the man. "What'd you say?"

"For the fifth damn time, why aren't you going to work?"

"Someone's covering for me."

Winston gritted his teeth, seething with anger because he'd heard this part before. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away, for he wasn't awake enough to decipher whether letting Megan in on last night's murder was a good idea. Before he could come up with a reply, his father spoke again.

"Drake, I can not believe you would be so irresponsible."

"I..." Still, he didn't know what to say.

"I need you to step up and help me out here."

"I know. I am—"

"You're an adult now. It's time you stop acting like an entitled kid."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you don't show it," he said. "Without this place, we'll be homeless, and they'll take your sister away. Is that what you want?"

He turned to the girl, feeling the need to convince her more than his dad. "No, of course not—"

"Then stop fucking around and grow up!" When he finished putting on his boots, he stood tall, and his son was forced to look up at him, which intimidated the boy. "I don't wanna have to tell you again. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir," he said meekly.

"And this is the second day in a row that you didn't get your sister up for school. Get your shit together, Drake."

He hadn't taken her to school because their father had beaten her so hard with the belt. He was waiting until the pain eased off. However, he didn't voice this. "Yes, sir."

"I swear if I get another fucking phone call from the principal..."

"I'll get her to school," Drake promised before his dad could start running through scenarios and making himself angrier.

"You better. Christ, I can't do everything by myself."

"Dad, don't be so hard on him," Megan interjected, sticking up for her defeated brother despite her fear. "It's the anniversary."

The man closed his eyes and sighed. "Shit." He approached his son, then sat next to him on the loveseat. "Shit, I forgot. I'm sorry." He wrapped an arm around the boy and pulled him close, then rubbed his back. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"I didn't mean to yell at you. I just get so stressed about money—"

"I know. It's okay."

"What about you?" He looked at his daughter. "You alright?"

"I don't wanna go to school."

"Alright. That's fine," he said. "I've got a lot on my plate. Sometimes you have to remind your old man about these things, okay?" He squeezed his son and kissed his hair before standing. "I have time to make a quick breakfast before I go." Winston went into the kitchen and opened the empty fridge. He swore under his breath, then opened the carton of eggs and pulled out the last one. "There anything left on the food stamp card?" he asked his son, cracking the egg on the side of the pan.

"No, sir."

"Shit." After a moment, he said, "What about your check? You get paid today, right?"

"Um..." He really didn't want to go anywhere near the theater today. "I'm not sure."

"What do you mean you're not sure? It's Friday, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"So what's the problem?"

"Nothing. I'll get it."

Winston finished the eggs — or egg — quickly, then divided it into two pitifully empty plates. He grabbed silverware for each, then carried them over to his kids. Drake thanked him quietly, then ate it in just a few bites. It didn't satisfy his hunger.

"I've gotta run," the man said.

He gave Drake a quick kiss on his hair, then moved over to Megan to do the same. "I love you both." He grabbed his things, then exited the room.

Drake hesitated for a moment, then set his plate down and followed him out of their apartment. "Dad," he called after the man, who was already at the stairwell entrance. "Can I talk to you?"

"Can it wait?"

"Not really," he said, then he checked behind him to make sure the door had closed. "Last night, at the Premiere—"

"Look, Megan never told me you said she couldn't go until after we were already there."

"No, it's — wait. You took her to the screening?"

"She'd already bought the tickets, and she didn't tell me she wasn't allowed to go until I asked why she kept telling me to stop taking off my mask."

"Dad, you know she's been having nightmares. Why would you do that?"

"I didn't know! She said you weren't able to take your break to come get her and asked me to pick her up from your girlfriend's, so I did. No one told me anything."

Drake sighed. He wondered how his sister was doing after seeing the movie and felt the need to check in, but he was too mad. She was probably fine anyway, considering the thoughtless scare she'd given him last night.

"Did you see the Q&A?" If so, why hadn't his father said anything?

"No. We got there just in time to catch the movie, and we went home right after. Look, I have to go—"

"Wait!"

"Drake, I'm late. Hurry up and say what you need to say."

"Okay." He wasn't sure how to word it. It didn't feel like news he could just give out suddenly and with no warning. "Last night, when the showing was over, I had to clean up the auditorium. You know, like usual." He was rambling, and his dad noticed this.

"The point, Drake," Winston rushed, bouncing on his heels.

"The theater was empty except for this one guy in a Ghostface costume," Drake continued. "I thought it was a prank, but when I took the mask off, it was my assistant manager..." He paused, still trying to decide how to deliver the news, but he knew his father was growing impatient. "He's dead."

Winston furrowed his brows, surprised, but still not quite understanding why this information was so urgent. "What, like, he had a heart attack during the movie?"

"Someone slit his throat. I was at the police station last night having to answer questions—"

"Whoa, whoa," he said, stopping his son. "They don't think this has to do with...?"

"It does. He left me a note," the teen said. "Josh is back."

Finally, Winston let go of the door handle. He placed both hands on his son's shoulders. "Your stepbrother is dead. He's not coming back."

"Then someone else wants to kill me," he said, his voice cracking. He sighed with frustration and looked at the ceiling as his eyes watered over. "Fuck," he whispered. He didn't want to cry again.

"That's not gonna happen. You're gonna be fine. They'll catch this fucker in no time."

"That's what everyone said last year."

Winston exhaled. "Okay. Here." He reached into his pocket, then passed over the family cell phone.

"What is this?"

"For emergencies. If you need me, call Franklin."

"Dad—"

"Just hang out at home today, and stay close to your sister. The second I get back, we'll figure something out."

"I don't wanna be alone with her." It wasn't because he was angry with her. It was because he couldn't handle the responsibility of keeping her safe. Last year had been hell. He didn't want to go through that again.

"You'll be fine. Just keep the door locked, and don't open it for anyone." It was the basic rule you'd give to a kid who was staying home alone, but this didn't feel like it would be enough to stop a cold-blooded killer. "I've really gotta go now, son." He reached for the door handle.

"Dad—" Drake grabbed his arm, and when the man turned back to him, he vulnerably admitted, "I'm scared."

"I know. It's okay." He gripped his head in both hands, pulling him closer so that he could kiss his forehead. "It's okay. I'm not gonna be gone that long. We've gotta get some money so we still have a door to lock ourselves behind come tomorrow. Otherwise, we'll be defenseless and on the street. Okay?"

Drake nodded, holding his sobs in. He realized he wasn't going to get the comfort he was hoping for. This must be what Megan always felt like with him. Drake was never able to give her what she needed either.

"You're gonna be okay. Alright?"

What he wanted to say was, 'Please don't go', but instead he responded with a silent nod.

"I'll be back soon," the man said, pulling away.

"Just be careful," Drake pleaded. Despite the hatred that was present between him and his father, they both depended on each other, and Megan depended on them sticking together.

Winston nodded, then opened the door and headed down the stairwell.

Drake stayed there for a moment to collect himself, then he went back to their apartment. Megan opened the door for him when he knocked because he'd ran out without his key. He said nothing to her and went into the kitchen. The teen opened the fridge, staring at the empty space. Part of him was starving, and the other part was full of nerves. The hunger won, for the half an egg hadn't been nearly enough, but there was nothing here to satisfy it.

"Drake—" she started softly, but he interrupted her.

"I can't believe you went behind my back like that," he snapped.

She was quiet for a moment, deciding whether to continue to push the conversation and check in on her brother after last night's prank or go along with the argument. She went with the usual, for she was more comfortable with the familiarity. They both were.

"You weren't being fair. I can handle myself."

"Yeah, well, next time you have a nightmare, don't wake me up crying because I honestly don't give a shit. How's that for fair?" He slammed the refrigerator door, then opened two neighboring cabinets, but there was nothing inside. "Damn it!" he whispered to himself, closing those doors aggressively, too.

"You're a jerk."

"You said you can handle yourself. I'm just letting you do that. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Why are you so mean all the time?"

"I'm mean?" he said, baffled, but instead of throwing her own actions back in her face, he vented. "I don't know, Megan. Maybe because we're broke. We can't afford food. We can hardly afford a roof over our heads. I work all day, and we still struggle to get by. What's the point anymore?"

He knew the point. The point was Megan. He'd be long gone if not for her, and maybe sometimes he resented her for it.

"And whose fault is that?" she said coldly.

Drake froze when he heard those words. They hit him harder than his father ever could. "I know it's my fault! You don't always have to remind me! It's my fault Mom's dead! It's my fault everyone is dead! It's my fault we have to stay here in this shithole! It's my fault we're stuck with our alcoholic dad! I ruin everything! I know! I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up! I'm sorry the wrong brother died!" He could feel the tears stinging his eyes. He was so tired of crying. He was tired of feeling weak and powerless. "Fuck!" He quickly went over to his bag and unzipped it, then pulled out the orange pill bottle. Without another word, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Drake struggled with the lid for a moment, and he swore under his breath with frustration as water leaked from his eyes. When he got it open, he used whatever be could find nearby to crush and snort the pills, then he stood there, slowing his breathing and drying his wet cheeks.

As he stood there, avoiding peeking at the mirror, the guilt kicked in. Sure, Megan could be a little terror, but she was just a kid.

Last year, he'd overheard Walter calling him a terror, and here he was thinking about his little sister in the same way. Last year, his feelings had been hurt upon hearing that, but now, he understood his stepfather. Drake had truly been a terror to raise — lazy, shit at school, disrespectful, argumentative, cocky. Megan wasn't any of those things. Well, maybe argumentative, but other than that, she was a good kid. He didn't know how Walter had done it. Drake was more than enough on his own, but with Megan and Josh added in, they were a handful.

Drake couldn't even take care of himself, and now he had Megan to look out for. Plus, sometimes he had to take care of their drunken father. It was like he had three kids to take care of now, too, and the stress was suffocating him. Any day now, he could blow, even worse than he just had.

When he'd calmed down, he went back into the main room and found Megan on the loveseat, watching the staticky television since that was the only thing to do in this apartment. He squatted down next to his bed and started to put away the medicine, but Megan stopped him.

"Can I have one?" she asked.

Drake paused, conflicted. "These are only for if the pain is really bad."

"It is really bad," she said, and she pulled up the side of her shirt. There were multiple bright red welts there, with splotchy bruising surrounding them.

Drake couldn't look at it for long. It was just another thing that was his fault. He popped the lid off the bottle, then gave her one of the pills. Afterwards, he put the container back in his bag where it belonged and zipped it closed. He wanted to lay down and sleep, but she was sitting on his bed, so he sat next to her and absently watched the movie that was playing: Evil Dead Rise. Of course. The siblings sat in silence.

---

His eyes shot open when he heard a loud crash. Drake lifted his heavy head off the back of the loveseat. He couldn't remember falling asleep. Evil Dead Rise was still on the tv, and it was at the part where the hot demon lady was trying to break into their apartment. This was probably about halfway into the movie, so he hadn't slept long, which was unusual with these pills. The teen looked to his left and saw his sister leaning against the opposite arm of the couch, fast asleep.

There was another loud noise, and he quickly realized that it was coming from the neighboring apartment. He rolled his eyes as he heard a woman swearing at the top of her lungs. Moments later, a male voice followed suit. The junkie neighbors were at it again.

The only thing he could hear over their incessant hollering was his stomach growling. He was so hungry. Besides the pitiful half an egg, the last things he remembered eating were the pizza rolls Nickii had made for lunch the day before. He checked his wallet, finding the three dollars from yesterday — one curved at the edges from where it had been rolled up.

He sighed, then turned to his sister. "Megs," he said, then he reached out and shook her leg. "Megan."

She was out cold. She'd probably be like that for a while. Drake stood and grabbed his key, then went back over to the girl and put the cell phone on the coffee table so she would see it if she woke up. Afterwards, he picked up his bag and opened the door, then nearly yelled out when he saw a tall figure walking by.

"Jesus, you okay?" It was the man from yesterday — the one who had knocked over the pens so Drake could avoid getting lectured by the landlord.

"You just scared me."

"You stupid bitch!" they heard from the neighboring apartment.

"I was trying to get some work done, but I can't do anything with these two screaming at the tops of their lungs," he said as he watched Drake lock the door behind him, then check, then double-check. "I don't know how you do it, dude. I'm five floors down and can't even focus." A bright red mark on pale skin caught his attention. "What happened?"

Drake shifted his body away. "It's nothing, Lars."

Lars gripped his forearm and twisted it, forcing the teen to show his burned and blistered skin. "Jesus..."

"It's okay." Drake pulled away.

"Your dad did that?"

Drake didn't answer, but he didn't deny it either. There was no point. Lars already knew. One night, he was kept up by loud arguing, so he'd stormed up here ready to rage, like he was currently doing with Drake's drug-addled neighbors, until he saw that the screaming was coming from two children. Their father's wrath had been so bad that night that the bloody and bruised teen accepted the stranger's offer to stay over at his place. He got Megan, who hadn't yet been harmed, and hurried out of the room. When their father attempted to follow them, demanding they get back inside immediately, Lars inserted himself between the drunk and his kids. He gave Winston a stern warning, then firmly suggested he walk away. The abusive man backed down, returning to his home and slamming the door shut. Since then, Lars welcomed the Parker siblings into his apartment any time they needed a safe haven.

"Come with me back to my room and let me bandage it up."

"It's okay. I was just—"

"Coming to my room," Lars finished for him, and there was something about the twenty-seven year old that made Drake a little fearful to disobey him. Maybe the muscles. "You need to put something on it so it doesn't get infected. Hold on." He went over to the next room, then banged the side of his fist against the door. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Fuck you!" a woman yelled back, but the arguing ceased.

