Author's note: You guys might actually hate me after this chapter...
Disillusioned
I've broken all of us
…
The sun was gone, not even a rosy glimmer at the horizon. The end of a day that had stretched for far too long.
Danny sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in his sleep clothes, his room dark except for the golden glow of the lamp on his nightstand. His bare feet were propped up on his bed frame under the mattress, his elbow balanced on his thigh as he scrolled through the messages on his phone. Dozens of people suddenly wanted to talk to him—classmates, strangers who only ever saw him when passing in the hall, journalists nosing for his unique angle on the town's current hot gossip.
He ignored messages from anyone he did not know, deleting their texts, blocking many of them entirely.
But the messages from people he did know, he read all of them at least once. A couple times for some of them.
From Sam: Thinking of you, Danny. I've been thinking of you for so long now, since before you went missing, since you've been back, since always. I miss you. I'm so sorry.
Tucker: Hey. I'm not good at saying the right thing. Normally I'd send you a stupid picture to try to make you laugh, but I know there's nothing that could make you laugh right now. And Sam's right, I should probably learn some tact.
Paulina: Did your mom really have an affair with the ghost boy? I didn't think he was into older women. That must be why he never asked me out.
Dash: I saw the news. We still have a deal, right?
Valerie: Hey, Danny, you okay? I guess the ghost kid ruined both our lives, huh?
Danny clutched at his aching head, threading his fingers through his hair with his phone still held in one hand. His body shook as he attempted to hold everything in.
His phone lit up with a new text and he looked at the sender's name. His mother. He slowly lowered his phone, his thumb hovering over the message for a few seconds before he tapped it open. It began with his name: Danny, she was so sorry. Danny, please come back so they could talk some more. Danny, she wanted to explain more, make him understand her side, make him see that she was right and he was wrong, she wished she could come home and talk to him but she couldn't, but if he could just come back to the motel, he could even stay the night—
A knock at his door. "Danny?" came Jazz's muffled voice from the other side.
Danny turned but did not get off the bed. "Yeah?"
"Can I, uh… Can I come in?"
Danny hesitated before answering, "Sure."
The door pushed open, and Jazz appeared, her face mostly in shadows as the light from his bedside lamp barely reached her.
"I made you some tea," said Jazz.
Danny shook his head and turned away from her, still sitting on the bed. "No, thanks. You can have it."
"Ah—well, but I made two."
Danny turned again and saw that Jazz was indeed holding two teacups on saucers, one in each hand. She stood in the doorway, waiting while Danny stared at her. Finally, he sighed and beckoned her over with one finger. Jazz was quick to join him on the bed, handing him one of the saucers. Danny set his phone face down on his nightstand and took it from her.
"This looks fancy," he said with a weak smile as he lifted the cup from the saucer.
"It's ginger tea," said Jazz. "It's supposed to be relaxing."
She took a small sip of her own tea, her slender fingers looking delicate as they held her cup and saucer. Now that she was closer, Danny could see that she was ready for bed, dressed in a fluffy robe with her hair pulled over one shoulder and woven into a single braid.
Danny looked at the dark liquid inside his cup, the tiny glints on the surface caught from the lamp light. The steam warmed and moistened his face, a woody and citrusy smell, musky and deep.
Truthfully, he didn't like tea. But he tipped the cup into his mouth anyway. The tea had a spicy kick that made his tongue flare.
Danny jerked his head and smacked his lips. "So this is supposed to be relaxing?"
Jazz set her cup on the saucer with a soft clank. "It also has analgesic properties."
Danny stared at her. Jazz did not meet his gaze as she ducked her head and sipped her tea again.
"Analgesic," said Danny, resisting the urge to rub the clenching ache out of his head. "Like a painkiller."
Jazz sipped again, this time with an audible slurp.
Danny looked into his cup and swirled the tea, watching it rise toward the lip but never spill over.
"You know I stole narcotics from Sam's mom, don't you?" he asked quietly.
"We know you didn't leave Sam's house right away," said Jazz, still not looking at him. "We could hear noise from her parents' bedroom."
"But you didn't try to stop me."
