Archive of Our Own

I have good days.

"Danny?"

I do, really. I promise.

"Danny? Are you in there?"

I just also happen to have bad days.

"Go away, Jazz." I hate my voice like this; it's hoarse and groggy, like I've been trying to sleep for a while but just haven't been able to.

"Please let me in."

The doorknob rattles. Just a bit, like she's trying to be subtle about testing the lock.

'But I really don't want to.'

I don't say it out loud, but I don't move to let her in either.

I wait for her to leave, focussing on breathing.

In. Out. Then in again.

It could have been a minute, or two or six, but I can't really tell.

It's quiet. Well, as quiet as Fenton Works could get. There's the usual suspects, clanks and bangs from downstairs, the hum of various appliances, and also the drone of passing vehicles outside. It's about as quiet as you could get it.

She's still there though.

I can tell because shoes tend to squeak in this house. Especially when you're anxiously shuffling in front of someone's bedroom door.

"Danny…"

'No.'

I pull the blankets over my head a little more tightly.

"Mom and dad are getting worried…"

'…'

I feel conflicted about that.

"I'm getting worried, Danny…"

That, not so much.

"I'm fine, Jazz." I mean it. I try to, at least.

"So you'll let me in?"

'No.'

"No."

I can hear her sigh from behind the door. If she wasn't trying to poke her nose where it's not welcome, it would've been funny.

"Why, Danny?"

"Because I'm fine, Jazz."

"Then let me in, Danny!"

To her credit, she doesn't bang her fists on the door, but it's a close thing. It's a soft thud that rattles through the wood and to its hinges.

It makes the headache worse anyway.

"Leave me alone…" I hate how my teeth clack together.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong!" The blankets do nothing to muffle her voice, no matter how hard I pull on them.

"Don't you have a thesis to work on, or something!?"

My throat burns with each word, the flames reverberating through my ears and into my eyes, a hundred tiny needles poking and prodding, like TV static made physical. 'Just leave me alone…'

"Not when my little brother is in the middle of isolating himself while he's hurt!"

Each barely restrained thud is a sledgehammer to to my skull. I hate it when my eyes get wet like this.

"I'm fine, Jazz. I just…" the words are a sour sting on my tongue. "I just need some time to myself, okay?"

It's quiet again.

Her shoes still squeak though.

"You promise?" Her voice sounds unsure and tired, almost fragile. It gives me pause.

I still say it though.

"I promise, Jazz."

She lets out a breath. "Okay…"

I listen to her footsteps as she leaves, a faint and consistent squeak-plap, squeak-tap, all the way to her door.

I exhale a sigh of relief, the tension leaving my body. My fingers, though… they're stuck.

I lift the bedding off my head and stare at my hands.

The the top blanket is punctured, my nails digging tiny craters into the fabric and getting caught in the fibers.

Brows drawn together, I stare at the holes, rubbing the pad of my thumb over the edge of frayed fabric. The soft thread is coarse at the edges.

They weren't there a few minutes ago.

'Did I do this?'

I look at my nails. They're neatly trimmed, maybe a little long, considering I cut them a few days ago, but they're not near sharp enough to do this kind of damage.

My eyelids drop closed as I let my head fall back into my pillow's embrace. Breathe in, nice and deep. And breathe out.

'Just go to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.'

Sometimes I think the good days are the bad days. Sometimes it's the other way around.

Beep.

I just never know which is which until it's too late.

Beep.

Beep.

The alarm is often the first thing I hear.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Much like today.

It's less than an arm's length away from the nightstand. My hand falls on top of the button with a satisfying click. The absence of its voice is utter bliss on the ears.

I don't want to, and yet, hesitantly, I peak through lidded eyes.

Monday, 6:02 A.M.

'Ughhh….'

My hand falls from the alarm, hanging limply off the mattress edge.

'Time to get up, I guess…'

I roll onto my side, pushing up with my arm to sit upright, a question hot on my tongue.

My hand reaches under the shirt, gliding under the smooth fabric, skin meeting skin.

I recoil. It still stings.

I try again, but slower.

Under the light needlepoint of my fingers, I find the burn from yesterday. It feels almost completely gone. It's an unexpected weight lifted off my chest, escaping with a sigh.