Lars led the way down the staircase, through the eighth-floor door, then into his apartment. He took him into his bathroom, then rifled through the medicine cabinet until he came up with some sort of cream and a roll of gauze. Next, he rinsed off his hands, then positioned the boy's arm so he could get a good look at the wound.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little," Drake replied. Actually, it hurt a lot, but he didn't want to say that. However, he couldn't act like it wasn't bothering him either because Lars was usually good about reading him.

"What was he mad at this time?" he asked as he squirted some of the cream onto his fingertips.

"Same old shit," Drake said.

"Alright, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." He gently began rubbing the cream in, pausing when his guest winced. "This okay?"

"Yeah."

They didn't say much. Drake could hear the television from where he stood. From the sound of it, he could tell that whatever was playing was old — way older than Lars. Maybe he had a preference for the classics like Vance.

"I'm almost done," the man said.

The cream provided instant relief, dulling the pain from a thousand bee stings to a single bee. He must've been having a physical reaction to the new feeling, for Lars chuckled when he glanced up at him.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah, a lot better." It showed in his voice.

The man washed his hands again, then dried them before he started wrapping the burn with the gauze.

Wanting to fill the silence, Drake asked, "What were you watching?"

"I was looking over some papers for work, but I had Rear Window going in the background."

"What's your favorite scary movie?" Drake said, jokingly quoting the Slice tagline while also showing a hint of irritation that his life had been reduced to a lame slogan.

Lars smirked, rolling his eyes. "I don't know if I have a favorite," he said.

"Come on. Everyone's got a favorite. What kinds do you usually watch?"

"I guess classics, or modern horror set between, like, the fifties to the seventies," he said.

"Like The Conjuring."

"No, I use the term horror very loosely. I like more of a slow, chilling watch," said Lars. "More like The Vast of Night, Last Night in Soho, Don't Worry Darling, The House That Jack Built. Yeah, that's probably my favorite: The House That Jack Built."

"Lars von Trier."

"That's right. You know a lot about horror movies."

"You wouldn't have really had a choice if you'd lived with my brother. We used to see all the new releases every week. He worked at the Premiere, so he got in free, and the manager loves me, so I could get away with not paying."

"All done," he said, and Drake examined his handwork. "Put these in your bag. You're gonna need to change it often to keep it clean." He passed him the cream and gauze roll. "How are you, by the way? I know today's..."

"I'm okay," he said, zipping his backpack. "Just..."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"You can tell me."

Drake hesitated. He knew the man wouldn't spread things around, so that's not what he was worried about. He just didn't like to talk about Josh. He wanted to. It's just that everyone always reacted strangely, like they didn't know what to say or like they were uncomfortable. Lars didn't seem like the type to respond that way.

"I guess I'm just struggling with everything...like understanding why...and how I feel about it." He had his head lowered when he vulnerably admitted, "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel."

"Feel how you wanna feel," Lars said. "It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. If you hate him for what he did, so be it. If you still can't help but love him, that's fine. He was your brother. He'll always be your brother."

This made Drake feel better. "You're right," he said. "Thanks."

"Of course. Fuck everyone else."

The boy nodded, then abruptly changed the subject. "So like...The House That Jack Built theatrical cut or director's cut?"

"Theatrical. I can't handle watching any extended scenes of kids getting killed."

Drake nodded, his eyes squinted as if in thought.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just a little concerning that that's your favorite movie, what with this copycat killer thing going on."

"You asked!"

"Still kinda sus, but you're off the hook for choosing the theatrical cut...for now."

"Which do you prefer?"

"Oh, director's cut all the way."

Lars scoffed.

"Always director's cut. It's what the director intended, and he's the one with the vision."

"How come it's okay when you say that?"

"Because I know I'm not the killer, but you..." Drake paused. "Yeah, I'm not so sure, bud."

"Yet you willingly entered my home alone with me."

"Yeah," Drake sighed, "and I'm kinda disappointed you didn't make your move."

Lars cocked his head to the side. His brows furrowed. "Should I be worried?"

"No, no, of course not. It's just how kids these days talk. Suicide jokes are in. I know it's probably a lot different from when you were a kid...like decades ago."

The man almost choked on air from scoffing so hard. "Decades?! Boy, who are you talking to?!"

"Or maybe centuries, judging by that gray hair," Drake said, pointing to the few silvery wisps around his ears.

Lars stood tall, his face serious. "You know I can kick your ass, right?"

The boy eyed him up and down, then simply shrugged his shoulders and gave an unimpressed, "Eh."

Lars chuckled and shook his head at the audacity. Drake was just fucking with him. Obviously, he put a lot of work into his body, so he felt a lot of pride towards it. He knew he was physically superior, and Drake knew it to, but that's how they joked around. It was sort of like a brotherly relationship.

Doubtfully, Drake said, "Really think you can catch me with those old man legs?" He dashed out of the room before even finishing that last word because he knew Lars would take him up on the challenge. He raced out the door and down the hall, laughing as the man yelled after him.

"Yeah, you better run!"

Once he was back in the stairwell, the tiny bit of joy he'd felt with Lars was gone, and he was back to being his normal, moody self.

He knew it was dumb to go off on his own, but something told him everything would be fine. Probably the oxy's kicking in. He swore under his breath when he missed one of the steps and just barely caught himself. Definitely the oxy's.

Mr. Bakshi's wife was in the window today. "Drake—"

"I know, I know," he said monotonously, moving right by her. "I'm going to pick up my check right now."

Now he had another two stops to make: the Premiere and the bank. His stomach growled. First thing's first: food.

When he opened the door, the bell dinged, and the sudden exposure to the chilly October air reminded him that he hadn't grabbed a jacket. It wasn't worth climbing thirteen flights of stairs for. He'd rather suffer.

His legs felt heavy, and his body was exhausted. He wanted to sleep. He didn't get much last night, and the narcotics he took both then and this morning didn't help things. He walked along in a daze, past the laundromat on the corner, past the empty, graffitied, windowless row of what used to be stores, past the fenced-in lot of broken-down cars surrounded by overgrown shrubbery that was abandoned when the owner, a seventy-seven year old mechanic, had passed away in his sleep.

On the next corner was a small mom-and-pop shop, which looked just as rundown as everything else, only it wasn't empty. Despite its close proximity, he didn't often go there. It was rare that he had the money, and if they did need something, usually his dad would grab it on the way back from the liquor store across the street.

His stomach growled, and it occurred to Drake that, because he hadn't cashed his check yet, he'd only have enough for one burger, and he'd have to go back after cashing his check in order to get his sister something to eat. Instead of going to Burger King like he'd planned, he turned off the sidewalk and crossed the parking lot. A bell dinged when he entered the little convenience store. There were bells on every door in this neighborhood. Perhaps it wasn't that strange, but when he lived at his old house, he didn't see the bells as often in the stores he would go to. Perhaps it was because this was a rougher neighborhood, and the workers wanted a warning when someone was entering their domain.

The couple that owned the store was Chinese, and although they weren't outright mean, on the few occasions that Drake had been in here, they would always watch him carefully, as if expecting him to steal something. Today was no different. There was no sign of the man, but the woman stood on a stepladder against the far wall, fixing the stack of toilet paper on the top shelf. When she saw him, she watched as he made his way to the back corner, where the hot food and soda fountain were located. She continued rearranging the tissue paper, but kept her focus on the teen.

Drake immediately laid out a square of tin foil, then took a bun. He picked up the tongs, then carefully eyed the slowly rotating wienies, sizing them up in his head. He was starving, and that was quite obvious in the way his stomach came to life. Hopefully, the owner didn't hear it. Drake picked the thickest sausage he could find, then dropped it into the bun. Next, he slid the foil down the counter until he came to a stop in front of the condiments. When he finished topping his hot dog, he wrapped it up.

This would hardly make a dent in his hunger. He was a growing boy. He was at the age where he could eat his family out of house and home...if only they had a house or home to begin with. He greedily eyed the chips, but he knew he didn't have enough for both. Also, he needed to grab a drink because he had a lot of walking to do today. Drake couldn't afford any of the bottles in the coolers, so he grabbed a cup and filled it up at the fountain. When he was done, he added a lid, then stuck a straw through the center. After trashing the leftover paper, he made his way to the front counter.

"Dan!" the woman called so suddenly that it made Drake jump. She then finished her sentence in Cantonese.

A younger male responded from the back room, and despite the fact that Drake didn't understand the words, he could hear the irritation in the voice. After a short back and forth, the woman won, and the guy entered the main room mumbling to himself about how on earth she could ever expect him to finish inventory if she kept yelling for him every two minutes. Drake recognized the boy. It was Dan, Hal's friend and fellow bully. Well, Dan didn't bother Drake so much anymore — not since Huntley had been murdered — but that didn't mean he wasn't still willing to beat Drake into a pulp. Maybe it just never happened anymore because he was never at school.

Once Dan saw the customer, Drake hung his head, hoping the two could have this interaction as if neither knew who the other person was. All these months, and he never knew that the shop owners were Dan's parents. Of course, he rarely came here, but still, it was weird, and he could tell that the teen was embarrassed to have been spotted — not just working here, but in this neighborhood in general.

The worker offered no greeting. He jabbed his wide fingers on the computer keys, then gave his total with a flat tone. "Three twenty-one."

Drake's heart picked up at this. He opened his wallet and pulled at the three dollar bills, then he peaked inside in search of the change. There was none. He knew there was none. He never carried change. "Um..." He set the wallet and money down, then slipped his hands inside his pockets, hoping that at some point after another transaction, he had tossed some loose coins inside. However, there was nothing inside except his keys.

His cheeks were burning up. He knew they were bright red, so he kept his eyes low as an attempt to hide this fact. This was so embarrassing. It would be different if it was just a stranger standing before him, impatiently waiting on him to get his shit together, but this was Dan, a guy who teased him for sport. Now Drake was giving him the ammunition — literally serving it to him on a platter. To make matters worse, the smell of the warm hot dog wafted into his nostrils, and his stomach growled eagerly. This time, it was loud enough that the woman could've heard all the way from her spot, but she was no longer there, thankfully having just disappeared into the back room only moments before. Still, Dan heard it.

Drake hopelessly picked up his wallet again, desperately wishing a quarter would magically appear inside to save him the humiliation of saying never mind on the drink in front of someone who enjoyed watching him suffer. Unfortunately, the wallet was completely empty, just like his stomach.

"Forget it," Dan said, picking up the dollar bills and tapping a few keys. The register popped open.

Drake looked up at him with surprise. "Are...are you sure? I'm sure I have it—" He didn't, and he knew he didn't, but he tried his pockets again anyway, pulling out his keys this time to see if anything was hiding underneath.

"It's fine," the boy said.

Ashamed that his high school bully — a guy who thrived at making things hard for him — felt pity towards him, Drake collected his things and silently thanked him, tucking his tail between his legs like a wounded puppy. He turned towards the glass door, then froze when he saw Hal reaching for the handle.

"Shit!" In an instant, he hurried around to the side of the counter and ducked down. He wasn't sure why he did it. He knew Dan would tell his friend who was taking shelter there, and then Drake would look like a coward for hiding.

"S'up, Danny boy?" Hal greeted as he approached the register. "Wanna shoot some pool at the Premiere?"

"I can't. I have to help my mom with inventory."

"I thought your dad always did inventory."

He has to buy new cleats for Viv before the game tonight."

Hal frowned, then occupied himself by grabbing a pair of sunglasses off of the rack next to the counter. "Didn't your sister just get new cleats, like, last month?"

Dan shrugged, then glanced down at Drake, who was surprised he hadn't been outed yet.

"Well, what time will you be done?" He switched the glasses out for another pair.

"I don't know. Maybe an hour?"

Hal groaned. "What am I supposed to do for a whole hour? This neighborhood is a total dump." After a moment, he said, "Didn't Drake move into that shitty apartment complex down the street?" This sparked an idea. "Maybe I can find him and finish what I started yesterday."

"Go look," the worker said, unamused by the idea.

It occurred to Drake that Dan wouldn't give up his hiding spot and was actually trying to help. Wow, he really did pity him for being a poor, starving loser.

"Nah, I'm tired. Coach had me running extra laps today. I'll just hang back there with you and sit in front of the fan." He put the glasses back, then started to make his way behind the counter.

"Wait!" Dan said, and Drake tensed his muscles. "Check the ice machine for me, will ya?"

"Why do I have to?"

Dan rolled his eyes. "Just check. Let me know if I need to fill up more bags." To further persuade him, he said, "The faster I finish inventory, the faster we can hang out."

"Ugh, fine."

Once Hal was turned around, Dan crossed Drake's path, then waved him along. Drake followed him into the back room, then down the hallway. The worker pushed open the door for him.

Drake felt indebted to him. He wasn't sure why Dan decided to help him, but he knew Hal would've beaten the shit out of him if he'd gotten ahold of him. "I really appreciate this—"

"Whatever," he interrupted. "Don't think this means we're friends. I'm only helping because this is my family's business, and I can't have you and Hal destroying everything. If we were anywhere else, I'd be right there helping him stomp you," he said. "Now get your broke ass out of here."

Drake took the insult — something that he was a little too used to doing these days — and left.

---

Drake got a ride with a random stranger because he didn't give a fuck about safety apparently with the oxy in his system. He was dropped off on the side of the road near the Premiere. He walked the rest of the way there, cutting through a line of trees and angering the fallers who were sawing there. He apologized for the disturbance, but the disgruntled employees continued to glare at him as he quickly passed. To be fair, they probably couldn't hear him over the noisy chainsaws.

Next, Drake started across the parking lot. He dreaded being here today. It was crazy that they were even open after what had happened, but this was a big day for horror fans, what with Slice releasing nationwide tonight.