Jazz took another sip. Her cup was already half empty.
"Well, you don't have to worry," said Danny, lifting his own cup to his mouth again. "Mom took them from me."
His headache grappled behind his sinuses, twisted at his temples. Danny gulped down a decent swallow of tea, his eye twitching as the spice pricked and fired up his tongue. But if ginger really was some natural pain reliever, he was desperate enough to give it a try.
Beside him, Jazz sat silently, watching him. Danny lowered his cup and licked his lips before turning his attention to her.
"So you found her?" asked Jazz. "Where is she?"
"She's at a motel," said Danny. "Not that far from here."
He took another drink, an excuse to not say more. Jazz finished off the last of her tea and set the cup and saucer behind her on Danny's bed.
"I can't believe Dad kicked her out," she murmured, running her hands down her braid. "He's usually so forgiving. I guess she finally went too far this time."
A memory zipped through Danny's mind, the sharp tip of a lancet right above his eye. He shuddered but tried to play it off by setting his cup and saucer on his nightstand next to his phone.
"Does she know that you told us what she did to you?" asked Jazz.
"Yeah," said Danny. "She knows."
He didn't look at her. But he could hear her breathing, harsh and loud. He heard her swallow, a tiny growl in her throat.
"I'm glad she's gone," said Jazz, tightening her grip on her braid. "Honestly, if she were here…I don't know if I'd be able to restrain myself."
Danny turned to see her eyes catching fire from the bedside lamp. He watched her curiously. He had never seen her look like this before.
"I'm just so…angry." Jazz's teeth clenched. "When I think about what she did to you—I just get so—"
"She didn't know it was me."
"Are you making excuses for her?"
Danny opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came to him, no explanation. He pressed his lips together and looked away.
"Even if she didn't know it was you, even if she didn't think you were a real person, you could still feel pain," said Jazz. "How could she keep doing all her experiments knowing just how much she was hurting you? Why would you try to find a way to excuse that, Danny?"
Tears pooled at Danny's bottom lash line. "I don't know," he whispered.
He sniffled and wiped at his eyes with one of his sleeves. His voice was breathy when he spoke again.
"I'm sorry. I know I've been making things hard on everyone. On Dad. On you." He paused. "I'm sorry I made you miss prom."
Jazz pouted. "Prom?"
"I know you wanted to go; don't lie to me. I saw the dress in your closet."
Danny could feel Jazz's eyes on him but he couldn't meet her gaze. His headache throbbed at his temples.
"You know you're much more important than some stupid dance party, don't you?" asked Jazz.
Danny did not answer.
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine." Jazz scoffed. "So what if I missed prom? Look at what you missed, the time that Mom stole from you. And she took a lot more than that, didn't she?"
Danny held his elbows, more tears welling in his eyes as he stared at the floor.
"You're the one who's hurting," said Jazz gently. "And I finally get it now, why you've been in so much pain." She paused. "Why you want to find a way to make it stop."
Danny could see her head moving on the upper edge of his vision. He raised his eyes to find her looking at the wall where he used to hide his stash of narcotics on a piece of blocking inside.
"There's nothing in my wall," said Danny. "I couldn't hide anything in there even if I wanted to."
Jazz blinked and turned back to him. Danny looked down at his hand, turned it over, palm up, his fingers curling.
"Turning intangible is hard for me right now," Danny explained. "I haven't been able to use any of my powers since I've been back."
Jazz's brow knitted. "Not at all?"
"I can sometimes use them a little if I really concentrate." Danny sighed and dropped his hand. "But it's hard. Don't laugh, but I couldn't even fly home from Sam's place today. I had to take the bus."
"I would never laugh about that," said Jazz sincerely. "I just wish you told me. Can you still transform, at least?"
"No."
"So she took that from you, too."
Her tone was plain, matter-of-fact, as if she were merely observing the weather outside. The truth of her words hit Danny hard, a crushing ache in his chest, a wringing grip on his heart.
He couldn't stop the tears this time. He hunched over and covered his face, his fingers over his eyes and his palms on his cheeks. He shook and heaved as the tears wet his hands and dripped off his chin, his wrists.
