Anon E. Moos, Day 2, Part 1

>The forest sprawls around you, stunted, warped evergreens blocking out almost all of the light, thick mist obscuring what little you'd seen otherwise.
>You aren't sure if it's day or night.
>You aren't even sure about why you're there.
>Or what "there" is, for that matter.
>Suddenly, a pained whimpering catches your attention and you take off in the direction of the noise, feet thudding against the underbrush.
>Soon enough, you emerge to a familiar scene, Duane lying underneath a tree, the boy's leg trapped underneath the massive trunk.
”Hold on, I'll get it off of you!”
>You leap over the tree, grab a pair of branches with practiced movements, and drive your heels into the ground, expecting the large log to rise.
>But it doesn't.
>Duane is desperately shushing you, his finger pressed into his lips with an excessive amount of force.
>”A-Anon, p-please be q-quiet... I-if Mister T-Turnip hears you, he'll...”
>Duane's protests are cut short by a loud, primal groan echoing through the forest.
>”Oh no...”
>A flicker of movement on the right side of Duane catches your attention, your eyes training on the small, unassuming turnip lying exactly where it was before.
>Slowly, it swells up, branches and loose debris flying through the air and attaching to it, forming a vaguely humanoid, extremely elongated body.
>The turnip-man convulses and shakes a couple times, and then starts slowly rising to its feet with jerky, unnatural movements, the turnip-head turning one way and then the other, like a wolf sniffing out prey.
>Duane is sobbing quietly, hiding his head in his hands, tears streaming out from between his fingers.
>”P-p-please... D-don't h-hurt him... He's, he's o-only trying t-t-to help...”
>Another rumble echoes through the forest, this time seemingly coming from the ground itself, emanating from the evergreens and birches that now seem to draw closer with every second.
>The turnip-man is now standing at full height, easily ten feet tall, the bloated vegetable serving as it's head now oozing pungent, evil-smelling fluid, small white worms burrowing around inside the rotten turnip and falling onto the forest floor, wriggling blindly among the old pine needles and dried humus.
>The turnip turns to face you and crouches down, as if preparing to jump.
>At the same moment, another rumble echoes through the forest, this a lot more hateful than the last.
>That's when you turn tail and run, Duane's sobbing fading into nothing somewhere in the misty darkness behind you.
>Risking a look over your shoulder, you see the construct bounding towards you with long, smooth jumps, parts of him splintering and reforming out of new material whenever he hits a tree, rock or other obstacle, completely unphased.
>Your heart is hammering wildly in your chest, and suddenly you realize the weight of the situation.

>You are going to die in this forest.
>Pumping your legs, you redouble your efforts to get away, but in vain, your legs moving like they were stuck in quicksand.
>Looking down, you see that the forest floor has swallowed you up to your ankles, the blind, white worms from before now crawling around inside your shoes and on your legs.
>Desperately trying to get away, you attempt a jump, only to fall flat on your face, your hands now sinking into the ground, insects boring into your skin the moment your hands submerge.
>You struggle, trying to pull yourself loose, but to no avail.
>Risking a look over your shoulder, you give a strangled scream when you see the construct standing right beside you, viscous black fluid dripping out of the over-ripe, infested turnip, rivulets of black goo landing on you, searing your skin through your clothes.
>The turnip-man leans closer to your struggling form until he is mere inches from your face, the blind, lumpy vegetable drunkenly swaying back and forth.
>And then, one of his long, cracked, wooden arms pushes into the turnip with a sickening crunch, returning with a fistful of maggots, the disgusting white insects pulsating inside his wooden grip.
>Faster than anything you've ever seen before, his fist punches through your back and into your stomach, letting the worms loose inside your guts, white-hot pain coursing through your body at the sudden invasion.
>You give a primal, pained howl and push your head into the forest floor, desperately wishing for it to stop, darkness enveloping your vision...