The Ghostface costumes that had donned the light posts yesterday were gone. The only sign that the movie was showing here was the poster that hung amongst all the others on the outside wall. The marquee had been changed, and it now said, "Rest in peace, Anthony. We'll miss you." Thank God for the oxy. He didn't need another guilt trip right now.

Also like yesterday, the parking lot was full of cars, but these weren't regular cars today. They were news vans.

"Drake!" one man said when he noticed the infamous massacre survivor. Drake recognized him. He was the rude asshole who had interrogated the teen for personal information about his father last night. Now his inconsiderate pushiness made sense. He hurried towards Drake and shoved a microphone in his face. "Kemper North. KWW-News. What do you think about the murder of Anthony Wright?"

Drake waved the microphone away, leaving the question unanswered, but he was unable to speed away, for a large crowd of reporters had gathered around him. He tried to push his way through, but everyone moved with him.

"Drake, were you here during the time of the murder?"

"Drake, what was your relationship with Anthony like?"

"Drake, is it true the killer was wearing a Ghostface costume?"

"Drake, do you think there's a copycat killer in Woodsboro?"

"Drake!"

"Drake, over here!"

"Drake!"

He felt like the swarm was swallowing him whole. Once he was inside, he took a deep breath, then moved away from the glass. They were like moths flattened against it, desperate to get inside to hover around a light source — or in this case, their source of income. Whoever got Drake to talk would receive fortune and fame, and they were all fiending for it.

Thankfully, unlike outside, the Premiere wasn't very busy at the moment. It was still early. The movie wouldn't officially come out until seven. That's when people will start crowding in, unless the murder-in-plain-sight had understandably turned everyone off. It made sense, but he knew that wasn't the case. People in this town celebrated the massacre, like it put them on the map.

Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. Many people understood that it was a tragedy, but it was like a train wreck that no one could take their eyes off of, so even if they thought it was terrible, they would still see the movie. There were some weirdos who were into the whole thing, like Vance and Ja'won. Drake didn't get it. Last year had left him with a lot of trauma. How had it not done the same for them? They'd almost died, too. Why was no one as bothered by the events as Drake?

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Jessica asked, talking to him like he was porcelain and could break at any moment. She wrapped her arms around him. "How are you doing?"

He felt a release of serotonin. He hadn't realized it before, but he needed this hug. There was a long silence, for he allowed himself to relax in her comforting arms. For a moment, he felt safe, and then he pulled away, and he was back in the real world — a world where someone wanted to kill him. "I'm okay. I just came to pick up my paycheck."

She was still touching him, rubbing her hand up and down his arm. The gentleness brought goosebumps up on his skin.

"Helen's in the office."

"She's back already? That was fast."

"She must've been flying. It's nearly a ten-hour drive, but she was here to unlock the doors this morning."

"Damn. Let me go talk to her. I'll catch up with you later."

"Okay. Call me if you need anything, alright?"

Drake thanked her, then went through the employees only door. Helen's was the first office on the left. Her door was open, so he could see inside. The room was rather small, and it looked even smaller than it was because there was so much clutter. Despite the mess, Helen could find whatever she needed immediately. She found comfort in the chaos.

The woman was seated at her desk, looking down at a Ghostface mask in her hand. Drake swallowed when he saw it, then he rapped on the wooden door with two knuckles.

Helen looked up with a start, and when she saw him, she quickly tossed the mask inside a drawer and closed it a little too loudly. "Drake," she said with sadness in her voice as she stood. She moved around her desk and pulled him into a hug. "How are you doing, you poor thing?"

"I'm okay."

Her embrace wasn't as comforting as Jessica's. He loved Helen, but sometimes she squeezed him a bit too tightly, and it felt like she'd never let him go. Sometimes the hugs felt a little too friendly for a boss/employee relationship, but he didn't complain because he was grateful for the job.

"Mm!" She squeezed even tighter before letting go. "Have a seat," she urged, but instead of returned to her computer chair, she leaned against the front of her desk, leaving less than a foot of space between them. "I was told you found his body. I can't imagine what that must've been like for you."

For some reason, he couldn't look at her, so he put his eyes on his lap. "I'm okay," he said again.

"I wish I would've been here sooner for you."

He didn't know what to say to this, so he didn't say anything.

"Jessica informed me about the Q&A. I had no idea Anthony was gonna do that. He went over my head to my bosses and planned that. They knew I'd never let that happen on my watch."

"It's alright."

"I was against the Ghostface costumes, too. I argued with them for weeks. They're so rotten." Again, Drake responded with silence, so she continued. "So what brings you in? I thought you weren't working today."

"I'm just here to pick up my check," he said.

"Right, right!" She went over to her cabinet, fingered through some files, then she retrieved what he was asking for. She gave it to him, then returned to her place at the desk, but a little closer now.

Finally, he met her eyes and asked, "How are you holding up?"

"It breaks my heart for his family," she said. She could see the guilt he wore before he went back to looking down at his lap. "Hey, it's not your fault." Helen gently cupped his cheek, lifting his head.

"I know," Drake lied, but he said it because he didn't want to be touched. "Anyway, I have to get back home to my sister."

"Alright. Give me another hug."

He complied to satisfy her. She unknowingly pressed into his bruises without noticing that it made him wince. A pained noise left his lips, and she mistook it for a sound of enjoyment, so she made a similar one.

"Mm!" When she pulled away, she said, "I never get tired of that."

"Yeah," he agreed awkwardly, forcing a chuckle. "I'm gonna sneak out the back."

"Of course. If I would've known you were coming, I would've warned you about the crazies outside."

"It's okay," he said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"If you need anything, you let me know, okay, sweet pea?"

"I will."

Next stop: the bank. Thankfully, this went pretty uneventfully until he got back outside. There was a cemetery nearby — one he's visited a few times, but not nearly as often as he should. It was overwhelming. He could spend all day here, rotating between the graves of those who had been killed because of him.

The land was hilly, and there were several large trees dropping stiff brown leaves, littering the grass. Everything was dead here. Drake fit in perfectly. Even though he wasn't dead yet, he felt that way inside. It was only a matter of time anyway.

As he walked along one of the trails, he spotted another human in the distance. Her back was to him, and she was shaking as she leaned over the grave of her son Trevor. Drake swallowed down the lump he felt rising in his throat.

The boy pulled his backpack closer, unzipped one of the compartments, then pulled out a flat, wrinkled ball cap. He put it on his head in hopes that he could go unnoticed. Next, he took out the pill bottle and popped another oxy, then he continued along.

The headstones were in all shapes and sizes. Some were faded, and others were shiny and new. Josh's was relatively new, but his didn't look as nice as Trevor's. When Drake made it to his stepbrother's grave in the back corner of the cemetery, he sighed at the sight. It was wrapped in toilet paper like a mummy, like the town was trying to preserve his memory — no, not his memory, but Ghostface's.

Drake cleaned off the tissue, then looked down at the grave of his brother. Seeing Josh's name on a headstone was always chilling, and it made his chest feel tight.

He sat down in front of the stone, observing the damage. There were etchings made from rocks. Some were horrible insults while others were words of admiration. Someone had tried to scratch out the boy's name completely, but the bold letters were still clearly visible.

"Hey, Josh," he started quietly, childlike, but he didn't know what else to say. "I hope you're doing well." He outwardly cringed at his own words. They felt informal. Plus, what did that even mean? Josh was dead. He'd killed him.

It was a strange feeling — ending someone's life. It didn't feel good, so he didn't understand how Josh had it in him to do what he did. Nine people were dead because of him, and he'd gotten off on that. Meanwhile, Drake had only one death on his conscience, and knowing that his hands were capable of something so vicious disturbed him. He was scared of himself.

He played that night over in his head all the time, discovering things he should've done or said so that things wouldn't have ended with his brother losing his life. If Drake had just said the right thing — if he could've just gotten through to him — this wouldn't've had to happen. Why couldn't Josh have just talked to him first?!

"I wish you were here so I could tell you how much I hate you," Drake said harshly, and then he softened, "and how much I love you and miss you and need you." His voice cracked, and his eyes welled up with tears. He attempted to swallow down the lump in his throat, but it didn't leave. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became, until he gave in and let the tears fall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them. He struggled to speak as he wept. "Everything's so messed up without you. I'm so messed up. I don't know how to do this alone."

Drake's blurry eyes found the scar on his wrist. He caught himself tracing it often, for the skin protruded there — a three-inch scar reminding him of what he'd done. He felt weak for doing it...but he also felt weak that he couldn't finish it. He blamed Megan for that.

If Josh wouldn't have brought their little sister into their dispute, Drake wouldn't be here right now. He wouldn't have fought so hard, and he never would've found it in himself to murder his brother. In that moment, he'd had a choice between Josh and Megan, and he had to go with her. They were blood relatives, and she was innocent. If Josh didn't drag her into their mess, Drake would've taken the punishment he deserved. Everyone would've been better off that way. Drake would've been better off.

"I'm so scared," he sobbed, but he wasn't scared of the copycat killer. Well, he was, but not as terrified as he was of himself. Every day, he woke up wishing he hadn't — wishing he would've died in his sleep. He was ready to go. How was he supposed to fight Ghostface when they both had the same end goal? How was he supposed to protect Megan this time around when he was hoping the masked psychopath won this time?

What reason did Drake have to stay? He only caused problems, and he wasn't enough for anyone. He wasn't a good friend. He wasn't a good boyfriend. He wasn't a good son or brother. Everyone hated him, and he hated himself.

Perhaps that was why he walked out of the apartment despite his dad's orders. Perhaps he was hoping Ghostface would make his move already. That's how these things work, right? In horror movies, the villain always attacks the main character early on to establish the target. The killer always fails, but he wouldn't this time. Whether Ghostface wanted to or not, Drake would make sure he didn't come out of their confrontation alive, even if he had to take the knife and do the deed himself. He was done running, and he was done fighting. All he could do was wait, but where was his blood-thirsty opponent?

A twig napped behind him. It was time.

Drake whipped his head around, relieved that the emotional strife he'd suffered over the past year wouldn't last much longer, but instead of his savior Ghostface, he saw Mindy. Embarrassed, he turned away and sniffled as he wiped his eyes.

"Drake?"

He didn't even have the energy to fight with her anymore. There was no point anyway. He could retort all he wanted, but nothing he said was real, whereas her remarks about him were true. He was pathetic. He did peak in high school, and he was a loser.

"Go ahead and insult me. There's nothing you can say that can make things worse."

Instead, she sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "What's wrong?"

"Don't pretend you care. I know you hate me. I know I'm an asshole, so just say what you wanna say and then leave me alone." His nose was stopped up, which made some letters harder to pronounce than others. "But you better make it good because I've been telling myself plenty of mean things already."

He was mad at himself for crying in front of his nemesis, but he couldn't help it, even when he tried to dry his eyes with his sleeve. This frustrated him, and like earlier when he'd tried to stop the tears before they'd started, it only made things worse. Drake broke into sobs, and no matter what he tried, he couldn't gain control of himself. He put his head in his knees, and covered it with his arms, shamefully trying to hide himself away while also hoping it would shield him from her hurtful words.

"It should've been you, you selfish piece of shit. You should've finished what you started. Nobody wanted you. You're an accident. You irresponsible, entitled kid. Pathetic loser. Whore skank slut pussy—"

"Drake?"

It took him a moment to decipher the differences in the two voices. At first, it all sounded like Mindy, but he realized she'd only said one word: his name. The rest came from his own lips. They were words that had been directed at him over the last two days, and they were all catching up to him.

More sobs escaped him. He remained hidden, and he gently rocked himself for comfort, just like Josh had done for him when he'd had a panic attack at Vance's party. Maybe since he was at his brother's grave, he could pretend that Josh was soothing him again. Drake could even swear he felt a pair of arms around him.

Wait, he definitely could feel arms around him. Mindy? Hugging him? First, he had Dan feeling bad for him, and now Mindy? Jesus, he really was pathetic. She'll never let him live this down. She'll use this against him later. Anytime they bickered, even if he was on top, all she would have to do was pull this out of her pocket, and it would shut him up. She would always win.

When he heard a sniffle, he froze. Finally, he lifted his head, and he saw Mindy's red, puffy eyes, which leaked tears. He immediately felt bad for his previous thoughts. Maybe she wasn't like him at all. Maybe she was better. Maybe he was the problem.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hoping he hadn't upset her.

Her face tightened with the question, and she closed her eyes, for she was trying hard to keep from sobbing like he was. Water continued streaming down her cheeks. When she was finally able to speak, her voice unintentionally came out on a whisper. "I just miss him."

He understood why she'd sat down and joined him now rather than left. In all of Woodsboro — in all of the world — they were the only two people grieving Josh's death. No one else cared. Sure, some had a weird fascination with the Ghostface side of him, but not many people knew the real Josh Nichols. Drake did. Mindy did. That's why they both found themselves here exactly a year after the tragic loss.

"I'm sorry." He was going to say more, but he'd be talking for hours if he tried to list all the things he needed to apologize to her for. He was sorry for always being so mean to her. He was sorry for killing Josh. He was sorry for being like his mother and setting the killer off in the first place. He was sorry for so much.

Mindy met his eyes when she softly spoke. "I forgive you."

Those words hit Drake harder than his father's fist. Most people would say, "It's okay," or "It's not your fault." Sometimes Drake even said these things to himself. It never changed anything, though. It felt like fake pleasantries. There was no denying that the events of last year were Drake's fault. Mindy wasn't denying it, but she wasn't focusing on the blame. Instead, she saw that he genuinely acknowledged his wrongdoings and held deep regret for his actions, and she accepted that. She was the first one who did. Finally, there was one person in his life who knew his shame and didn't hate him for it. If only he could forgive himself so easily.

She had no idea how much he'd needed to hear those words. It didn't fix anything, but for a moment, he felt understood. That's what he needed most — not people trying to convince him that he wasn't the cause of all this.