Jazz moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, the sleeves of her robe soft against his neck and face. She rested her head on his shoulder, and Danny could feel her own tears falling onto his shirt and back.
Danny allowed himself to sob in her embrace, all of his anguish and despair pouring out. Jazz did not change the position of her arms, did not loosen her hold on him. She surrounded him, a warm glow that melted everything inside of him.
He sighed and lowered his hands, letting them hang between his knees as he propped his arms on his thighs. A few straggling tears spilled over and down his cheeks. Jazz's arms fell away from him as she sat up straighter.
"We used to joke about it," said Danny quietly, his eyes on the floor. "Me, Sam, Tucker—we used to actually make jokes about me being captured and experimented on."
The pictures in the front hall downstairs, the photos of him smiling. That was the boy who made those jokes, who found the idea of being locked up for scientific research absurd.
He still couldn't believe he used to be that boy.
"We actually laughed about it. Because we never thought it could really happen." Danny's brow pinched. "But it did happen. It's real. There really are people who want to use me. Hurt me." The tears were pushing again, stinging and burning. "Mom. And now the Guys in White."
He ducked his head, pressing his fingers above his eyes.
"I don't want to do it again."
Tears dripped off the tip of his nose and onto the floor. Jazz placed one hand on his arm and another on his back, rubbing up and down his spine.
"I'm scared." His throat thickened and the words barely scraped through. "I'm so scared, Jazz."
Jazz was quiet for some time, her nails scratching between his shoulder blades.
"Maybe we should tell Dad, Danny."
Danny sniffed and lifted his head. Jazz's shadowed face was blurry but came into focus as he blinked away his tears.
"If we tell Dad what's going on"—Jazz's hand moved to his shoulder—"about you, about the Guys in White, then maybe—"
Danny shook his head. "No."
"He could help protect you, Danny."
"No. We can't tell him."
"But why not?" Jazz squeezed his upper arm. "Danny, this has gotten out of hand; you have to see that."
Danny's eyes lidded. "I do see that."
"Then why don't you want Dad's help?" asked Jazz. "He would never let the Guys in White take you away."
"Dad's crazy inventions and brute strength aren't going to help me, Jazz," said Danny, tired and annoyed that he even had to explain this at all. "He's never been good at keeping secrets, and we can't risk the police or anyone else finding out the truth. Because if they find out, the Guys in White will find out, and if the Guys in White find out—"
Danny pressed his fingers to his eyes and wiped away the lingering moisture. The skin around his eyes felt raw and swollen.
"I want to believe that Mom's plan will work," murmured Danny, "that the Guys in White will assume that I can't possibly be Phantom because why would Phantom have an affair with his own mother? I wouldn't." His jaw tightened. "And I didn't."
He could sense Jazz's eyes on him. He turned to find her frowning, her brow deeply furrowed.
"What?" asked Danny uneasily.
"It's just—well, speaking of Mom telling everyone you two had an affair." Jazz sucked her lips in and began playing with her braid. "Did she, um…do anything like that to you?"
Danny arched a brow. "Anything like what?"
"Just—I mean—" Jazz rubbed her lips together, puffing out her cheeks slightly. "I know you told us some of what she did to you, but I don't think you told us everything, right?"
"Everything like what?" asked Danny, his stomach dropping.
Jazz sighed and pushed her braid behind her shoulder. "I remember Mom talking about being interested in ghosts' reproductive abilities. I remember how fascinated she was that some ghosts could actually conceive and get pregnant, that some ghosts don't have to experience death and can actually be born ghosts." She bit her lip. "So with this whole affair story, I guess I'm just worried if there's any truth in it."
Danny's jaw slacked as he stared at her. Jazz shut her eyes and jerked her head.
"I mean, I'm just worried about how far she took things with you in her experiments," said Jazz, her voice strained as she sucked her teeth.
Danny couldn't stop staring at her, his mind spinning with memories of all the things his mother did to him. So many things that broke his body and his spirit. And then there were the other things, the ones that broke his heart.
"Why would you ask that?" he whispered harshly, clutching at the front of his shirt.