>You wake up shivering, lying on the forest floor, parasites wriggling around inside the hole in your back...
>Except there is no hole in your back.
>Or forest, or monstrous turnip-man out to kill you.
>There's just you, your bedroom, a lot of cold sweat and a beeping alarm clock.
>You get up shakily, checking the time while wiping away sweat from your brow.
>The alarm clock reads out seven-thirty A.M., and you feel dead tired.
>No wonder, considering you were up until two, maybe three in the morning.
>Technically, you could sleep in.
>Your shift starts at twelve, so you'd have several hours to make up for lost sleep.
>But after that dream, after feeling the rancid stink of rotting vegetables and feeling those...those things crawling around inside you, you're not sure you want to sleep any more than you already have.
>You sigh and run your fingers through your sweat-matted hair, trying your best to straighten it out.
>Well, today can only get better, right?

>The stairs creak under your weight as you trudge downstairs, a bundle of clothes nestled in the crook of your elbow, your bare feet slapping on the wood underneath.
>You push open the door and look to your right, looking for Duane.
>He is sprawled out on the couch, chest rising and falling slowly, his expression completely peaceful.
>A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, despite your rough awakening, and you can't help feeling just a little bit happier.
>Just imagine what he's had to go through before getting here...
>A forest is no place to sleep for anyone, especially not for a boy that still hasn't hit puberty, especially not the Everfree.
>Shivering at the memory, you leave the boy in peace and head to the bathroom, intent on washing off every trace of the nightmare.

(Music: Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong - Cheek to Cheek)

>Roughly twenty minutes later you are sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of you and a pint of milk on the side, the radio on the counter playing jazz, the soft tones echoing through the kitchen.
>The coffee maker is bubbling happily, the rich aroma of freshly-prepared coffee filling the house, your senses tingling in anticipation.
>While you have never been much of a morning person, you have to admit that lazy summer mornings are among the best things this world has to offer.
>A large bowl of nutritious oatmeal washed down with refreshing milk, the anticipation of the day's first bitter sip of coffee—and the cigarette that accompanies it—the slightly groggy but positive mindset, and most of all, the morning sun shining into your yard as birds chirp everywhere, everything around you the definition of serenity...
>You sigh happily and stare out into the blue sky, last night's storm barely a memory now, stormy grey making way for a cool, crisp blue.
>From the living room you hear a quiet yawn and the sound of joints popping, and you quickly throw on a shirt for decency's sake.
>You've never been much of a prude (and you've never had anything against some good, old-fashioned bragging), but there's no reason to make your guest feel more uncomfortable than he probably already is.

>And as if on cue, the sound of light, quiet footsteps approaches the kitchen and Duane limps into full view, now without crutches, his mouth open in a long yawn, pink hair sticking into every direction.
>The t-shirt hangs loosely off of him, exposing one bony shoulder and much of his collarbone, and his socks have come partially off, thin black fabric crumpled around his ankles, the toes of the socks empty and flat, too large for his delicate feet.
”Morning, Duane. Sleep well?”
>”Ye-yesh...”
>He yawns again, mouth open in a large ”O”, exposing his pearly white teeth, and you feel a tiny twinge of jealousy, your own teeth slightly yellow from copious amounts of coffee and nicotine.
”So, uh, you want anything to eat? Cereal, oatmeal, maybe? I made enough for two, you're more than welcome to help yourself.”
>You gesture towards the pot of oatmeal on the kitchen table, the brown goodness inside slowly filling the air with steam.
>Duane looks taken aback for a second but quickly recovers, one hand going to the hem of his shirt and the other messing around with his hair, trying to smooth out the wild mess of frizzled pink.
>”O-oh! W-well, I, uh, I'd like it v-very much, i-if it's okay w-with you, that is...”
>You give a small chuckle and pat the seat of the chair next to you, motioning for him to sit down.
”Trust me, if I wasn't okay with it, I wouldn't have offered it. Please, have a seat. I'll get you a bowl.”
>Duane sits down, still a bit apprehensive about the whole situation, clearly not really knowing what to expect.
>You rummage through the cabinets, procuring a bowl and a pint glass, setting the containers down in front of him with a friendly smile.
>”T-thanks.”
>Duane returns your smile, his expression brief but genuine, and starts spooning oatmeal porridge into his bowl, emptying the pot completely.
”So, uh, anything to drink? Milk? Juice?”
>”Uh, j-juice would be really n-nice... p-please.”
>You open the fridge, taking out a container of orange juice, and set it on the table, the cardboard package icy cold to the touch.