She was still holding his eye contact, and for the first time, he saw her — like really saw her...

And then he felt her — her lips on his — but only for a second, and then she jerked away.

"Fuck," came out of his mouth, and then, as it really started to set in what he'd done, "Fuck!"

"Why did you do that?"

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. It didn't mean — Jesus Christ! What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"He's literally six feet beneath us right now."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. Everything's just so mixed up in my head."

"He was your brother!"

The way she was looking at him now made him wish he was six feet below, too. Just moments ago, he had felt like redemption was possible, but just like that, his true self emerged and ruined everything in a matter of seconds. She no longer had that same grace. Nothing had changed. He was still a whore.

"I know. I'm—"

She scoffed as she got to her feet, then stalked away.

"Mindy, ple — Mindy! Wait, I—"

But she was gone.

"Stupid!" he said to himself, slapping the side of his head, then he did it again. "You're so fucking stupid! You idiot!"

---

By the time he returned home, Megan was awake. He made his way inside, and her eyes lit up when she saw the Burger King bag and the grocery sacks in his hands. He figured that, since the dollar store was across the street from the restaurant, he might as well get some food for the house.

"I got you a burger," he said, and he gave her the meal.

It was no longer hot, but she didn't care. She unwrapped the thin, greasy sandwich and happily took a bite. Drake set the plastic bags down on the counter, then began putting the few items away. It didn't take long. All he got were hot dogs (he'd forgotten the buns), two pizzas, a loaf of bread, peanut butter, Boo Berries (Megan's favorite, which he'd chosen because he felt bad about his blow-up) and milk. Afterwards, he sat down next to her, holding out one of the bags.

"I got you something," he said.

"You did?" She took it, then peered inside to see a coloring book and a pack of colored pencils. She pulled it out, looking at the unicorns on the cover.

When she smiled, it made Drake both happy and sad. He was happy because his sister was happy, but he was sad that something so small excited her so much. She deserved better.

"I know I've been an asshole," he said. "I've just been really stressed, but that's no excuse. I'll do better." He was surprised when his sister moved closer and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back. When he pulled away, he said, "I really need to go to the laundromat today. We don't have anything clean." Plus, he had blood stains to get out of his uniform. "Hurry up and finish eating, okay?"

That wouldn't be hard. She was already over halfway done with the pitiful burger. Drake grabbed the laundry basket, and soon they were off. He felt some of his worries melt away when he saw her carrying her new book and colored pencils with a smile.

Halfway down the stairs, they were met by Lars, who was also carrying a basketful of clothes. They walked together, and thankfully, Mr. Bakshi had his back turned as he rummaged through the mess on top of the bookshelf.

"I've never misplaced it. Not once," he was saying. "Where is that key?!"

Although the landlord left Drake alone, his son didn't do the same. Reyansh was big and tall, fitting in perfectly with the rest of the football team although he was a grade or two younger. He was quiet, or at least he was around Drake, but his angry glare said enough. During the few times he was found sitting in his father's office with a phone in his hand, he never failed to look up from his game and challenge Drake to a hate-fueled stare-off. This time wasn't any different. Like usual, Drake ignored him. What a fucking weirdo.

The three made their way down the street, then entered the laundromat, a small brick building that felt even smaller on the inside due to the many large machines. The outdated checkered floor was faded, stained, and covered with black marks from the screechy wheels of the rolling carts. Machines lined the left and back walls. To the right were the doors to the bathroom and office, a vending machine full of travel-sized laundry products, a rack that was missing more magazines that it had — and the ones that hadn't been stolen were over a decade old — and a bulletin board flooded with missing pet posters of animals that were probably long gone by now and help wanted ads from employees who targeted this area because they knew they wouldn't have to pay the residents in this neighborhood as much while working them harder. Near the vending machine were a couple square tables with metal folding chairs — some missing — and soda cans and snack wrappers that people were too lazy to dispose of themselves. The unpleasant scent of mold was overpowering enough to pierce through the soap and bleach smell.

Unsurprisingly, the laundromat was owned by the Bakshi's, so, like the Overlook Apartment Complex, there wasn't much hope that anything here would be updated or repaired.

Megan sat down in a seat in front of the large glass window and colored while the two guys added their loads and started up their machines. Lars was kind enough to share his detergent and fabric softener, and Drake was grateful that he didn't have to spend the extra money.

He was glad for the man's company. He always dreaded having to make trips to the laundromat because waiting around when he didn't have a cell phone was so boring. It gave him too much time to think.

"It's fucking insane that I can hear them five floors down," Lars was saying, still not over their noisy neighbors. "I swear I'd jump out the window if I lived right next door to them."

"When we first moved in, they woke me up one of the first few nights," Drake said. He sat on the long table in front of the machines. "She was yelling for help, so I went over there to check. I don't know why she was yelling. She was the one beating the shit out of him, and then she yelled at me for not minding my own business and tried to attack me until my dad came out and stopped her."

"They're batshit crazy."

"Hi, boys," came the voice of an elderly woman, the one who had rescued Drake from the hands of Officer Jones. She had curly white hair the color of the moon, and it came down to her shoulders. She was short and hunched, making her about the same height as Megan. She had her walker again today, but this time, there was a basket of clothes attached.

"Hi, Ms. Tannenbaum," they both greeted.

"It's good seeing you today," she said, showing off her dentures with an overjoyed smile.

"You, too."

She was here every day. Drake wasn't sure if it was because she somehow had a shit-ton of laundry, or if it was just something to do to get out of the apartment for a while. She lived alone in a room on the bottom floor, and as far as he knew, she never had family over.

"Drake, do you mind helping out an old lady?"

She asked this every time they ran into each other, and every time, he agreed. He hopped off the table and emptied her basket into the machine, then inserted her coins into the slot because her hands were too shaky to do it herself.

"You're looking extra good today," Lars complimented. "You're glowing."

"I met a man at bingo last night."

"What?"

"Yeah. There I was, minding my own business, and he came and sat down right next to me. I just looked straight ahead. Like this." She posed as if for a picture, then continued her story. "A girl's gotta play hard to get, you know? Remember that, Megan. You let those boys chase you until their feet can't go anymore."

The girl giggled.

"Megan's too young for boys to be chasing after her," Drake said.

"Am not."

"You're eleven."

"If I'm mature enough to deal with a killer chasing after me, then I think I can handle a few silly boys."

She wasn't wrong, and being reminded about the murderous maniac filled him with guilt for having not told her that he was back and craving more blood.

Lars spoke up, "A few boys?! I don't think so, ma'am."

She shrugged with a smirk and went back to her coloring.

"Drake, are you hearing this?"

He knew nagging her now would only annoy her, and he didn't want to get on her bad side when they were having an alright day. Plus, he was the last person that should be saying anything about the number of love interests anyone had. Josh taught him that.

"I think she can hold her own. Megan's been torturing boys since the day she was born," he said. "Me. I'm 'boys'."

"Careful, Parker," his sister replied. "I know where you sleep."

He held out his hand as if to say, 'See?', and Lars laughed, then turned back to Ms. Tannenbaum.

"Alright, so then what happened with this mysterious bingo man?"

"Well, he didn't say anything the whole night, then during the last game, he said to me, 'I've got a lot of numbers on my card. The only one I'm missing is yours.'"

"He did not!" Lars exclaimed, and Drake chuckled.

"He did." She nodded, her head moving slowly with age. "When the game was over, he walked me to my car and gave me a kiss right here." She pointed to her cheek.

"That's so sweet."

"And then I took his hand and pulled him into the back seat so we could fool around."

"Ms. Tannenbaum!" Lars said with shock, and Drake laughed.

"You two boys could learn a thing or two from him," she said.

"You're probably right. It's been at least six months since I've hooked up with a girl."

Megan rejoined the conversation then. "What is 'hooked up'?"

"Uh..." He immediately regretted voicing that and sheepishly looked to Drake to clean up his mess.

"It's just another way to say dating," her brother said after glaring at Lars. "And to not-so-subtly change the subject, Ms. Tannenbaum, I didn't get a chance to thank you yesterday."

"What happened yesterday?" Megan asked nosily.

"Officer Jones stopped me again, but she made him leave me alone."

"If I had my cane, I would've given him a good whack over the head to show him what for. He's a weasel."

The group continued talking until the clothes were finished washing. Drake put Ms. Tannenbaum's clothes in the dryer for her and got it started. Short on money despite having just cashed his check, Drake put all of his wet clothes in his basket, then he and his sister departed.

As they made their way down the street and back to their apartment, they heard a honk, and Drake flinched. He turned to see a familiar beige Jeep. Inside, he saw Jaysen, EC and Mick.

"What's up, fuckers?" EC said from the backseat, where he sat between two hot girls.

"Dude, chill," Jaysen said from the driver's seat. "Come on, man. Hop in."

"Where are you going?" Drake asked, stepping closer to the car.

"Band practice."

"I can't today—"

EC groaned obnoxiously, but Jaysen was the one who spoke. "Dude, come on. You can't keep ditching us."

"I've just been really busy with—"

"You have to come. We've got a gig at the Green Room tomorrow night, and Pedro finally convinced his cousin the music producer to come check us out. This could be our shot."

"So get your ass in the fucking car," EC said.

Drake sighed. "I'm babysitting."

"So? Bring her."

"Come on, dude," Mick said from the passenger's seat.

He wasn't really in the mood to play, but he felt bad for blowing them off so much, especially when they were so close to their dream...only, Drake wasn't sure if being a rockstar and touring the world was something he wanted anymore. It felt so impractical when he had so much to take care of at home. Plus, he'd had enough of the fame already. It wasn't all it's cracked up to be.

Still, he remembered the late nights when they would fantasize about sharing their music with millions of people, so he knew how important it was for his bandmates. Therefore, he gave in.

Drake told them to wait while he took the wet clothes back to their room. Megan, who was still living off the high she'd received from being surprised with a coloring book, actually helped him, passing him each article while he leaned out the window and clipped them to the rope that hung there. Once they were finished, the two made their way back downstairs.

One of the girls, who introduced herself as Rachel, sat on EC's lap. The other got out so Megan could slide into the middle, then she looked at Drake expectantly. Part of him felt guilty — like he was disrespecting his girlfriend somehow — but what else could he do? There were no seats left. He got in, and she sat in his lap. Drake closed the door, and Jaysen stepped on the gas.

The girl had curly brown hair, matching round doe eyes, a slender nose, and full lips that spread into a wide grin when she looked down at him.

"What's your name?" Drake asked.

The girl scoffed, clearly hurt, but played it off with a smile. "We've met before. Many times."

"Right, I know. I'm just shit with names." He was lying. He didn't remember her at all. Maybe they only saw each other at parties when he was drunk or high. That would explain it.

"Mitzi."

"Oh, right," he said, playing it off. "I remember now." This seemed to satisfy her. He turned his attention to his little sister, wondering if she was judging him like Josh would've, but she wasn't looking in his direction. "You buckled?" he asked her.

"Yep," she said, tugging at the tight belt.

"Whose this cutie?" Rachel said.

Megan didn't answer, so Drake did. "She's my sister. Megan."

"Aw, look at you with your cute Nirvana shirt," she said as if it was unthinkable that such a young child could know who the band was. "That's adorable."

Drake knew the patronizing tone irked his sister. She hated when people looked down on her. Also, she had a bit of a crush on EC, so she automatically hated every girl he was with.

"Aw, look at you," Megan said, mirroring her tone, "with half your clothes missing because you have to dress like that for a guy to—"

Drake put his hand over her mouth, then gave the offended teen an apologetic smile. "She bites," he said as his sister fought against his grip.

"Yeah, I see that. Can you believe she said that to me, baby?"

Rachel looked at her date with a pout, but he was grinning with amusement. Did he know about Megan's crush? Drake doubted it. He probably just thought she was feisty, and he liked that about her.

"Ow! Fuck!" Drake pulled his hand away when his sister actually did bite him.

"Touch me again and, next time you fall asleep, you'll wake up with a colored pencil lodged in your throat. Capiche?"

Rachel was both dumbfounded and afraid, especially when her older brother backed down. "What the fuck is wrong with her?" she asked her date.

"What do you mean?" EC said, loving it. "It's apart of her charm."

Because Megan turned away from EC when she started to blush, Drake saw it, but he didn't tease her about it — even if she deserved it after calling him out in front of Nickii the day before.

The car hit a bump, and the girls in the backseat lifted off of the boys' laps, hitting their head on the cloth ceiling before landing again. They both let out a little scream, then laughed.

"Sorry!" Jaysen called from the front seat.

Mitzi gripped Drake's hands and wrapped them around her like a seatbelt. She intentionally placed one on her ass, but he quickly lifted it and pretended he didn't notice when she gave him a playful frown.

Thankfully, Megan didn't see any of this. Her eyes were on Rachel, who pulled a similar move on EC. However, EC was more receptive to it than Drake.

"Are you two hooking up?" Megan inquired, and the car went silent. Dead silent. She'd asked the question just as Mick was changing the song, so even the music cut out. Everyone stared at her.

She knew immediately that she'd said something wrong, and her face was red. However, Drake wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or anger, based on the way she was glaring at him.

EC broke the silence with a laugh. "I sure hope so," he said, and Rachel giggled.

A sudden cloud of smoke wafted into Drake's face, temporarily obstructing his vision. He knew the smell instantly, and he knew the culprit. "What are you doing, dude?!"

"Nothing, man," Mick said, his voice deeper than usual as he held in more smoke. He wasn't catching Drake's frustration. "What are you doing?" Then he released the smoke.

"Come on, bro. My sister's here."

"I'll roll down the window," he said, moving his hand to the button.