Jazz reached for him. "Danny—"
"Why would you even want to know that?" Danny pushed her hand away and scooted closer to his headboard. "Is there some sick new psychoanalytic trick you want to try on me?"
Jazz lowered her rejected hand. "No. Of course not."
"Do you want me to strip for you, too? So you can see all my scars?"
"I just want to help you, Danny." Jazz's eyes fell to the distance between them now, but she did not attempt to move closer. "The more I know, the more I can help."
Danny's face burned and his temples tightened. Jazz kept her eyes to the bed, her lashes low, her lower lip protruding just a little.
Danny at last crossed his arms and turned his face to the wall. "I've told you enough already," he muttered.
He could hear Jazz moving, shifting. But she did not reply.
"I'm tired," said Danny, still not looking at her. "I'm going to bed."
Jazz was quiet for a long time. Danny didn't even hear her moving this time.
"It seems like every time I try to talk to you, I always find some way to piss you off," she said.
"It does seem that way," said Danny.
Quiet again. Jazz stood, picking up her teacup and saucer, moving to Danny's nightstand and collecting his as well. The dishes clanked as Jazz stacked them together.
And then the clanking stopped. She was standing directly in front of him now, her knees close to his. Danny tentatively looked up to see tears rimming her eyes.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you," she choked out. "I'm sorry I let Mom do all those horrible things to you. I saw how obsessed she was with you, I saw how scared you were, and I still let her hurt you."
Danny stared up at her, his chest aching.
"You wouldn't have been able to stop her," he said in a low voice.
Jazz stood still for a moment. And then she shifted and the dishes in her hands rattled. Danny's shoulders tensed as he remembered he never thanked her for the tea.
Well. Too late now. She was already walking away.
"Good night," she said from his doorway.
"Good night," Danny said back.
The door closed with a soft click. Danny turned off his light and fell over on his bed, holding his arms and curling in on himself under his blanket.
He shut his eyes tight and pressed his face into his pillow, trying to push out all the memories, the images, the fears. A knife plunging into his eye. A man in a white suit wrapping a hand around his neck. A sledgehammer popping out his leg bone. A pair of dark sunglasses watching his every move.
He tried to blank his mind, counting to fifty, one hundred, two hundred, but the whispers would not quiet, sleep would not come. Pain stabbed and pinched at his head, twinges that bled into his cheeks and jaw, a throbbing ache around his dental implant.
Hydrocodone. The memory of stuffing the stolen pills into his pocket kept running through his head. His mother then forcing him to give them all up. How could he have been so stupid, letting her actually see him slip a pill into his mouth? The effects from the pills he took earlier had worn off hours ago and now he could feel everything EVERYTHING in his body and it hurt, all of it hurt.
He fantasized about popping one now, or two, yes, two at a time, that would surely be enough to stop this headache. Yes, yes, pills were what he needed, actual real painkillers because that ginger tea did NOTHING—
He kicked off his blanket and jumped out of bed, stumbling in the dark toward his dresser. He threw open a drawer and pulled out the jeans he wore earlier that day, reaching into both pockets, groping the seams. Surely there was one pill somewhere, a pill that he didn't fling about in the motel room, a pill that somehow managed to stay behind.
But the pockets were empty. Nothing to relieve his pain, nothing to save him.
The pills were gone.
But he needed them.
He needed something—
He ran into the hall, stopping short right outside Jazz's bedroom. He listened near her closed door, waiting for any sounds, any signs of movement. But there was only silence, not even a glow of light in the gap under her door.
He stepped softly past her room and crept down the stairs, taking care not to step on spots that he knew would creak. Once at the bottom, he headed straight for the kitchen. That was where the painkillers were, locked up in a ghost-proof safe on the counter. He had to break inside. He wasn't sure how just yet but he had to figure it out, absolutely had to because he was in so much pain and he needed to make it go away.
He had to he had to he had to—
He stopped dead on the tile when he saw the outline of a large figure huddled at the kitchen table. The kitchen was dark except for a single night-light plugged into one of the outlets over the counter near the sink, a ghost-shaped light beaming at him. Danny stared, trying to make sense of the shadowy mountain at the table.