”Here you go, man. Help yourself, I mostly drink milk anyway.”
>”Milk? I-isn't that more of a, you know...”
>You chuckle and sit back down, spooning some porridge into your mouth.
”Baby thing? Yeah, I've heard that one before. But you know, you gotta drink milk if you wanna get strong.”
>You flex your biceps for emphasis, pursing your lips for emphasis.
>”I-I can see t-that.”
>Duane blushes and looks away, blue eyes fixed on the bowl of porridge in front of him.
>You follow suit and turn your attention back to your food, the brown gruel rapidly disappearing into your mouth, the creamy, slightly bitter taste as comforting as every morning before.
>”S-sorry, but... uh... d-do you think I c-could have some s-sugar?”
>You swallow the hot porridge wordlessly and gesture towards the tiny blue ceramic bowl standing in front of matching salt and pepper shakers.
”'Elp yourhelf.”
>”T-thanks.”
>After that, you two eat in silence, the soft jazzy tones of Louis Armstrong in the background mixing with the occasional clink of metal on porcelain and the joyful burbling of the coffee maker, a calm, serene feeling washing over you.

>The cool morning air greets you as you walk outside, a cigarette in your mouth and a cup of coffee in your hand, the steaming black liquid spreading a delicious scent into the yard.
>Duane is quite the slow eater, it seems, so you decided to leave him to his porridge, not wanting to disturb him.
>Your lighter flickers to life and ignites the end of your cigarette, the rice paper at the end of the stick instantly turning into ash.
>You take a deep pull from your smoke and exhale it in a thick bluish plume, the smoke languidly floating through the misty air, sunlight playing gently with the nicotine-filled cloud.
>Behind you, the door opens, and Duane peeks his head out, looking both ways like a rabbit looking for threats.
>”H-hey, Anon? T-thanks for t-the food, it was r-really good. M-much better t-than what I u-usually get."
”Thanks, kid. I'm flattered.”
>Duane gives you a smile, blue eyes beaming up at you.
>After a moment of silence, you clear your throat and spit out a clump of phlegm onto the grass.
”So, uh, Duane. What do they serve you, then?”
>He shrinks back, his eyes like those of a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching truck.
>”W-what d-do you m-mean?”
“Like, what type of food do they serve you?”
>”S-serve m-me where? A-Anon, I'm... not r-really f-following you r-right now...”
>You sigh and pinch your nose, briefly closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.
“Duane. Come here. Let's, uh, have a seat, shall we?”
>Duane tiptoes out nervously, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.
>You sit down on the stairs leading to your front door, extending your legs out onto the asphalt driveway.
>Duane follows suit, sitting down beside you, albeit nervously, almost looking ready to bolt at a moment's notice.
>You take another pull from your cigarette and exhale, the plume of smoke hovering in mid-air for several seconds, before being torn apart by a sudden gust of wind.
“Listen, Duane. I really like you. You're a good kid, you know?”
>”U-uh, thanks... I g-guess?”
“But I want us both to be completely honest with each other. No games, no beating around the bush, alright?”
>He nods shakily, eyes darting back and forth between you and the treeline up ahead.
“So, you mind telling me exactly why you were picking through my trash can at midnight, only wearing a jumpsuit that I'm fairly sure would say ''Everfree Psychiatric Hospital” if you hadn't, coincidentally, covered the entire back in mud?”
>Duane goes completely pale, all color draining from his face, desperately trying to feign a grin, the effect ruined by his massively dilated pupils.
>”W-w-what a-are you t-talking about, Anon?”
“Duane, please. I'm not stupid. Don't ever judge a book by it's cover.”
>”B-b-but I...”
“Yeah?”
>Duane sighs and slumps down, sadness filling his eyes.
>”N-never mind.”
>He draws a deep, shaky breath, his arms wrapping around his knees and hugging them to his chest.
>”I g-guess y-you're going to... to s-send me back, then...?”
>You huff and toss your cigarette in the ashtray, the cherry fizzling out upon making contact with the old rainwater inside the half-full pickle jar.
“Shit. I really don't know, okay? I mean, I always thought that, well... those places exist for a reason, right? Wouldn't it be better if you'd just, you know... go back?”
>The boy lets out a long, choked sob, hiding his head in his hands, the morning suddenly much less serene.
>You gingerly reach out your arm to pat him on the back, not really knowing what else to do.
>After all, you are the one that caused this.