"Just get rid of it! You don't have to do that now."

"Alright, bro. Damn."

"Let me hit it first!" EC reached into the front and took the joint from Mick, then he puffed on it a couple times before passing it to Rachel, who followed suit. Smoke filled the backseat, and Drake waved it away from his little sister's face. EC took it back and took another drag.

Now that they were at a stop sign, Drake opened the door, then he slid out from under Mitzi. "Fuck this. Come on, Megan," he said from outside the Jeep.

Jaysen spoke over everyone's vocal reaction. "Whoa, where are you going?"

"I'm taking my sister, and we're going home," he said.

"Dude, chill out," EC said. "It's just a little weed. You used to smoke all the time."

He was annoyed that this information was said in front of Megan. Even when he tried to be a good influence, he failed miserably. "Fuck you."

"Alright, alright," Jaysen said, chiming in before things got any more hostile. "Look, just put it out. We'll be at my house in, like, ten minutes, and you guys can smoke there away from people. Drake, get back in the car. Please. This is a huge break for us."

He saw EC pass the joint to Mick, who put it out and placed the rest in a tin. Drake then looked at his sister. "What do you wanna do?"

It surprised her that he was leaving the decision to her. Usually, he did whatever he wanted and dragged her along. Maybe he knew that he'd get in a lot of trouble if Megan decided to tell their father about this incident, so he was, in a way, letting her know that he would bow to her will for a while in exchange for her silence. Or maybe he genuinely cared about her comfort and wanted her to feel safe.

Either way, she wanted to spend more time with EC. "We can stay."

"Look at that," EC said. "How is your little sister a thousand times cooler than you?"

Drake rolled his eyes, then met Megan's so he could gauge her sincerity. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

He got back in the Jeep, and then they were off. Drake was pretty quiet while the rest of his bandmates talked and joked and swore and yelled over one another. Mitzi very obviously continued to flirt with him. She ran her fingers through his hair and touched his thigh. It's been a while since he's had a girl practically throw herself at him, and he was ashamed that he struggled to resist her advances. The thought that Josh was right — that maybe he was like his mother — made him feel sick to his stomach.

---

I can act like I never really care
That many people only wanna see me bleed
Deep down it kills me, misery loves company
Said you hate me, well congrats, I do too
Said you hate me, well congrats, I do too
I can act like I never really care
But I swear, I'm scared

Drake avoided his sister's eyes as he sang the vulnerable words, but he could feel her watching him. This sort of thing happened often, where he could sense her observing him with concern. It should be the other way around. She shouldn't have to worry about her older brother.

He couldn't blame her. Last year, she'd witnessed what he'd tried to do with the gun, and she'd seen the hack job he'd done sewing up his own wrist after being the one who'd sliced it open. They never talked about it. They never talked about anything from last year. Something that consumed him every single day didn't seem to hold a place in her mind at all. Sometimes he wondered if she even remembered.

Perhaps that's why she'd wanted to see the movie so badly. Perhaps she wasn't lying when she said that everyone would be talking about it and she'd feel left out. Still, she'd watched it, and she was fine afterwards — fine enough to not see anything wrong with pranking him using the mask that had terrorized him over the span of a week last year.

The massacre affected them differently, he supposed. She was scared the night it happened, but when it was all over, she felt stronger for having survived it. Meanwhile, Drake felt small, weak and ashamed. Megan was always surrounded by a group of friends when he picked her up after school. She'd gained popularity after what had happened, while Drake's had diminished. How could they have gone through the same event and ended up living two totally different lives?

He knew the answer to that. Megan was a victim of circumstance. She never did anything wrong and was dragged into that mess because of her brothers. Drake, on the other hand, wasn't an innocent bystander. He was the reason it had happened. He'd caused the fear that had swept through the town. He'd caused the bloodshed. That's why he was shunned while his little sister was celebrated. She was the strong hero of the story. He was the reckless idiot that nearly got the poor kid killed.

Looking back, I'd say I would change everything
Shed my skin and throw it down the kitchen sink
No, I'd erase every trace of existing
Counteract the turbulence I seem to bring

But mistakes will always stay unchanged and follow me
My faults metastasized hurt people close to me
I know all of these people see the worst in me
Maybe they have a point, and it's just honesty

Maybe it's all my fault, maybe I'm the reason I'm alone
Maybe I pushed away everyone by twenty-one to let me see them vulnerable

Didn't want this for me
No, I didn't want this for me
And you don't have to feel bad for me
My favorite thoughts are where I'm vanishing

Speaking of vanishing, he already knew that he'd wish he could at tomorrow's gig. His band had pushed him to play a song that described his emotions about the massacre. They were more subtle about it when they brought it up, but he knew they were using his trauma to draw in a crowd. Despite his infamy, no one had heard much from Drake since the murders, but people were dying to know what he thought and how he felt, especially now with the movie's release and a copycat killer on the loose.

He used to be able to get up on stage and sing about his feelings with ease. It used to be therapeutic. Now all he felt was stress. Music had always been a safe haven for him, but now that was ruined by prying townies. They were piranhas, ripping and shredding his flesh, revealing his insides and leaving him vulnerable.

I can act like I never really care
That many people only wanna see me bleed
Deep down it kills me, misery loves company
Said you hate me, well congrats, I do too
Said you hate me, well congrats, I do too
I can act like I never really care
But I swear, I'm scared

"Alright, stop, stop." Jaysen held up his hand and turned to the group with a frown on his face.

Drake thought that, for once, they might actually make it through the whole song without their perfectionist guitarist stopping them to critique their performance, but he was wrong. He used to be like that. He used to care. Perhaps part of him still did, or at least wanted to, which is why he was here.

"Here we go," Mick said with a roll of his eyes.

"It was good!" EC said, trying to persuade his brother.

"Good, but it wasn't great," Jaysen said. "Guys, come on. We have to be serious. This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot for us."

Mick started for the exit. "I need a smoke break."

Jaysen groaned.

"Dude, lighten up," EC said, following his friend. His girl-of-the-day was right behind him. "We'll do fine."

"I don't wanna do fine. I wanna make a fucking statement," he said after him, but they were already gone. He sighed. "Does no one care about this band anymore?"

Drake placed his guitar on its stand. "They care. You know this is just how they always get in the zone. They're probably better high anyway."

Mitzi chimed into their conversation. "I'm gonna go to the little girl's room." Her gaze moved to Drake, but he avoided her rather obvious fuck-me eyes. "Okay, Drake?"

"Uh...yeah..."

She smiled. "Okay," she said cheerfully, then she disappeared inside.

Jaysen continued where they left off. "I just want this to go right."

"It will," Drake said, putting his hand on his shoulder. "You just gotta relax a little. This nervous energy is gonna transfer to them if you don't ease up."

"I need them to take it seriously."

"They are," he said. After a beat, he added, "Maybe you should join them. I doubt the scout wants to see stiff, robotic musicians. It's what we bring to the stage that gets the crowd going."

Jaysen hesitated, but gave in. "Alright. We'll pick it back up in ten."

Drake nodded, and then Jaysen was gone, leaving him alone with his sister. Megan was sitting at a table with a stack of CD cases next to her. EC's girl had been burning their songs onto discs, while Megan and Mitzi cut out the album covers and placed them, along with the burned CDs, inside each case to sell at the gig. Drake was looking forward to the money. It was never much, but he was grateful for every penny he could get his hands on.

"Cool if I join you?" he said.

She shrugged, removing the noise-cancelling headphones EC had let her use. "Come to tell more lies?"

"I didn't know what else to say," he defended.

"I'm not a child. I know what sex is," she said. "I mean, I watch horror movies, for Pete's sake. Kinda hard to avoid it."

"Right..." was all he could say.

"You didn't have to lie to me and let me embarrass myself."

He felt bad for hurting her feelings. "You're right. Even if I didn't wanna explain it, I could've handled it better without lying to you."

He awaited her response, hoping she'd accept his apology. After a moment, she gestured towards the chair. He sat down across from her, taking the seat that had belonged to Rachel, then he picked up a pair of scissors.

"Thanks for doing this," said Drake.

"It's fun," she said, her eyes focused on the paper she was cutting. "Like an art project."

"What'd you think of the band?"

"It was loud."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"It was good, though," she said.

"Thanks."

They sat in uncomfortable silence, not knowing what to say. Well, Drake knew what he needed to say. His father promised that they would discuss the recent murder tonight, and he felt like he should give his sister a heads-up. He didn't know how to say it. How do you break the news that someone wants to kill you...again?

He finished cutting out the picture and slid it into one of the cases, but he didn't pick up another one. "Can I talk to you about something serious?"

She met his eyes, wondering just how serious it was, and when she concluded that it was very serious, she set the items in her hands down. "What's wrong?"

"I... It's just...um... Last night...at the Premiere..."

"You're mad that I went behind your back," she said in an unenthused voice.

"No. Well, yes, but that's not it," he said. "At some point during the movie... You know my boss Anthony?"

"Yeah," she said slowly, waiting for the point.

"He...he was...killed."

She was stunned. "During the movie? Like at the Premiere?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"No one knows exactly. He was in a Ghostface costume in the front row with his throat cut when the movie was over." Once he said it, he realized that maybe he should've left out a few details, but he didn't dwell on it for too long. She's seen worse.

"In the same room as me?"

He hesitated before he broke the news. "Yeah."

"I don't understand. Why didn't they stop the movie?"

"I guess no one noticed it happen. Everyone was blending in with the Ghostface costumes. It wasn't until everyone had cleared the room that I found him—"

"You found his body?"

"Yeah," he said, appreciating the concern she had for him.

"Do they know who did it?"

"Not yet," he said, then he quickly added, "but they will," hoping to assure her when he saw her doubt. However, he didn't feel confident about the police's competency either — not after last year. "Also, he left a note...for me."

"Wait, so..." She was connecting the pieces and becoming increasingly distressed. "...so someone is copying what Josh did...and they're coming after you?"

"I think so," he said, and he swallowed hard. "But we'll be alright. You know? You've got me. We've got Dad."

"Why did it take you so long to tell me? Why didn't you tell me last night?" And then she remembered. "God, last night, I scared you—"

"It's okay. I mean, it was kinda fucked up, but I know you wouldn't have done it if you knew."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just..." He looked down at his lap, unable to be so vulnerable while making eye contact. "I don't know. I guess I...I was scared...and I didn't want you to worry." He reached across the table, placing his hand on top of hers. "I'm gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, too."

She was looking down at his hand, and when he followed her eyes, he found that he was shaking, his body saying the exact opposite as his mouth. He pulled back and hid his hands underneath the table.

"So what do we do now?"

"We just have to be careful. None of us needs to be alone, so you can just stay close to me and Dad, and if there's a day when we both have to work, maybe you can just hang out at the Premiere? I know that kinda sucks to have to sit there for so many hours, but maybe Desiree can come, too. I don't know. Dad's gonna sit down with us tonight so we can all figure out what to do."

"Can we go now?"

Drake hesitated, turning his head to the waiting instruments. He didn't want to let the band down, but he had so much going on in his life right now. They had to understand that, right?

He exhaled slowly. "Yeah. We can go now."

---

They didn't understand, but he couldn't blame them. Drake didn't disclose the reason for his abrupt departure. After much resistance, they finally accepted that he was leaving, and then they protested more when he asked for a ride home. Eventually, they gave in, for Jaysen knew they were wasting just as much time arguing about driving the Parker siblings home as they would actually doing it. It was dark by the time they made it to the Overlook Apartments.

"Drake," Jaysen called after him, so he turned back to the Jeep. "You better not fucking bail tomorrow. I swear to God—"

"I'm not gonna bail. I know this is important. It's what we always dreamed of." He was carrying a guitar and amp so that he could practice at home, for that was the only way their leader would allow him to leave.

"Alright," he accepted. "Because if you're a no-show, I promise you, I will find you and kill you."

Get in line, he thought, but he didn't say it out loud.

The brother and sister headed inside, and Drake couldn't believe his luck when they slipped by Mr. Bakshi yet again today without being noticed. They made the long climb up the stairs, panting for breath by the time they reached the top.

"Well, we definitely shouldn't have a problem outrunning the killer after all the leg muscles we've built up since living here," Megan said.

Drake was too out of breath to respond with anything but a scratchy, exhausted groan. They pushed on, entering the hallway, then the apartment. Once they were inside, they both frowned at the sight before them: their father, passed out on the floor, leaning against the back of the kitchen cabinets, still clutching a mostly empty bottle of liquor.

"Go get ready for bed, okay?" Drake said, nudging her forward.

She got her pajamas out of the laundry basket and went to the bathroom, leaving Drake to deal with Winston. He set down the guitar and amp, then squatted next to the man.

"Dad?" He shook his shoulder. "Dad?" This wasn't working. Frustrated, he stood. "Damn it, Dad!" He gave his leg a kick, unsure where the bravery had come from, but finally, the man awoke.

"Ooooh, my head," he whined, squeezing his eyes closed again as he clutched his temple. "Time izit?" he slurred.

"Almost nine," Drake answered.

"Shit, I'm gonna be late."

"At night."

He scrunched his brows with confusion. "I missed work?"

"No, it's still Friday."

"Oh, shit." Without warning, he fell onto his side as puke erupted from his mouth.

"Jesus, Dad..."

"Oh fuck..." He wiped the back of his mouth off on his hand, then looked up at his son. After a moment, he shook his head and laughed to himself. "I don' know how you have the audacity tostand there an' judge me," he said. "You're not shit either. Help me up."

Drake obeyed, throwing the man's arm across his shoulder. His father had gotten rather fit in prison, and he wasn't much larger now, but he had a small beer belly where his abs used to be, so Drake was struggling with the man's weight after his exhausting day.