'Thank goodness…'

My hand drops to my leg, and I stand up. That's not too bad either.

Actually, maybe I shouldn't do it that fast.

I reach out to the nightstand for support.

'Ugh.'

I stay like that for a little while, hunched over the floor while the world fades in and out. The fuzzy static behind my eyes doesn't stay long, though, clearing enough for me to find my feet again.

A bright light shines into my eyes, making me wince.

I hold up my hand instinctively, peeking through my fingers at its source. The ray of sun from between the blinds peeks back.

'I hate summer…'

I saunter my way to the closet, looking through the array of items on offer.

'Blue Tee? Sure, should be comfy.'

I dangle it onto my arm.

'Blue jeans? No, too tight. Black.'

I unhook it from its hanger.

'Shoes? Sneakers.'

On the floor, next to the desk, in front of the bag.

'Socks? Black.'

I toss them in one of the sneakers.

'Underwear?'

I shudder upon seeing the heart spattered boxer briefs.

'Not those. Never again.'

My hand reaches for an unpatterned one instead. It gets sandwiched between the shirt and the pants.

'Wardrobe, check.'

My foot pushes the closet shut as I turn to make for the hallway.

The lock on my bedroom door clicks open. With a pull, the hallway reveals itself.

Empty.

Small mercies today, it seems.

I make my way to the bathroom on silent feet.

The door clicks shut behind me, as close to soundlessly as it can get with its old hinges. A breath escapes my lungs shortly after.

Again, small mercies.

I reach for the light switch, just beside the door, and flick it on.

The old candescent bulb flickers to life with a warm glow. It banishes the dark to hide in the nooks and crannies of anything it can find.

It's certainly a lot brighter now, but it feels like the shadows still seem to lurk, flickering and wavering beneath the sink and laundry basket.

I blink.

'Must still be tired.'

I'm pretty sure that's what it is, but it doesn't bring me that much comfort as I continue further in, pointedly avoiding the mirror above the sink as I drape my clothes over the basket.

The faucet greets me with a splash of refreshingly cool water. It chases away the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to my face.

I cup my hands underneath and bring it up to my mouth, swishing it between my teeth, then spit.

Next, I reach towards the counter next to the sink and grab my toothbrush where it sits in its mug. With a flick of the bristles and a squeeze of Fenton Anti-Ecto Plaque (it's just regular toothpaste with a Fenton logo printed on it), I place it in my mouth, and brush.

My eyes begin to roam with the back and forth motion of the brush, starting at the faucet and moving slowly steadily up.

'The yellowing tiles could use a good scrub.' I think to myself. 'Especially where the porcelain of the sink meet with the wall.'

Just above that, hangs the nail brush. Jazz uses it to scrub under her nails. She insisted we do the same for a while, but the habit never stuck.

'It's a reminder of the family's aversion to hygiene.' The thought startles a chuckle out of me.

I can see the frame of the mirror. It's one of those overly detailed frames with gold detailing. Well, gold paint.

It's chipped away at the edges, revealing the smooth black material it's actually made of beneath.

I'm reasonably sure it's older than I am.

The actual mirror is next. My pyjama shirt's reflection peeks back at me, the striped pattern pulling my gaze upwards. Button, button, another button, collar.

My lungs inflate, then deflate, an attempt at gathering resolve. 'Might as well, I guess.'

It's my chin, my nose, my eyes. My face.

What isn't mine, though, is the finger-length scar across my cheek.

The brush stills in my hand, the other coming up to graze the fresh skin. It's slightly raised above the rest of the skin, but it's not red and angry anymore.

I was hoping it would've been gone by now, but this should work well enough for the time being.

'If they ask, I could shrug it off as an accident at school.'

I spit out the foamy paste and run the hot water faucet. It swirls down the drain with a spiral.

I reach under and feel for the temperature. Hot.

Shower time.

I undress, button after button, and throw it into the basket. Same with the rest.

The shower hisses to life at the twist of my wrist, and I step inside. My body sags with relief at the first touch of the warmth.