"I know why you're here," said the shadow, deep and grumbling.
Danny felt his stomach flip, recognizing his father's voice. His legs locked up and his arms stiffened.
Jack aimed a thumb over his shoulder, just barely visible in the dim light. Danny followed the direction of his thumb, to the ghost-proof medicine safe on the kitchen counter.
"You want to get in there, don't you?" asked Jack. "Numb everything you're feeling." He paused. "Same as me."
Jack lifted something to his mouth, and Danny could hear the sound of gulping, liquid moving quickly down his throat.
"I should probably just give you the damn key," said Jack, his words wet and thick. "Seems hypocritical of me not to."
Danny waited for Jack to move. His headache surged behind his eyes.
"But I won't," said Jack, staying in his chair. "I'll be a good dad in at least some capacity tonight."
He raised a hand, clenching something in his fist, the sound of an aluminum can being crushed. A memory quivered at the back of Danny's mind. The sound was familiar, but he could not place it, couldn't pull it forward.
Danny stood still a moment longer before tentatively taking a seat at the kitchen table, one empty chair between him and Jack. Jack picked up a new can and popped it open with a hiss. He tipped the can to his lips and began slurping it down. Danny could not make out the can's label in the darkness, but he knew from the smell of musk and mildew that it was beer.
"Where did you get that?" asked Danny.
Jack gulped a couple more times before pulling the can away from his mouth with a smack of his lips. "The store."
"How did you get there?" Danny looked in the direction of the front door, remembering the huge crowd that had been gathered outside on the sidewalk earlier. Vlad had sent a ghost to pick him up and bring him to Maddie's motel, a ghost that was able to use invisibility and intangibility to meet him at the back door so no one would see him leaving.
"How do you think?" snapped Jack. "I drove. Unlike you, I'm not afraid of driving."
Danny shrank back, his bottom lip jutting slightly.
"Drove right past all those assholes outside," Jack muttered. "Wish I could've run them over."
His hand clenched and crushed the can, the sound once again tugging at a corner of Danny's memories, making him shudder. He could make out the shapes of several other crushed cans littering the table.
Jack tossed the empty can onto the table with a clatter and jerked a new can out of a six-pack ring. Danny watched him pop the can open and raise it to his mouth, swallowing over and over as the beer sloshed down his throat.
"Maybe you shouldn't do this, Dad," said Danny uneasily.
Jack pounded the can onto the table. "My wife just told the whole town she's been fucking a ghost." Spittle sprayed from Jack's mouth all over the table. "So forgive me if I give in to an old vice for one night."
Jack's hand shook, still gripping the can. Danny watched, waited, bracing himself. Jack crushed the can and Danny's nerves grated, the hairs on his neck and arms standing on end.
"I'm going to kill him," growled Jack, the empty can still clenched in his fist. "Next time I see Phantom, I am going to rip him open."
Danny grimaced, pain twisting at his temples, bile swishing in his stomach.
"I'll wear my ghost-shredding gloves." Jack let go of the can and it toppled onto the table with a rattling clank. "I'll hold him down and I'll keep going at that pretty face of his until it's a puddle of slush."
Jack grabbed a new can and popped it open. Danny listened to the sound of Jack's guttling, a hand pressed over his heart as he attempted to slow it.
"Dad." Danny panted, caught his breath. "What Mom told everyone, it's not what you think."
"You know something I don't, Danny?" A small belch escaped Jack as he rolled his eyes. "'Danny,' I didn't even want to name you that, that was her idea. Such a dumb name."
Danny stared at Jack as he turned up the bottom of his can and gulped down the remaining beer. He searched for any sign of Vlad's presence, a shimmer of ghostly red light. But Jack's eyes and body remained dark, cloaked in the shadows.
Jack crushed the can and tossed it in front of him. The metallic crunch rang in Danny's head, a memory of hearing that exact same sound as a young child.
"Mom just needed an alibi, Dad," said Danny meekly. "She just wanted to get the cops off her back."
"Is that right? My brilliant wife's brilliant plan, huh?" Jack's throat gurgled. "And she did it without even thinking to ask me first, did she? Set up a whole press conference without stopping to ask her own husband what he thought of this brilliant plan?"