"Look atcha. So fucking weak. An' here you stand judging me."

"No one's judging you, Dad."

"Ah, bullshit!" he waved his arm drunkenly, and that put them off balance. He hit the floor again, landing in his own vomit, while Drake was just able to catch himself. "Fucking shit!" he swore. "Look at you. Fucking good-for-nothing."

Drake took the insult and began lifting him again. Winston didn't help, so he was supporting all his weight.

"Can't get your ass ta work. Can't get your sisterup for school. What're you even good for? Huh?" he slurred. "Fucking useless. Tha's what you are."

These words hurt more than he'd ever let on. Drake's back was aching now, and he felt like he had pulled a muscle. His father hung from him, fully capable of getting to his feet at this height if only he wasn't too drunk to figure out how.

"Damn it, Dad! Will you help me?!"

The man chuckled. "Typical. Typical Drake. Always needin' help becausehe can't do shit for 'imself. You need to get your ass to work. Make yourself fucking useful for once." Finally, he was on his feet, but still rather unsteady. "You're failing your sister, yaknow? I hope you know that."

"Really? Because I'm not the one who's so scared of a serial killer that he has to get blackout drunk when he was supposed to be helping and protecting his kids. That sounds like a failure to me."

Megan entered the room just in time to see their father give Drake a mighty shove, pushing him into the dining table.

"Izzat what you think of me?!" Winston slapped him, speedy and sharp, and Drake's cheek stung like a dozen bee stings. "Huh?!" Another slap. "Is that what the fuck you think?!" Smack!

Drake was dizzy. Blood dripped from his lip. He was still pinned against the dining table, and the blow had been so hard that his entire upper body was turned with its force. He remained in this position as he coddled his cheek, for he feared making eye contact with the drunk. "No, sir," he conceded.

"Well, you must think that. If it came outta your mouth, then it was in your head."

"No, sir."

He stepped back, pointing a stiff finger at Megan. "So that's what she thinks then?!" He started to move towards her, and the frightened child was frozen with fear.

"No, sir!" Drake exclaimed, holding his hand up to stop him.

Winston turned back to his son. "Then which is it?! Izzit you?!"

Drake knew one of the Parker kids were in for a beating tonight no matter what, and he had to make sure it was himself. This argument was his own fault anyway. "I..."

"I?" the man pushed, impatient.

"I said it, but I didn't mean it. It just came out—"

His father was storming towards him before he could finish his sentence. Drake lifted his arms for protection. Winston grabbed him by his biceps and shook him violently.

"Why you cowering?! Huh?! You're gonna mouth off to me and then cower away likea pussy?!" He shoved the teen against the kitchen cabinets, then backhanded him so hard that Drake hit the floor.

"Dad..." Megan tried when she saw him unbuckling his belt.

He looked at her with fire in his eyes. "You want summa this, too?! Then shut it!"

He gripped one end in his fist, then slung it with his full body. Megan could hear the buckle connect with bone, and that was followed by Drake's scream. She couldn't see her brother from where she stood, kind of like the night Josh had beaten him at the foot of the bed with a whip. She wasn't tied down this time, but she still couldn't move, frozen in place and forced to watch the horror show before her. Tears streamed down her face as she saw the buckle rise then fall, appear then disappear. Her brother's screams filled her ears.

"Where you think you're going, you little shit?! Come here!"

Winston grabbed his son, dragging him back to his place, but the boy kept fighting. Drake knew it was useless. There was nowhere to go. He was trapped on all four sides, stuck between the cabinets, table, unopenable closet and his raging father. To stop his resistance, the drunk wound his fist back and punched with all his might. Over...and over...and over...until he could hear his son crying.

"Why you whining for, huh?!" Punch! Punch! "I thought you were a tough guy!" Punch! Punch! Punch! "Mr. Tough Guy!" Punch! Punch! Punch! Punch! Punch!

Drake laid there unmoving now, hoping his submission would quickly lead to a finale. A strangled sob left him, muffled behind his arms, which he used to protect his head. That's not where the man was aiming anyway. Each blow connected with the boy's left shoulder, pushing him deeper and deeper into the floor. He yelled out at the repeated explosive pain. Even though he complied, the abuse didn't stop, and it became clear that the man was in a blackout rage.

"Dad, please..." came Megan's soft voice, but she still hadn't moved.

Winston was too drunk to tell the difference between his kids' voices. To him, his son sounded like a whiny kid, too, especially when he cried. He ceased the punches. "You wan' me ta stop?"

"Yes, sir," Drake squeaked.

"Yeah?"

The boy nodded, for he was crying too hard to speak clearly.

"You still think I'ma fraid ofsome loser ina Halloween costume?"

He shook his head.

"You think I'ma failure?" This time, the head shake wasn't enough for him. "HUH?!"

Drake flinched, then sniffled. "No, sir."

"What?!"

"No, sir!" He was shaking underneath him. "You're not a failure. It's me. I'm a failure. It's me," he wept. "It's me." Just then, sobs erupted from within, the words he spoke hitting him hard. His voice rose several octaves as he cracked out a pitiful, "I'm sorry."

Winston suddenly grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him to his feet. "Your brother look likea tough guy t'you, Megan?!"

Drake cowered in his father's presence, continuing to hold his arms up to block his face, but the girl could still see part of his tear-streaked cheeks.

"Huh?! You're not so tough now, are you?!" he continued. "Are you?!"

Impatient, the man slung his son to the floor again, but this time, in the opposite direction, and Drake's face landed in the vomit. He started to push himself up, but Winston stomped on the back of his head, shoving him in further.

"You're nothing but a pussy ass bitch! Say it!"

"I'm a pussy ass bitch," he said obediently, his face twisting with disgust.

"Louder!" He stomped on his head again.

"I'm a pussy ass bitch!" He continued to sob as his dignity was stripped away.

"Remember that!" the man said. Finally, he removed his foot. "You understand?!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good!" He reached down to pick up his unfinished bottle of liquor. When he straightened, he gave Drake a final kick in the ribs, earning a pained yelp, then he went to his bedroom and slammed the door.

Megan rushed to his side. "Drake?"

She helped him sit up, then she stood and reached for the paper towels. She tore the last one off the roll and wet it under the faucet. The girl kneeled down and cleaned the smelly, slimy vomit off the side of his face for him. He was humiliated. He shamefully covered his eyes with one hand as he cried.

"It's okay. You're okay," she whispered, soothing him in the same way he had done for her after her lashing days before. It was the only way she knew how.

Being on this side of it and seeing how unhelpful it was made him weep harder, for now he was remembering how he'd failed to stop their drunken father from beating her with his belt. He really was a failure — a failure and a bitch.

"I want Mom," he said, just as Megan had said days ago. "Why did I leave?" His spiral led him back to the age-old question — the moment his life had flipped upside-down. Drake slammed the palm of his hand against his forehead, then he did it again. He kept doing it, punishing himself for the many lives he had ruined with one childish tantrum.

"Drake, stop," Megan said, her own tears falling. She tried to grab his hand, but he seemed to be in a trance, sort of like their father when he was in a rage blackout. The only difference was that Winston's abuse was aimed outward while Drake's was pointed inward. "Drake, please, stop!" she begged when his hand clenched into a fist. She managed to insert herself between his arm and the rest of him, stopping the self-afflicted torment, then she pulled him into a hug.

"It's all my fault," he said. "They're all dead because of me. Because I failed them. I failed Mom. I failed Stephen. I failed Trevor. I failed Josh. All of them. I'm still failing — the band, dad, you. I can't stop."

Megan wanted to speak, but she didn't get the chance to, for she heard the bedroom door open. Drake heard it to. She knew because he squeezed her tighter.

Every now and then, their father would continue seething in his room after punishing his kids. He'd stew until he got angry all over again — until it became too much to hold inside, and then he'd return for a round two. This was one of those unlucky nights.

"Oh, wuttiz zis shit?!"

Megan cried out when her shirt was grabbed and she was slung to the side. He didn't pay her anymore attention, though. Instead, his fury-filled eyes were glaring at Drake. The boy lifted his hands, holding them together pleadingly, but Winston grabbed them and snatched him to his feet with ease.

"Are you still fucking crying?! You fuckin' baby!"

Drake urgently tried to dry his eyes on his sleeve, but more tears replaced the old ones.

"You're a grown ass man, Drake!"

"I know—"

Winston got in his face when he barked, "Then stop fucking crying!"

Instead, his monstrous voice had the opposite effect, and sobs left the boy's lips. He was pinned against the cabinets, and Winston still hadn't let go of his wrists. In fact, his father was squeezing them so tightly that it felt like the bones would snap.

"You're breaking them," Drake complained.

"If I wuz breaking 'em, you'd know," the man said. "Besides, then you'd actually have somethin' to cry about. You want me tagive you somethin' to cry about?"

"No, sir." His son winced when Winston tightened his grip, squeezing so hard that another sob slipped out. "Ow..."

"What are you whinin' for, huh?!" the drunk said. "Look a' you. So fucking pathetic. You're weak! You know that?"

Drake nodded along, hoping he would be let go sooner if he agreed.

"You're fucking worthless." Although it wasn't a question, he finished with, "Huh?"

"I know," the boy said as he wept. "I know."

"Oh, you know? You know everything, huh?" He looked over his shoulder at his daughter, who was both equally frightened and furious. "You know your useless dunce of a brother s'actually a fuckin' genius?"

The pain Drake felt in his wrists was enough to make his knees buckle. With an infantile voice, he begged. "Please." He wasn't brave enough to meet his glare.

"Pitiful," Winston said. "You're a sorry excuse ofa man. I'm ashamed that we're even related." He snorted and spat his loogie at his son, and it landed on Drake's cheek, mixing with his new tears.

"That's enough!" Megan yelled. Her little hands tugged at her father's large arm, but her strength didn't compare. Instead, she was an annoyance, like a buzzing mosquito after a summer storm.

"Back off!" In one quick motion, he smacked her with the back of his hand, knocking her to the floor.

With one of his hands now free, Drake roughly pulled the man's head back in his direction — almost a slap. "Don't fucking touch her, you piece of shit!"

Winston turned back to him. "DON'T you swear at me, you little shit! You need to learn some fucking manners!"

The teen cried out when his dad's knee made contact with his groin. His body started to curl into itself, but Winston wouldn't allow it. The raging drunk turned on the sink, then he shoved his son back until his head was underneath the running water. It was ice cold, and it made Drake lose his breath.

"Open your mouth! Open your fucking mouth!" He shoved a bar of soap inside, then held it there so the boy couldn't spit it out. "You need to wash it out!"

Drake's head thrashed from side to side, but he couldn't escape the falling water. It rushed up his nostrils, strangling him. He couldn't breathe in through his mouth either, for the soap blocked his airways, and the suds it created didn't help matters.

Still, Winston held him under, even when it became clear that he couldn't get any oxygen. "You don't fucking swear at me, boy! I don't know who the fuck you think you are!"

Drake used his hand to block the water from directly hitting his face. He tried to inhale, then coughed, which was muffled by the soap and his father's hand. Snot bubbles left his nose as he struggled to breathe.

Winston wasn't having it. He slung Drake's arm to the side, then repositioned himself so that the boy couldn't interfere again, tucking his son's biceps underneath his elbows.

Megan was so terrified that she had put as much distance as she could in between herself and the violent man. She stood next to the tv, caressing her stinging cheek, as she watched her brother desperately claw at their drunk dad's sleeve, pleading with him. She was too afraid to move. She wanted out of the situation. She thought about running down to the eighth floor to get Lars, but she didn't want to leave Drake. He was drowning, and any second, he'll be out of oxygen.

"Does that taste good?!" Winston was saying. "Huh?!"

Drake's legs went limp — his desperate attempt to escape by sliding out of the man's grasp. However, the drunk repositioned himself once again, holding him in place.

An airy chuckle left Winston's lips. "You're not done until I say you're done! We're gonna be here until this bar of soap dissolves! Next time, you better think twice before cussing at me!"

He wouldn't be able to survive that long. He was pushing it as it was. As a last resort, he felt along the countertop, searching for a weapon. He didn't want to, but he had maybe twenty seconds left before he choked to death, so he was out of options. Hopefully, whatever punishment came next wouldn't be as life-threatening.

There was a loud crash as he knocked a pile of pots and pans to the floor. He inwardly cursed, aimlessly patting around, but he'd fumbled his only lifeline. His quivering fingers didn't give up. He couldn't. His life depended on it.

How ironic that his own father would be the cause of his death rather than Ghostface. Would Ghostface be forced to stop the massacre before it had even started? Megan would be taken away and placed in a stranger's home — maybe someone who showed her more love than what she received here. Perhaps it was better this way. Rather than waiting for Ghostface to do the deed, his dad could, and his sister would get a better life in the process.

Speaking of his sister, he could feel her skin on his fingertips now as she passed him something long and solid. He tightened his fingers around it, getting a feel for its weight, and once he concluded that it was a cast-iron skillet, he slung it at Winston's head.

When he was let go, he hit the floor, and the soap fell from his lips. He sucked in air like a vacuum, then erupted into a fit of coughs. A mixture of water and snot drained from his nose and streamed down to his chin.

"Drake..."

It was his little sister. She was back in the corner again, her knees vibrating with fear as she cried. He followed her terrified eyes and saw that their dad was slowly making his way back onto his feet, clutching his head with disorientation.

Drake immediately began scooting himself away with his hands and heels, moving right through the vomit puddle Winston had left. Before he could get too far, the man grabbed hold of his ankle, then snatched him closer so suddenly that his son fell onto his back with the force. Drake dug his chewed nails into the stained carpet, trying to stop himself as he was dragged through the puke. He kicked his feet wildly, afraid of what would happen if he didn't get away.