For a while, I just stand there, existing, eyes closed. It’s just me and the steady flow of water. My arms wrap around me, taking great comfort in the way the drops collide with my skin.

It almost feels like floating. Maybe I do actually start floating at some point, but I don’t pay much attention. I focus on the smell, the warmth, the freedom, and-

Bang, bang, bang!

I almost slip and fall, catching myself against the wall in the nick of time.

"Danny! Breakfast is ready! Hurry up, sweetie, you're going to be late!"

I sigh, standing up and standing under the stream again. It doesn't feel right anymore.

'Was nice while it lasted…'

"I'm coming!"

I grip the bar of soap and start scrubbing with haste, lathering my skin, and wincing as I pass over my side.

Once my body is slick with foam, besides for my hair and the soles of my feet, I rinse it all off.

Squeaky clean.

Hopefully.

The soap goes back onto the wall mounted rack, and I reach for a bottle on the top rack. My hand holds the dollop of shampoo that grows as I squeeze from the bottle.

It foams as I push it into my hair, fingers dragging across my scalp.

One more rinse, and I'm done. The flow stops, only a few stray drops escaping from above.

'I don't feel like towel drying today.'

My body turns intangible for a few seconds, letting the water fall off.

Besides my feet, I'm completely dry. The bathroom air is rather chilly as I step out of the shower.

I throw on my clothes with haste, and then I'm out, into the hall and down the stairs.

I wince as dad lets the blackened pan fall into the sink. It breathes a foul hiss as he pours water over the remains of what I assume was meant to be egg.

‘Best just get it over with…’

Sometimes good days can become bad days, but you’ll never be able to tell until they’re over.

The wheels of Jazz’s car rumble along the road in a seemingly never ending drone, much like the discomforting silence that fills the cad.

She’s has been quiet ever since we stepped out the door, which now, after a few agonising minutes spent thinking about it, actually makes me think this is one of her psychology tricks; waiting until I'm willing to start the conversation instead of coaxing me into one.

Despite already having prepared myself against talking about yesterday, I still feel the need to talk about something — anything, really — just to get the silence to end.

Which makes me angry.

Not because I'm being tricked, mind you, but because it's working.

I let out a pointed huff and cross my arms, my body slouching into the well worn fabric of my seat. My gaze is squarely set on the scenery passing by.

'I know this game, Jazz, I'm not playing today.'

I stay like that for a few more minutes, my gaze mostly straying towards mailboxes filled with half peeled paper, trees surrounded by rings of dirt, dogs tugging at their leashes, and even the occasional stray cat knocking over a bag of trash. But every so often, I would catch her peeking at me before quickly focusing on the road again.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. 'Seems like she's realised that it's not working.'

By the time we pass the Nasty Burger, she lets out a sigh, apparently caving to her own impatience.

"Danny…"

The words seem to die on her tongue, so I press.

"Hmm?"

Her grip on the wheel shifts slightly as her thoughts fall back in place.

"About yesterday… I-"

"What about yesterday?" I interrupt. My tongue is coated with annoyance, which seems to have the effect of a needle poking her finger.

"I just… I-" She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

I look at her, eyebrow raising. "For?"

She's frowning, eyebrows knit together with a single crease between them. She looks as if she'd been caught sucking a lemon.

"I…" Her throat bobs as she swallows her words, coming up with new ones instead. "For the wrist ray…"

I look back out the window.

My first instinct is to say 'it's fine', followed by a few more reassuring things. What comes out, though, feels a little more selfish.

"Okay."

"Danny…" The car turns, making me sway into the door. "I am sorry… really…"

"You did what you had to," I mumble, propping my head up with my arm. "It's… fine."

"I didn't have to shoot you, Danny."

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

She frowns as the car begins to slow to a stop. It’s a look that says, ‘No, it’s not, and you know it.’ What’s different this time, though, is the anxious thinning of her lips.

It doesn’t matter. We’re here.

I move to grab my bag from between my legs, and open the door, moving to leave. Her hand on my arm makes me pause.

I turn. Her eyebrows are still furrowed, casting her eyes with a steely shadow making her seem almost… skittish? Nervous?

“Call me…” She swallows a lump in her throat, quickly looking away. “If anything comes up, I mean.”