“H-hey now, Duane, it's not that bad, right? You're a strong kid, aren't you?”
>Suddenly, he stops sobbing, taking a few deep breaths, obviously trying to calm himself down, his voice now a barely restrained, hateful cadence, his speech interspersed with occasional sniffles.
>”Not that b-bad? NOT THAT B-B-BAD?”
“Well, uh, I mean, the staff is... professional, r-right?
>There's a definite sinking feeling in your stomach, and you have a feeling that you just bit off more than you can chew.
>”P-professional? D-do you have any idea h-how they treat us t-there?”
“Well... I can't say I've ever been-”
>Duane's red-rimmed eyes are now boring straight into yours, his eyes narrowed, hurt and anger spewing out from behind his pupils.
>”N-no. You've n-never even b-been there, h-have you? You're... you're j-just t-the same as all t-the others, t-thinking that i-if you c-can't see the p-problem, then... then there is no p-problem!”
“Whoa, Duane, calm down, I was j-just...”
>”J-just what...?”
>The boy jumps to his feet and storms into the house, tears streaming down his face, leaving you with a single, scathing remark.
>”Mister T-Turnip was right about y-you.”
“Hey, wait-”
>The door slams shut, and you are left alone in the yard, utterly confused.
“Hey, wait! Duane!”
>You take off after him and barrel through the door, the heavy wooden door violently slamming shut behind you.

“Duane, what are you-”
>He sniffles and looks at you with narrowed, hateful eyes, clutching his turnip close to his chest, his knuckles a bright, livid white.
>”I'm l-leaving. I s-should've known t-that I can't t-trust you. I c-can't trust a-anybody.”
“Duane, wait!”
>He tries storming out through the door but you block his path, grabbing onto his arm.
>”Don't touch me!”
>Duane tries shoving you away with his free hand, but the force behind the push is barely even insufficient, his palm striking your chest with a weak thud.
>You latch onto his other arm and he struggles to break free, thrashing wildly with a panicked look on his face, your heart rate rocketing rapidly and your mouth dry.
>Finally, after a whole minute of thrashing and feeble attempts at head-butting you, he calms down, an expression of empty despair replacing the burning anger in his eyes.
>”Anon, p-please... You have to l-let me go... I'll, I'll l-leave you a-alone, I swear... Y-you'll never h-have to see me again... J-just please... please let me go...”
>And so, he breaks down again, letting out loud, anguished sobs, not moving even as you pull him closer and embrace him, quietly shushing the waifish, desolated teenager, his tears staining your shirt.
”Duane, please, let's just think this through... Come on, let's go to the couch...”