"Stop!" he pleaded, but it didn't come out as loud as he'd hoped after having been held under the water. Desperate to escape, Drake grabbed the leg of the folding metal chair, then hurled it at his father. Finally, he was released.

Drake scrambled as far away from the drunk as possible, no longer concerned by the fact that he kept getting more and more vomit on his clothes and arms. By the time he made it to his sister, Winston had recovered from the blow and was now glaring daggers. Drake reached behind him, grabbing a fistful of the girl's shirt, and yanked her to the floor with such suddenness that the cloth nearly ripped. This way, he could shield her if he needed to, and he did, for their father picked up the chair and slung it their way. It just missed his son, leaving a large hole in the wall less than a foot from his head, so he went for the skillet now. Drake pulled his sister against his chest and bent his knee, using his own body to protect her from the slew of flying objects that were chucked their way. She was trembling, and she could feel him shaking, too. Winston was a tornado tearing through their home, slinging debris, and all they could do was wait him out.

"—ungrateful little shit! How fucking dare you?!" the man was yelling. "You little twerp! You don't hit me! You understand?! I am your father!" He added another painful jab. "No matter how much I wish I wasn't!"

Drake hissed when a heavy, lidded candle connected with his shoulder blade. The glass was thick and didn't break, but he could feel the bone throbbing after the blow. He held his sister closer and twisted his back to the raging man even more. That way, he could be a better shield for the girl. He had his arms around her head to cover her, and his bent knee still protected her from most of the thrown objects.

"I've always done right by you, and this is how your repay me?! By being a disrespectful, wise-ass little cunt?! Is this how they were raising you before?! It's fucking shameful! I'm not gonna put up with it, damn it! ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME, DRAKE?!"

"Yes, sir!" he called, his voice muffled behind his arms, which hardly protected him since he was more worried about Megan.

"You better! Because I won't fucking have it! I'm done with your shit, boy! The laziness! The backtalk! The disrespect! You live under my roof! You're gonna obey me! I'm fucking sick of you looking at me like I'm a fucking loser! You're the loser! You're a waste!"

Drake heard a sudden brash array of musical notes and lifted his head to see his dad raising his friend's guitar into the air. "Dad, please don't—"

But it was too late. Winston slammed the delicate instrument against the floor, then stepped on the neck and yanked, snapping it in half. The guitar gave off one last pitiful tune, then the pieces were flung to the side.

"I've had enough of this music shit! You're done! You hear me?! You need to focus on work and making actual money! Not this ridiculous pipe dream that will never come true! You were shit at it anyway! You think you'll ever actually amount to something?!" the man yelled. "Not with this you won't, and I'm sick of you wasting all our time! It's fucking selfish is what it is! You're living in a fucking fairy tale world while I'm slaving away, keeping us afloat! I'm tired of it! I've about fucking had it with you, boy!"

A new voice entered, hard and angry despite its usual childlike glee. "And we've had it with you!" Megan yelled back, coming to her brother's defense. "We hate you!"

Drake instantly clasped his hand over her mouth, fear flashing within his eyes.

Winston was so shocked that his volume dropped. "Excuse me?"

The boy spoke up. "She didn't mean it, sir. She didn't—" The terror he felt when he saw his furious father storm towards them, kicking past the many objects he had thrown, made his whole body stiffen like petrified wood. "Please! She didn't—" Drake gave up, for he knew nothing would stop the drunk now. He pushed himself onto his knees and opened the door to Megan's 'bedroom'. "Go." he told her. "Go!"

She hurried inside, then moved over so he could join her. However, he gripped her hands, then moved them towards the sides of her head.

"Cover your ears," he said. "Just stay in here, okay? You'll be safe in here."

"Drake—"

"Don't open this door. Do you understand me?"

She didn't usually feel the need to listen to her brother. He wasn't any more mature than she was, but when he said this to her, he spoke with no nonsense, and it scared her.

"Do you understand?!" he yelled at her, similarly to how their father would yell at him.

"Yes, but—"

"Keep your ears covered." He pressed her hands against her ears tightly so that she would do the same when he let her go, then he closed the door. Immediately, he was grabbed and spun around.

"Move!"

Drake held his ground. "She didn't mean it," he tried. "She's just a kid."

"Get the fuck outta my way, boy!" he yelled in his face. The strong smell of whiskey made his son cough.

"Dad, stop!" the teen said, trying to push Winston back.

"Boy, if you don't get your fucking hands off me!" He shoved back, and the flimsy door nearly fell off its hinges. A few of the slats cracked, drowning them both in purple light. Winston continued pressing him into the door. If Drake wouldn't move, then he'd use the kid's body to push his way in.

"Stop!" Drake tried to shove his dad, but because the door was close to giving away, forcing him to lean back slightly, Winston had the better position. It wouldn't hold much longer. It was time to switch up to his usual last resort. To get his father to stop going after Megan, he had to defer the man's anger towards himself instead. He had no time to debate it, for another slat broke. "Look at you trying to fight an eleven-year-old. Who's the pussy ass bitch now?" He struggled to wind his arm back, so he didn't punch with much power, but he punched nonetheless. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, you drunk fucking loser?" With that, he spat on the man, finishing the trifecta: swear, hit, spit — one, two three.

Drake noticed the shift. He recognized it the second it happened. Luckily, his words and actions had left his father so stunned that he was able to slip away. He darted around him, hoping to shut himself in Winston's bedroom in time. He underestimated the abuser's speed. His father caught up to him as he passed the kitchen. The man grabbed a fistful of Drake's hair and yanked him back like he was plucking a fish out of water with his bare hands. The boy was then tossed onto the cheap linoleum, trapped between the cabinets and his father. He didn't have time to move. The kicks started instantly.

"You stupid—" Kick. "—little—" Kick. "—shit!" Kick.

Drake shrank away as much as he could until his back was against the cabinets. He curled into himself, using his arms to shield his head.

Ramming his boot into the boy's bones tripped Winston up. He caught himself on the countertop, then rested his hands there to keep himself balanced as he continued. "I'll fucking kill you! You ungrateful—" Kick. "—wise-ass—" Kick. "—fucking—" Kick. "—runt!" Kick.

Drake let out a cry when his collar was grabbed. He was snatched onto his feet, then shoved against the opposite cabinets. He was met with a punch. The pain hit him like a bullet, and he found himself on his knees, unable to make out the names his father was calling him. Again, he was grabbed, and this time, he was slung in the opposite direction and against the stove. Drake's hip took the brute of the blow, but he was still focused on the pain in his face. His clothes were tugged again, and he dazedly attempted to push Winston's hands away.

"Please." When he said it, a clod of crimson fell from his lips. A string of blood gushed profusely after. "...shit..."

"I said are you fucking listening to me?!" The man gripped both sides of his head, squeezing as he forced him to face his direction.

Drake could only stare fearfully at the man, his brows furrowed with confusion at how aggressive the man was being. He was squeezed so hard that he struggled to talk. "You're hurting me—"

"Good! What the fuck do you think this is supposed to be?! A hug, you dumb fuck?!" He jerked Drake's head closer, earning a gasp. "You see this face? Yeah?" he said when his son nodded. "Does this look like the face of someone who wants to hug you? I fucking hate you!" Winston let go of him then, but only so he could slug him in the eye. "You've ruined MY ENTIRE LIFE!"

With ease, he tossed the boy against the cabinets on the opposite side of the kitchen once again. Drake crashed into them, then quickly climbed up and over. He reached for the dining table, placing his palm there, but the uneven weight caused it to flip over, and he flipped over with it.

Drake groaned, having landed uncomfortably on top of a chair he'd knocked over. A sob left his lips, but he got to his feet as quickly as he could and stumbled towards the door. Drake opened it, then dashed out of the room and to the stairwell. This is where Winston caught up to him. The man had a handful of his shirt, keeping him from escaping.

"Let go!" He yanked himself back hard, tearing his cheap tee at the collar so that it hung loosely off his shoulder. His dad lost his grip. Unfortunately, he was on the edge of the staircase. He fell back, tumbling down the stone steps until he collided with the graffitied wall. He was crying now. He felt pain all over his body, but he couldn't stop. He lifted his head and saw the man coming after him. Drake crawled to the next set of stairs, then slid down on his belly, giving himself enough time and distance to get onto his feet.

He was hunched over, clutching his injured ribs as he descended the steps. He gripped the wobbly railing, which didn't help his dizziness. He fell once more — luckily not as far as before — but he picked himself up and kept running until he made it to the eighth floor. Drake whipped the door open, then steadied himself by placing a hand on the wall, unaware that he was smearing blood as he went.

"Lars!" he called desperately before he got to the room. When he reached it, he banged his knuckles against the wood. "Lars, it's Drake. Open up! Please, I need help!" He pounded his fist relentlessly, like when his father pounded on him. "Lars! Please, are you home?"

A door opened, but it didn't belong to Lars' apartment. It was the one at the end of the hall. His dad stepped over the threshold.

"Lars, please! Lars, are you in there?!"

Drake tried the handle even though he knew it wouldn't work. He turned back to check on the man's progress. Winston was just a couple apartments away. Fearful, Drake backed up. Tripping over the uneven carpeting, he fell on his bottom.

"Please," he said, gazing up at the towering drunk. He dug his heels into the floor, pushing himself back frantically.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?!"

Another door opened — still not Lar's, but the one across the hall. A man stood there, short and round, balding on the top of his head. He wore a grease-stained, white tee that didn't cover his whole belly, and blue plaid boxers.

"Please call the police," Drake begged.

Instead, after seeing Winston's stature, he disappeared inside the safety of his apartment. At that moment, Drake was yanked up, then shoved against the wall.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"I-I-I..." The boy was trembling in his grasp. "Lars!"

"Get your fucking ass upstairs before I wring your fucking neck right here," Winston growled, then shoved his son towards the stairwell.

Drake stumbled, but stayed upright. He darted down the hall, up the staircase, and back home. He was forced to wait for his dad to catch up with the key. He sheepishly moved to the side when the man got there. After unlocking the door, Winston grabbed him and roughly pushed him into their apartment.

Drake turned back to him. "I'm sorry. I never should've hit you. I'm so sorry." He gulped when his dad locked the door and turned to him sinisterly. He took a step back. "Sir, please, I'm sorry I spit on you. I'm sorry I disrespected you. I'm sorry."

"You think that's what I'm pissed about?" the man said.

In the blink of an eye, he gave his son a violent shove. Drake fell against the coffee table, the corner poking into his side. He then rolled off, landing on the mildewed carpet. An agonized sob left him. His body couldn't take much more. He turned back to his father, who was picking his belt up off the floor.

"No, please..." Drake whined, his voice high in pitch. He was trapped in the small space between the table and the loveseat. There wasn't anywhere to go.

"I'm pissed," the man continued, "because you told that guy to call the cops on me?! How fucking dare you?!"

"I'm sorry. Please. It was a mistake, sir." When he was lifted and slung onto the couch face-down, he panicked. "Sir, please! Please! I made a mistake! It was a mistake!"

"You're damn right it was," said Winston, his hand changing position on the belt, "and I'm gonna make sure you learn to never make that mistake again." He lifted the belt into the air, then brought it back down as hard as he could, a loud grunt leaving his lips. "Gnah!"

Drake's screams were even louder. He was pinned there as his father's arm rotated like a saw blade. He received blow after blow, and it was so fast that he wasn't done yelling about one before the next came. He tried to drag himself over the arm or back of the loveseat, but the man held him in place. He begged and begged until he couldn't form comprehensible words anymore. Drake's knuckles were white as he squeezed the cushion, bracing for excruciating pain while simultaneously clawing to escape. He bit down on the cloth, tasting cigarettes and sweaty dog, but this hardly muffled his cries as his tears and snot soaked the arm of the loveseat.

---

Dan Liú checked his watch. Almost closing time. He was ready to get back home. When he'd finished taking inventory earlier, his mom had informed him that he'd have to stay all day and lock up the store tonight, for she was going to Vivian's soccer game with his father. He'd groaned and griped about this, but he had no choice in the matter. After the game, there would be some sort of important team meeting, so both parents needed to be there.

Hal had left hours ago, probably in search of someone else to play billiards with. Dan's Friday might've been a bust, but tomorrow would be better. Sure, the day wasn't over yet, but there wasn't anything to do in Woodsboro at this hour except catch a late movie or get plastered, and he wasn't much of a partier — not since Huntley was killed, at least.

A lot had changed since last year. He had changed. While everyone else on the football team was probably out getting drunk and chasing skirts, here he was having to work, and he wasn't even that upset about it. Sure, when he'd first gotten the news, he'd been less than enthused, but he took pride in his job. It gave him a sense of responsibility, which was, to him, a sign that he was growing. To grow meant to be alive — something that Huntley wasn't, so he'd vowed to himself that he would never stop growing.

It was helping, too. His grades had improved drastically — enough that he could get a scholarship to a good college without having to rely on his football skills. Honestly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to pursue football beyond high school. Maybe he wanted to be something else. Maybe he wanted to be a nurse or a social worker. He wanted to help people. Any one of his crew could've died on that horrible day last year — himself included — but here he was, and he wanted to put whatever time he had left to good use. He didn't want to leave the world worse than when he'd entered it, like Huntley. He wanted to be better than that.

Dan made his way outside. It was dark, and the only noises he heard came from the crickets and other nightlife in the woods around back. His car was the only one in the parking lot. He was genuinely surprised about how dead they had been. It was Friday night. Usually, people would come in and out until the doors locked, searching for a chaser for their alcohol or a cure for their munchies, but he didn't get many of those tonight.

In fact, the silence and isolation were rather eerie, but he shrugged it off and approached the trash can between the glass door and the ice machine. He started to tie the two ends together, then his attention was pulled elsewhere.