I just nod, uncaring. “Sure, Jazz.”

Her grip goes limp, releasing me to the open maw of Casper High awaiting me atop the steps.

Halfheartedly, I wave at her as I enter.

I can already hear the rushed shushes from inside.

On the off-chance you do realise that you’re having a bad day, I find that, most of the time, trying to do something about it often ends up making it worse.

Mr Lancer is scribbling something on the board. The tap-tap-tapping of the chalk echoes through the room, much like an eerie chant, its presence demanding a silence from all who witness it.

Sure, it’s not the only sound, but it might as well be.

There are some whispers here and there, but they die down quickly enough when the tap of chalk against board goes quiet.

The scribble of pen and pencil isn’t insignificant either, but it’s no match against the monolith of Mr Lancer’s chalk.

It’s unsettling. I’ve never seen them be this… ‘behaved’ might not be the correct word; I can tell that, even while quiet, most of them aren’t doing their classwork.

‘Restrained’ might be a more fitting word. It’s like they want to say — no, ask? do? — something, but someone glued their lips together and duct-taped them to their chairs.

Again, unsettling.

I try — I really try — to focus on my work, but I can almost feel them looking at me. Their eyes: they’re like little lasers that singe the little hairs on the nape of my neck.

I look up slightly, then quickly back down to my worksheet once again — Mikey is giving me the strangest side-eye from the row just next to mine, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. I’ve often seen him make that exact face in math class when working on a particularly difficult problem.

The thought makes my stomach clench — I don’t like being seen like this, much less being seen as a mystery to be solved.

My eyes scan the page, searching for something to make me look less interesting.

‘In what way does the theme of the unknown manifest itself throughout the drama? In an essay of 300 to 400 words, describe how-’

My eyes squeeze shut as my gaze begins to water. ‘How on earth am I supposed to answer this?’

I try to calm myself. ‘In, and out,’ I repeat to myself, each breath slowly entering and leaving through my mouth. ‘One step at a time.’

I cast a glance to the side. He’s still watching me, subtle as it may be.

I pick up my pencil and start to scribble on the lined paper.

A bubble surrounds the phrase ‘The Unknown’, with several arms branching off to make new ones. ‘The Circus’ is one of those bubbles. ‘The Constable’ is another.

‘I know what these things represent, but how do I put it into words?’

I add several question marks next to the bubble with the word ‘Mist’ written inside it.

Quick as lightning, a chill runs up my spine, escaping through my mouth in a puff of mist.

My body slumps forwards onto the desk, my head thudding against the wood with a hollow ‘doonk!’ I barely restrain the groan that threatens to escape my mouth.

‘Great. Just what I wanted.’ I raise my hand reluctantly. ‘And it was going so well too…’

Someone grabs my hand from behind me, just before it reaches the top, stopping me dead in my tracks.

I turn around, brows furrowed, my gaze meeting with Sam’s. Her face, painted with the purples and blacks of eyeshadow, is the definition of stern, the hard line of her mouth sharp enough to spill blood if she wanted. She doesn’t say anything though. Instead, through her eyes, she conveys the word ‘don’t’.

I plead with mine, trying to convey ‘urgent’ and ‘need’ using my face alone.

Her head twitches from side to side, an urgent but controlled movement, one you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it, and she pulls my hand down, only letting go when it drops below my shoulder.

It's a staring contest, one that she wins with another small shake of her head.

With a sigh, I give in, turning back to my desk and picking up my pencil, though I don’t know what to do with it now. It hovers uselessly over the first bubble, my eyes glazing over as they fail to gleam any sort of insight from the word.

My mind stays on the ghost, the one actively roaming the halls, trashing the place without a care in the world for the damage to the building, equipment, nor the people around them.

It drives me crazy, not knowing what’s going on out there, who’s out there, why they’re there. It’s an itch on my arm, slowly but steadily creeping up to my shoulder. Then it’s a swarm of ants, each of them sinking a bite into my skin, making it twist and burn as they burrow under, pinching my tendons, cutting my nerves, stealing my muscles, pulling my-

A reverberating clink fills the room, a sudden splash of icy water to my face that jerks me back to reality.