He leaned toward Danny, almost falling off his chair. Danny caught a whiff of musty yeast on his breath.
"Is that what you're saying, Danny?" asked Jack in a slur. "Does that sound smart to you? In that C-average brain of yours, does that make sense?"
Danny pressed his lips, ducking his head between his lifted shoulders. Jack pulled another can free from the six-pack rings.
"All the nights she went out when you were gone—what the fuck else was she doing if she wasn't sleeping around, huh?" Jack popped open his newest can. "If she had really been out looking for you, why did she refuse to let me join her? You're my son too, aren't you?"
Jack lifted the can into the air with his elbow propped on the table.
"She's been drooling over that ghost punk since we first saw him. Of course it would come to this. Of course." Jack shook his head. "I saw the way she looked at him. I saw it and I somehow still just…let it happen."
Jack threw back his head and the can with it, choking down a waterfall of beer, light glancing off his bobbing Adam's apple. Danny watched him, almost in awe as the gulps kept going and going.
At last, Jack pulled the can away from his mouth and heaved out a deep sigh, wet and burbling.
"I'm a fucking idiot," he muttered.
Danny clasped his knees. "No, Dad, you're not."
"I actually do try," said Jack. "I try to remember our anniversary. I try to make it up when I forget. I try to buy her nice gifts. I try to give her exactly what she wants in bed even if I'm not really into it. I never make any demands on her."
Jack swirled the can in his fist, the remaining beer audibly swishing inside.
"And I try to be a good father, too. I try to keep track of your interests, I try to give you good life advice. I offer to help with your homework. I gave up this." Jack held up the can. "And for what? My wife does nothing but lie to me and fuck ghosts behind my back." Jack's head fell, his voice lowering to a cracked hush. "And my own son won't even talk to me."
Jack's fist closed and the can crumpled. The sound vibrated through Danny's ears and he was suddenly a young boy and his parents were screaming at each other in front of a glittering Christmas tree. His father crushed a can in one hand—that sound—and Danny burst into tears. His father rounded on him with bloodshot eyes, swung a gloved hand against his face.
But that couldn't be real. He must not have been remembering that right. Surely that didn't actually happen.
"My own son doesn't trust me, doesn't feel comfortable enough with me to tell me the truth about what really happened to him when he ran away, why he even ran away in the first place." Jack grabbed a new can and raised it as if making a toast. "Father of the year right here."
Danny took a deep breath to smooth his trembling nerves. "I do trust you, Dad."
"You get your lying mouth from your mother, Danny?" bit Jack sharply.
Danny gaped at him. "Dad—"
"I know you're lying. You know you're lying." Jack popped yet another can. "My own son goes missing for three weeks and he comes back all jumpy and having meltdowns in class and at his sister's graduation and he just expects me to believe nothing happened to him out there. My own son was probably beaten, raped—"
Danny flinched.
"—and I'm just sitting here drinking."
Jack threw his head toward the ceiling and knocked back the entire can of beer. His head then came back down and he belched loudly, crushing the can in one tight fist.
Danny stared at him, unblinking. He could see that this was definitely not Vlad but also not his father.
"That's not what happened," said Danny quietly, trying to sound reassuring but knowing he only sounded timid.
Jack grabbed a new can and opened it. "Then what did happen?" he asked.
Danny lowered his eyes to the darkness under the table.
"I tried to find a therapist for you," murmured Jack. "I changed my mind, convinced myself you didn't actually need one. I don't even know why anymore." He looked down at the can in his hand. "It made sense before, but now…nothing makes sense."
Danny tentatively raised his eyes. His father's profile in shadow seemed fallen, his large body sagging.
"I just wish you would let me help you, Danny." Jack's words began to smear into each other. "You're hurting so much and I don't know what to do."
Jack leaned over, placing both elbows on the table as he gulped down his next can. Danny felt his heart collapse, thinking over everything his father had been put through the past couple months. The fear, the panic, the lies. Overshadowing to keep him under control, in the dark. The despair and loneliness he must've felt when his wife and son completely changed and closed themselves off and he had no idea why.