On the other side of the road, he saw a shadow figure looming out of the darkness. There was something abnormal about the figure's movements. Dan squinted his eyes in an attempt to see better. The ghostly shadow used up one whole side of the street when it walked — if you could even call it walking. It was more like swaying and wobbling.

When the mysterious character finally moved underneath a streetlight, Dan recognized the man. He lived in the Overlook Apartment Complex, and he often stumbled his way back and forth, to and from the liquor store. The dark-haired man plopped down on the ground. He looked around, almost as if with confusion, before he laid on his back.

Dan shook his head with judgment, then put his eyes back on the trash can. He finished tying a knot in the bag, but before he could lift it out, he heard a loud clatter nearby. He straightened, his body tense.

The noise had come from the ice machine, but it didn't sound like the usual noise it created when making new ice cubes. He stared warily for a moment, until he heard the sound again. The metallic clanging made him afraid, so to overcompensate for his fear, he decided to investigate. He approached the machine, and without allowing the suspense to build, he snatched the freezer door open.

Nothing. He wasn't sure what he expected to find. Like usual, it was filled with ice, and there were two ten-pound bags that lay within the mountain of cold cubes. He needed to fill up more bags before he left. He'd add that to his mental to-do list.

Dan shut the freezer door, and standing right behind it was a white, droopy mask. He jumped back with fright, tripping over the trash can. He hit the ground, knocking the bin over with him.

Laughter filled his ears. The mask was removed, revealing Hal's wide grin. "Oh, dude, you should've seen your face!" he said gleefully.

Dan rolled his eyes, then pushed himself onto his feet. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He turned the trash can upright.

"What?" Hal held out his arms innocently. "It was funny."

The working teen was angry, and it showed when he only responded by shaking his head.

"What?" the other boy asked again, realizing that it wasn't as fun when his friend wasn't laughing with him.

"You're wearing a fucking Ghostface mask, bro."

"Yeah? And?"

"That's the mask Josh wore when he killed Huntley."

"So?"

"It's fucking insensitive."

"I didn't know you were sensitive," Hal mumbled, annoyed that Dan was bringing down his mood, but he stuffed the mask inside his jacket pocket. "So what are we doing tonight?"

"I've gotta start working on my English paper."

"Lame! It's Friday night! We should be out partying!"

"I'm not really in the mood for that," Dan said.

"Come on," Hal pushed.

"I don't wanna be around a bunch of people right now. I mean, Christ, Hal, it's the anniversary."

"Alright, alright," he said. "We'll do something else."

A loud belch from across the street earned their attention.

"Jesus, who the fuck is that?" Hal asked, his nose scrunched.

"Some drunk as fuck clown."

Hal tilted his neck to get a better view, then his lips spread into another toothy smile. "Dude, is that Drake's dad?" he said with a laugh.

"Is it?"

When the man dizzily sat up, giving him a better look at his face, he knew for sure. "Bro, it is. What a fucking loser."

Dan wasn't as giddy about this information as his friend was. He saw this man often. He knew how much he frequented the liquor store. He wondered if the rumors about Drake's father were true — if he really was abusive. Maybe Hal was wrong yesterday. Maybe Mr. Parker did cause the bruises around his son's neck.

"I guess Drake doesn't really have much to look forward to. A whore for a mother and an alcoholic father—"

"Come on, dude," Dan said with a sigh.

Here they go again with the Drake hate. It was every day at this point, and it was getting exhausting. Hal was so obsessed with making the kid's life a living hell, but Dan was pretty sure it already was, given what he was having to deal with. Plus, if the rumors were true and Drake's dad was abusive, he was sure Drake was suffering every day.

Dan was mean to him today. He knew that, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. He felt bad. The guy had lost most of his family, his friends, his home — everything. He was living in this dump of a neighborhood and had to drop out of school so he could go to work just to afford it. The poor bastard didn't even have twenty-one cents to his name! His stomach had growled impatiently, desperate for the flimsy, pitiful, overpriced hot dog. Like, he actually needed it right then or he probably would've passed out and died right before Dan's eyes.

Drake had swallowed his pride when he'd thanked him. Dan should've done the same, but instead, he'd reverted back to his old ways because it was easier. He didn't hate Drake. He didn't even blame Drake. It was his own fault — at least partly. He'd heard screaming coming from inside the shed. He'd heard pleads for him to open the door. At the time, he'd thought they were from Drake. Had he not been so adamant on causing harm to others, Huntley would still be alive right now. Dan understood that. He acknowledged his participation in his friend's death. When would Hal finally take some responsibility for his actions and stop pushing blame onto other people?

"He thought he was the shit in high school, but now look where he is," Hal said. He pointed to the drunkard across the street, who was now struggling to get onto his feet. "And that's his future right there." After a moment, he added, quieter than before as he traced his fingers over the hills of the mask in his pocket. "...unless Ghostface kills him first."

"Jesus, dude..." Dan noticed his friend start in the direction of the alcoholic. "Bro, don't."

"I'm not gonna mess with him," Hal said, then with an innocent smile, "that much. I'm gonna get him to buy us a twelve-pack. I'll give him an extra ten. I'm sure they need it anyway. So really, I'm doing charity work." He continued across the parking lot, then the street.

Dan hoped Drake's father turned down the offer. He wasn't in the mood to drink. It only ever got him in his feels since he'd lost his friend, so there was nothing fun about it anymore. He was a drag to be around when he was drunk. Hal knew that, so why was he so insistent on doing this? Additionally, today was the anniversary, meaning all that sorrow would only be amplified.

Across the street, Hal looked at him with a thumbs up while Winston stumbled his way into the liquor store. Dan sighed. He grabbed the bag out of the trash can and made his way around the building. The dumpster was on the right side, near the tree line. He hated coming here at night. He didn't want to be an elitist asshole like his best friend, but he didn't like to be left alone in this neighborhood. It was full of gangs, junkies, felons and other people he considered lowlifes.

Dan tossed the bag in. When he turned, his eyes immediately found a black-cloaked figure standing in front of the back entrance to the shop, blocking his way. His face was hidden behind a familiar white mask.

"Dude, enough already," Dan said, fearlessly walking closer.

The anonymous person didn't move.

"This is seriously fucked up, bro. Just go home. I'm not drinking with you tonight." He stood in front of him now, clearly pissed, but still, the man stayed where he was. "Dude, go! I'm fucking serious!"

Seeing that he wouldn't leave without being forced, Dan grabbed his bicep to move him to the side so that he could get past him, go inside, and finish doing his job. That's when, finally, the figure made his move, pulling out his sharp knife and shoving the blade into the teen's skin. It entered Dan's right thigh, and because he tried to pull away, it made the cut even longer. He screamed, and when he finally got free, he fell back against the asphalt, panting as he fearfully gazed up at his attacker. The dark, melting eyes stared back at him, then twirled the knife so that the curved tip aimed downward rather than up like before — the perfect position for a frenzied stab-fest.

"No," Dan said, so terrified that he could hardly speak.

Just as the killer came at him, he kicked with his good leg. As the placekicker for Woodsboro High's football team, he had nearly perfected his aim. His foot came into contact with the gloved hand, and the knife was flung several feet away.

Ghostface went for his weapon, and Dan quickly got onto his feet, yelling out when he put weight on his right leg. He hobbled as quickly as he could, heading back towards the dumpster.

"Hal!" he screeched. "Help!" He checked over his shoulder to see that his opponent had retrieved his knife and was now coming for him. Dan sped up, gritting his teeth at the pain. "Ah!" It wasn't unusual for him to sprain his ankle or injure his knee and continue the game until that play was over. He was used to pushing through, but this pain was something different.

Dan passed the dumpster and reached the fence. He felt it was better this way so he could get some sort of barrier between himself and his assailant. Without hesitating, he launched himself over, rolling over the spikes sticking out at the top, then he landed on the dirt with a yelp. Ghostface stopped at the fence, and it didn't seem as though the killer would continue the chase. However, there was no time to debate his safety. He pushed himself up again, his face dripping with sweat, and continued hobbling away.

He was in the old, abandoned car lot now. There was overgrown shrubbery everywhere. It would be easy to lose his attacker here. He turned past a long bush and a tree, already losing visuals on the psycho, which was reciprocated. He continued around, then ducked behind a gray car. It wasn't actually a car. It was mostly just the frame, but it still offered him good protection.

Although he didn't want to see, Dan examined his leg, checking to see how fast he was losing blood. He swore under his breath, then pulled out his cell phone. He debated whether to call Hal or the police. Hal was close. Who knows how long the police would take to get here? He knew they never rushed when responding to a call in this neighborhood. He would be dead by the time they arrived.

Dan opened his contact list and found Hal's name. He pressed the call button, then put the phone to his ear. As he waited, he looked around, searching for any sign of the masked villain. The phone rang once, then twice. He put his eyes on his leg again, then clasped his hand over the wound in hopes that it would slow down the blood flow. He clenched his jaw and tightened his lips, trying hard to silence the groans that were leaving his throat. He felt himself getting woozy, but he wasn't sure if it was from the pain or the blood loss.

The teen cursed when his call went to voicemail. He hung up, then gave in to the idea of trying the police, hoping they would speed here at the mention of Ghostface. Surely they wouldn't want to chance letting him get away so that he could go on to massacre a ton of kids like last year.

He urgently tapped on the numbers, but now that his hands were soaked in blood, his iPhone wasn't registering his touch. "Shit!" He frantically jabbed at the screen, but when a number finally worked, it was a six instead of a nine. He quickly wiped one of his hands off on his pants, then he tried to clean the phone screen with his shirt, but it smeared the red crimson. Despite that, it responded to what he pressed this time: 9-1-

That's as far as he got before Ghostface's sudden appearance from around the back of the car. Dan was stabbed in the shoulder, and he dropped his phone with surprise. When he pulled away, he fell onto his side, and the cloaked figure towered over him.

The teen held up his trembling hands. "No, please. Please!"

The blade tore into his stomach, moving from left to right. Instead of going for more, the attacker watched as the hopeless boy bled out.

---

Drake's shaking picked up when he heard keys jiggling in the doorknob. He pulled his blanket up to his chin, wishing he could hide underneath, but that wouldn't stop his father. Nothing could.

On the couch, he was still weeping, and he had been since the man had left for an alcohol run. The beating was brutal — one of the worst he's had in a while. Both lips were busted near the corner, his nose had dried blood underneath, and his left eye was black. Usually, his father refrained from leaving visible marks on his face, but this time, he didn't hold back.

After it was all over, Drake was hardly able to turn onto his least bruised side. For once, Megan had obeyed him and stayed in the closet. She'd cried herself to sleep, he was sure, because she was still and quiet now. He wished he could've done the same, but ever since his father had walked out the door, he knew the man would return drunker and angrier than before, and he knew there was a chance his dad would want to continue where he'd left off.

When the door opened, Drake held his breath, then realized it would be a dead giveaway that he was awake. He tried his hardest to slow his breathing so that it'd look like he was asleep, but it was a challenge. There was no guarantee that faking slumber would work anyway. What was to stop the man from snatching him to his feet and shaking him awake?

He trembled even more as the footsteps came closer. He felt a lump in his throat, and he had to focus hard on holding back his sobs.

The footsteps stopped next to the couch, just above his head, but Drake didn't move. At least, he tried not to, but he couldn't help how much he was shaking. He knew his dad saw it. He knew the man knew he was awake. Still, he was frozen in place, praying that he wouldn't receive another punishment tonight. He looked at his hands to check how much they were vibrating, then he noticed his knuckles were pale and ghostly because of how tightly he gripped his blanket.

Finally, the footfalls started again, and they got further and further away, until he heard the bedroom door open and close. He closed his eyes, relief washing over him. His face twisted into an ugly frown, his lips tight, for he was still trying his damnedest to keep any noise from passing the lump in his throat. He was full-on sobbing now, his back jerking painfully, but his sobs were silent until he had to sniffle.

"So you are awake?"

Drake flinched when he heard his father's voice above him, and his eyes went wide. Towering over him behind the loveseat was the violent drunk.

"...please..." the boy whispered quietly, but Winston grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "Please don't."

In an instant, he was lifted off the couch. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, he was sitting up. His father was nowhere in sight, but his sister watched him with concern as he panted for breath.

"It's okay," she said. "It was just a nightmare."

When it sunk in that he wasn't in any imminent danger, he started to relax, and the pain hit him all at once. He clutched his sore ribs with a hiss, his fingers still shaking.

Megan noticed this. "Come lay with me," she said, and it reminded Drake of last year when Josh had offered the same thing. Like last year, he accepted.

Drake climbed in first and laid on his right side because his left shoulder is what hurt the most. He groaned as he cautiously got situated. Megan got in after him. She slid the door closed and rested her head on half the pillow. She examined her brother's face — the black eye, the trail of dried blood under his nose, the cracks lips. Her heart broke for him.

The girl scooted closer, wrapping her arms around him and snuggling against his chest. Drake felt safe here in her arms, hidden away in the closet, the room illuminated by the purple glow. He felt guilty for the horrible things he'd said to her earlier in the day. He'd told her not to bother him if she was having a nightmare, and despite how cruel he'd acted towards her, here she was, coddling him after his nightmare. His shame brought tears to his eyes.

"I'm sorry I'm such a shit brother," he said quietly.

"You're not," she said.

She didn't elaborate. She didn't go on to explain how her words could possibly be true, but he could tell she'd said them with full sincerity. And if she believed them to be true...maybe they were.

Drake returned the hug and kissed the top of her hair, then eased into her embrace. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All major characters have officially been introduced, so it's time to get your predictions in! Let me know who you think it is in the comments. Also, any comments or criticism would be appreciated. Thanks for reading.