I blink at the desk and my hand on top of it. The pencil is no longer in my hand.

I peer up and around. Everyone is staring at me, an emotion written on each of their faces that I just can’t place. Confusion? No, concern? No? I don’t kn-

“-mister Fenton?”

My head snaps to the front.

I stare at him, perplexed. ‘What did he say?’

“Are you alright, mister Fenton?”

‘Oh.’ I suck in a breath. It escapes with a quick huff. “Yes, Mr Lancer, I’m alright.”

He eyes me for a second, his gaze steely and cold — analytical. I doubt that he believes me, but if he doesn’t, he says nothing turning back to the board instead.

The screech of the bell interrupts him before he can write anything else.

I blink, stupified, before moving to toss everything into my bag. The bell certainly has some sense of timing, it seems.

“Alright class, make sure to have page one and two done for tomorrow.”

I make my way out into the hall and down towards my locker in a daze, almost jumping out of my skin when Sam punches me in the arm.

“Ow!”

“Dude! You can’t just leave like that anymore!”

I look at her, perplexed. “Wha- Sam! there’s a ghost!”

She scooches in closer; her arm is a furnace against my skin.

“I know that, but…” she whispers, eyeing everyone passing by. “they don’t.”

I scowl at her.

She grabs at the straps of her bag, fidgeting with the coarse fabric. “They’re not going to buy the bathroom excuse anymore, Danny.”

I roll my eyes.

“Don’t just dismiss me like that!” she says with a scowl. “I’m right, and you know it!”

I do, but that doesn’t mean I have to admit it.

“So, what? I just need to ignore the ghost wrecking the place and hope it’ll go away?”

We reach our lockers. I open mine to a mess of notebooks and textbooks, hiding behind the sheet of metal. I reach out and grab the one with a blue plastic cover.

“That’s- No!” she says through her teeth. “What I’m saying is that you need to be smarter about these things, Danny!”

We quiet when two guys in letterman jackets pass by us. I can feel their eyes burning a hole into the back of my neck.

Once they’re gone, she slams her locker closed and stomps over to mine.

“They’re going to start piecing together that whenever Danny Fenton leaves the room-” she slams my locker closed, almost crushing my fingers and making me yelp back. “- it means that there’s a ghost coming.”

“But-!”

“And!” she holds up her hand with her pointer finger up. “If Danny Phantom always shows up to fight said ghost after Danny Fenton leaves, well…”

She gestures with her hand animatedly. She twirls it in a loop once, twice, three times, before letting it fall to her side. “you get the idea, right?”

I shuffle my feet, the floor seemingly covered with hundreds of invisible thorns that poke and prod at the soles of my feet.

“Is the ghost even here, still?”

I pause. There’s no electric green smell, nothing that weighs heavy in the back of your nose, nothing that crawls up your spine with ice covered tendrils.

Apparently, the answer is written on my face for all to see.

“You need to be smarter about which battles you choose to fight, Danny. A harmless stray is not one of them.”

There’s a volcano in my stomach, and it wants to burn something.

“Well, what else am I supposed to say, Sam? ‘Oh, Mr Lancer, I think there’s a ghost in the school, we need to get out of here’.”

I wave both my hands around as if they were on fire, moving from one foot to the other as I pace. “Or! Or, maybe, ‘Look, Mr Lancer! A ghost! In the window!’ Maybe that would work!”

A haggard laugh escapes my mouth, broken and desperate. My hands are icy against my cheeks.

“I mean, what am I supposed to do, Sam?”

My foot pivots on the ground, twisting me, back facing the lockers, and I lean against them.

“Please, do tell me: what am I supposed to do?”

Her expression sours with a tired exhale through her nose, gaze aimed at the floor with no real interest.

“I’m not expecting you to work miracles, Danny.”

Eyes avoiding mine, her hand reaches for her locker, but doesn't pull. It just rests there, holding the lock, thumb padding over the raised metal numbers mindlessly.

“All I'm asking is that you find a way to do your thing without drawing more attention to yourself.”

Her hand goes still. She peers at me from behind a curtain of black hair, all heat vanishing from behind her eyes, leaving only stone-cold imprints against my retinas.