Danny could see now that he wasn't the only one who had been destroyed.
"I'm sorry, Dad," said Danny, choked up and breathless. "I never, ever thought things would get this bad. When all of this started, I just—I had no idea."
The words spilled out of him, breaking through the dam, bursting, gushing. His knees trembled and his chest ached and his lips quivered as the words kept coming and coming. He stared down at his lap, at the table, unable to meet his father's shadowed gaze.
"We were just kids playing around in the lab downstairs. You and Mom said the portal didn't work. That's the only reason I went inside, I swear. I thought it was broken. I thought it would be safe. I even put on that suit Mom made me just to be extra careful. But it wasn't enough. It hurt so much, and I was so scared. And I was afraid to tell you what I had done. I was afraid to tell you the truth.
"When it stopped hurting, when I realized I was still alive, I thought everything would be okay. It was confusing and strange, but it was also kind of fun. Actually, it was really fun. I suddenly didn't feel like a waste of space anymore. Growing up, Jazz was always the smart one, the one you two would always praise and tell me I should be more like. She was perfect, did everything right, got straight A's, and I was the one always getting in trouble, just barely scraping by in class. But for the first time, I felt like I could actually be useful, like I had finally found my calling and maybe you and Mom could actually be proud of me for once. But I was still afraid to tell you.
"The fun didn't last long. I started getting hurt. Really bad. There were so many nights I couldn't even sleep. I would toss and turn trying to get comfortable. I would just lie in bed moaning and crying, begging for sleep to take the pain away. I was so tired every morning, still sick and nauseous from getting beat up the night before. I sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast with you and Mom every single morning while my whole body just ached. But I still didn't tell you.
"I thought I could handle it on my own. It hurt, but I found ways to deal with the pain. I learned how to stitch myself up. I figured out how to hide broken bones. I practiced walking without limping. I used makeup to cover my bruises. And I took painkillers. Just a few at first. Then a lot. Then I tried stronger stuff. And it was fine for a while. Until that night she found me in that alley. Until she held a gun to my head and I really thought she was going to kill me. And that's when I realized I couldn't handle it, actually. I needed your help. More than ever. But I still didn't tell you.
"And then it was too late to tell you. She took me. Locked me up, put me on a table. I thought I had felt pain before, but no, I hadn't. This was pain. Real pain. She said it was for science, she was hurting me for science. But I didn't feel like a specimen in a lab. No, I felt more like a toy in a toy box. A doll for her to bend and pose however she wanted. I saw the way she looked at me every night. But I never told her the truth.
"And then she let me go. I had no idea where to go at first. I was sick and dizzy and exhausted. But I wanted to go home. I thought for sure that everything would be fine and normal again if I could just get home to you, to Jazz, to Sam and Tucker. I found a way to get back here. And then I had another chance, a new chance to tell you the truth. But I still didn't.
"I didn't want anyone to know. No one. I was ashamed of what she forced on me, what she turned me into. I didn't want anyone to know just how weak I really was. I didn't want their sympathy, their pity. So I lied. We lied. Together. We made up stories about what happened. We told everyone that things were fine and I was fine and nothing bad happened to me. But the police were smarter than that. You were smarter than that. We had to get in your head, manipulate your thoughts from the inside. She said it was the only way to protect me, but I knew it was wrong. I hated it. But I still didn't tell you.
"Everything has gotten out of control because I didn't tell you. Everything keeps getting worse because I keep lying. I keep hoping that somehow everything will go back to normal if I can just keep everyone from learning the truth. But it can never go back to normal. Burying the truth doesn't change that it happened. It doesn't change that it's real and it hurt me. Because the truth is—"
Danny's breath caught and he shuddered, digging his nails into his knees.
"I'm Danny Phantom," he pushed out, barely louder than a whisper as his throat tried to close off the words.
Silence. And then snoring. Danny looked up to find his father's body slumped over, his face pressed to the table and his arms sprawled in front of him, one hand holding a beer can. His enormous shoulders rose and fell over and over, rhythmic and steady.
Danny shut his eyes and wept bitterly, doubled over, his arms folded against himself.