“Especially not on your first day back.”

A push, and the lock clicks shut.

Any and all words die in the back of my throat as I scramble to make her turn back.

The sound of her boots disappear around the corner, leaving me alone in the hall where only the echoes of footsteps roam.

I close my eyes, and breathe. I think of the cold and stale air flowing in and out, lungs inflating, deflating, repeat. It does nothing to clear out the bitter smell that clings to my mouth.

I turn to walk in the other direction, immediately smacking into a wall of fabric. It smells of b.o. and body spray.

My body locks in place.

I peer up, finding a mop of golden locks and blue eyes, staring at me, dumbfounded.

Something tickles me deep inside. It’s a sick, twisted humour, almost enough to make me actually laugh. ‘Oh wow, this is exactly what I need right now.’

“Hi, Dash.” I say it in a careful monotone.

He’s frozen for a moment, watching me through thin eyes that widen as he stumbles back, rubbing awkwardly at the nape of his neck. He looks everywhere but me.

“Uh, hi Fen… ton.”

One lone eyebrow climbs my forehead.

“You… uh, had a fight with your girlfriend?”

The bitter taste turns sour on my tongue, my eyes staring daggers at him, half lidded.

“How long were you standing there?”

He shuffles from foot to foot, as if the tiles were made of hot coals. It’s weird. ‘Is he… nervous?”

“Look, I… I, uh… I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

I fold my arms and widen my stance. “You don’t say?”

The facade cracks and he groans, rubbing listlessly at his eyes.

“Sorry. I’ll just, uh, get out of your hair.”

He skirts past, not sparing another glance my way.

I frown, turning to look as he darts behind the same wall Sam had vanished behind, a question burning hot out of the oven.

‘Since when does Dash not stuff people into lockers?’

It’s a difficult thing; staying positive when a bad day throws you into a hole.

“Get back here, ectoplasmic scum!” Dad fires a shot. It misses.

Sometimes, it’s the only thing you can do.

“Give us back our sample!”

Mom is hot on my non-existent heels, the wheels of the GAV shrieking at each and every harsh turn she makes through the streets.

I readjust my grip on the thermos. “No!”

I dodge a sizzling ball aimed at my behind, scooting up, splitting my tail into legs and back into a tail again.

I’ve never quite figured out why they always insist on having dad behind the weapons. Whenever mom’s behind the guns I always get at least a bruise or two.

At this point, they’re just being plain inefficient.

“Why don’t you two go study those hamburgers you made for dinner last week!”

I swear I hear the engine roar in anger behind me. “Studying animated food is not the same as studying already existing natural phenomena!”

“That’s right, baby!” Dad shoots another plasma ball, covering someone’s window in glowing green slime. “Only naturally formed ghosts for our scalpels!”

“Oh great,” I roll my eyes. “I’ve graduated from being ‘all evil’ to being ‘all natural’. What next? You’ll tell me how many calories my body’s made up of?”

Bright blue pain spreads from my shoulder, down my arm, numbing, making my hand tingle. It knocks me out of the air to plummet onto the sunbaked asphalt, scraping my arm and sides, sending the thermos clattering. The GAV screeches to a halt shortly after.

I can hear them mumbling from behind me, a thud of vehicle doors followed by the pitter-pat of jumpsuit shoes.

I try to fly away, but I’m gravity-bound.

‘Okay, this is bad.’

My eyes dart around, scanning buildings and doors and dumpsters and lamps.

To my left, there’s an alleyway, shrouded with shadow. My feet don’t need to be asked twice. I snatch the thermos with my good hand, and dart into the cover.

‘Oh come on!’

It’s a dead end, a wall blocking off the rest of my escape.

“About 3,154 Megacalories!” mom calls out into the alleyway. It echoes with a sickening twist of amusement.

I look back, gobsmacked. “You just have that information on you?!?”

She actually has the nerve to smirk. “Of course!”

“What kind of scientists would we be if we didn’t?”

My eyes dart back and forth, looking for a way out. “I don’t know, sane ones?”

A blast just to the right of my face jolts me away and onto the ground, scurrying into a corner.

“Can it, spook!” His voice is icy and cold, dripping with malice.

My stomach drops. They’re less than a few feet away.

‘Crap, crap, crap! Intangibility!’

Nothing.

My throat suddenly feels very dry.

‘Invisibility!’

Nothing.

‘Shield?!?’

Nothing.

My gaze flicks between them wildly, searching for something, anything.

“Scared, ghost?” Her voice is full of amusement, like she’d just said the funniest thing on the planet. It lacks any of the warmth from this morning.

Something starts to rattle inside my chest. Something really small that really doesn’t want to be there.

‘Breathe, Danny. Breathe.’

I force a playful smile, my eyes still darting around the alley. “Hardly.”

Her eyes narrow. I can only watch as they near, getting closer and closer.

“Why not fly away, then, Phantom?” Dad sings in time with their steps. It reverberates against the brick, cold and hollow.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe the destabilized ectoplasm you shot me with?” I say it with a chuckle, though it holds none of the humour. The brick is awfully rough against the palms of my hands.

They freeze.

Mom looks like I’ve just replaced her toothpaste with barbecue sauce, and I swear I can see steam coming from dad’s ears as his eyebrows furrow to meet in the middle.

“How do you know that?” she whispers, caught off guard.

“You been snooping around our lab again, haven’t you?” He says it with a growl.

I just shrug, an attempt at innocence.

“Well, you won’t be doing that much longer!”

From his back-pocket, he pulls out the Fenton Bazooka — ‘HOW??’ — and points it straight at my head. I can hear it whir to life with a needlepoint whine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see mom jump back, though I don’t see much else. My eyes are kinda focussed on the gun pointed at my face, green and ready to make my day so much worse.

‘How did he…’

“Umm…” my tongue twists upon itself.

“Jack,” mom says, patient and careful, as if she were talking to a wild animal. “this isn’t what we agreed upon this morning.”

I try to become part of the wall, though that’s a little difficult under the glare of angry green.

“I know, but Mads, it broke into our lab again…” he says, stealing a glance at her. The gun lowers for a second, before snapping back onto its target when he notices it drifting. “Our house!” He steps closer, shoving into my face.

The small thing in my chest gets more desperate. It’s now a constant buzz that tugs at my skin and licks my bones, begging me to get out.

I grip at the brick behind me, but find nothing.

In an attempt at doing something, my legs decide to betray me, making me fall towards the ground.

The gun’s gaze follows me down.

“Jack, please.” Her voice walks on unsteady ground, losing its balance more and more. “Put down the bazooka. We already know Phantom isn’t going anywhere.”

My stomach decides that now is a good time to try new and uncomfortable yoga positions to try and squeeze the icy cold feeling out of my body.

He’s still for a while, staring at me down the barrel of the oversized blaster.

She’s at his side, hands moving steadily closer.

“It needs to pay, Maddie.”

Her hand hovers over his, ready to take it. “And it will, Jack,” she makes contact with the weapon.

Relief. I sag against the brick, just a little.

“In our lab. With many, many samples.”

I swallow down the spit pooling in my mouth.

‘Not the best, but I can work with that…'

He considers her for a moment, eyeing me up and down.

“No.”

The buzzing in my chest goes very quiet. Too quiet.

The word is said through clenched teeth, and with squinted eyes. His hands readjust their grip on the bazooka, shrugging off his wife’s hands.

“It won’t bother us again.”

My eyes don’t have a chance to widen.

.

.

.

.

Bad days will come and go. That is an unfortunate fact.

.

.

What you need to remember though, is that they’re not all you’ll ever have.

.

Better days will come. You just need to be patient, and keep going.

.

I’m trudging through mud, painfully slow, and thick as honey. That’s the only way I can think to describe how it feels to think.

Thoughts are few and far apart, like desert islands, once known to travellers, now abandoned, and lost at sea.

That doesn’t mean I can’t think, though.

It just takes time.

Slowly but surely, I get the feeling that something is wrong.

I can’t feel my hands. Or my toes. Or my legs. Or anything, really.

I can’t hear anything, either.

Or smell anything.

Wait, actually, I do smell something…

What is that?

It smells like the first few drops of rain, a soft and gentle petrichor that I know will wash away all my problems with the coming rain.

For some reason, though, I doubt that’s what the smell means.

Sure, it’s soft, and clean, and gentle, but it’s also, somehow, turning… red? And green? And a sickly, putrid shade of yellow?

It clings to everything, every sense, every thought.

And it itches.

Like an uncomfortable rash you’re just not allowed to scratch. Can’t scratch.

It makes you twist and turn and squeal as you attempt to get away from it.

But you can’t.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t feel your body.

You’re trapped, in this dark, horrible place, frozen.

You can do nothing as the ants crawl on your skin, tiny legs that make all your body hair stand on end.

You can only lay there and watch as they explore, leaving invisible trails on your skin that, you know for certain, will always be there, even after you wash and scrub.

No matter how hot the water, no matter how strong the soap.

They’ll always be there.

They’ve marked you, made it easier for the other ants to find you.

Even in this horrible, sickly yellow sky, they’ll find you.

And then they’ll tunnel.

It starts out with one; it pinches your skin between its mandibles, harder and harder, a needlepoint sting that keeps going, and going, and going, until it pierces through, wasting no time in going in.

It hollows out your tissues, bisecting tissue and muscle until it reaches bone.

Even then, it doesn’t stop.

It scratches, an unearthly ache as each shard is removed, digging inside.

It stays there, making a home, a nest, using whatever it gets.

Why it does it, you’ll never know.

But what you do know, is that there are more.

They make new holes, new tunnels.

They cut out the tendons of your hands.

Eat the collagen between your knees.

Pinch each and every nerve of your body, an explosion of fire and pain.

They take and take and take.

You’ll try to breathe, but there are eggs in your lungs.

You’ll try to cry, but they stole your tear ducts.

You’ll try to scream, but they took your tongue.

You’ll try to gag, but there’s something hard and cold, that keeps your oesophagus wide open, at all times available for any and all to see, to take, to pinch and prod and cut.

And between it all, you’ll wish you were dead.

Even as they invade your brain and try to steal your thoughts.

Because, surely, that would be better than this, right?

Right?

The world comes into view with a gurgle and a gasp. It warps and twists, like the heat in the air around a campfire.

My entire body aches, cold, and yet, as if it were thrown into the sun itself.

A hurried breath enters my lungs. It’s hot, and foul, rotten from the inside out, and gurgles as it leaves.

My eyes sting.

When I try to rub my eyes, something hard and sharp makes me recoil.

Through lidded eyes, I look at my hands.

The long and spindly bones are a puke yellow in my hands… my hands. ‘Where are my hands?’

I try to move them, and the the bones twitch and rattle as they clank against each other, rising out of a wash of jelly-like goop the colour of the midnight sky.

It’s… weird. I can’t see my hands, but it feels like they’re there.

I move my hands, but the bones move instead.

With each command, they obey, twisting, and spreading, and twirling.

It’s like I’m playing with a toy.

I watch as a lone drop of inky black fluid drips from the index finger and joins the rest below in a ripple of black.

I follow it, letting the bones dip into the inky abyss, watching as it runs off like oil on water.

I dip them again, curious, watching the ripples fold and ebb over the surface.

When I pull them out, there’s a blob that sticks onto it.

‘That’s weird.’

I dip it back in, and pull it out. The blob is bigger this time.

It jiggles as I shake the bones around, waving them back and forth.

I dip it again, and it’s bigger this time, now covering the palm of the would be hand.

It doesn’t jiggle this time, though.

Instead, it hisses, spreading. One drop snaps onto one of the bones in the would-be finger, and it tugs, a mind of its own.

It happens again. Each blob snapping into place and fizzling.

I can’t look away.

Not when the tendons turn green, not when the muscles turn red.

And definitely not when a thin layer of yellow spreads itself over it all. It snaps into place, fitting like a glove, until, finally, it’s skin.

I twist my hand, and the hand twists with me.

It burns.

It burns so much.

I try to keep it in, I really try.

But eventually, I just can’t.

I scream, a pained, bubbling thing, it seeps into the nooks and crannies of the streets.

At the other end of the alley, Jazz screams too.