>After getting to the couch, Duane cried into your chest for several minutes, salty tears seeping through your shirt, his anguished sobs echoing through your home, each of them a painful reminder of what you'd done, a disgusting, green wave of nausea stirring in your stomach.
>He's mostly quiet now, occasionally drawing a raspy, shuddering breath or sniffling forlornly, the boy wiping tears from his eyes with the hem of his shirt.
>You really don't know what to say to him, your mind buzzing with unwanted questions.
>Just what had happened to the poor boy?
>Just what had they done to him?
>You'd always thought mental hospitals were fairly relaxed environments, sort of like a nursing home, except for people that were a bit, well... off in the head.
>But this...
>This is setting off all kinds of alarms in your head.
>Something definitely isn't right here.
>”S-so?”
>Duane sniffles again, clearly resigned to whatever fate you have in store for him.
”So, what?”
>”Aren't you g-going to c-call them? P-please, j-just get it over with...”
>You sigh and run your fingers through your hair, the questions in your head demanding answers.
”Duane, I... I'm confused, alright? Confused, and, honestly, a bit scared. Just, well... please tell me, is it really that bad?”
>He gives a shaky nod, drawing a deep breath.
”But, listen to me, please. If I let you walk out of that door you could very well die, you could get k-kidnapped... anything could happen. Fuck's sake, man, don't you remember how you looked when I found you?”
>”Y-yeah... I know. I r-remember.”
”And you'd still rather go out there on your own, than go back to Everfree? You'd rather... d-die?”
>Duane looks you straight in the eyes, and for the first time ever, you see no hesitation in his gaze.
>”...yes.”
>His voice is a hoarse whisper, almost inaudible but still unwavering, and you sigh, cupping your hands over your mouth and nose.
”J-Jesus Christ, Duane, just what did they do to you...?”
>”I c-can't tell you. Please believe me, I... I seriously c-can't.”
”Come on, man, please! I want to help you, I really do. But I need to know. Please.”
>”If you r-really want t-to help me, then just let me leave...”
”You know I can't leave you to fend for yourself like that, right?”
>”You s-should. I'l p-pull through.”
>Duane's mouth is set in a grim line, his eyes the only indicator of the battle raging inside him.
”Duane, please. Work with me.”
>You grasp his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, his slim fingers and choppy, bitten fingernails cold and clammy against your skin.
”I wouldn't have gone out looking for you if I didn't want to help, and I wouldn't have taken you in if I didn't care about you. Please, just...”
>”I c-can't t-tell you.”
”Duane, I-”
>Duane pulls his hand free from your grasp and stands up, wincing as his scarred-up feet touch the rug on the floor.
>As you look at him, you see that his mouth is set in a resolute, pale line, his blue eyes now fixed on yours in an unwavering stare.
>”I c-can't tell you. B-but I'll s-show you.”

>In that moment, your heart sinks, the gravity of the situation making itself painfully obvious.
>He'll show you...
>That means...
>And then you remember the bruises on his arms and body, too old and faded to be from the last few days, each of them nothing more than a pale yellow imprint on his pale skin.
>Suddenly, you almost feel like vomiting, the reason for his escape now crystal clear.
>Hypnotized, your guts churning with shock and disgust, you watch him lift up his shirt a few inches and pull down the waistband of his sweatpants, exposing the top of his left buttock to you, his stare now cold and hard, his blue eyes boring into your floor.
>What you see is almost enough to make you pass out.
>Marring his delicate skin are long, livid, scarred streaks in various shades of pink, some of them almost purple, some barely even visible.
>And superimposed on top, a trio of numbers burned into his flesh like the branded mark on a head of cattle, a combination you suddenly remember all too well.
”One... four... one... Oh my God...”
>Duane looks at you, sorrow and shame in his eyes, quickly covering up the branded mark on his buttocks.
>His voice is quiet, but steady, years of pain, shame and abuse weighing every single syllable down.
>”One-four-one. T-that's all I am t-to them. A s-series of n-numbers.”

>Cradling a cup of coffee in your hands, you smoke the third cigarette in a row, the nicotine doing nothing to ease your anxiety, instead doing just the opposite.
>This morning turned into a train wreck way faster than you'd prefer, and you find yourself wishing that work would begin already, desperately needing something to take your mind off of this.
>...
>Great job, Anon.
>Why didn't you just keep your mouth shut?
>...
>You sigh and toss your cigarette into the pickle jar, spitting excess saliva onto the dew-moistened grass before heading back inside, completely at a loss about what to do next.
>Well, one thing is certain.
>You're sure as hell not sending him back there.
>The memory of whipping scars and branded skin bubbles up and you shake your head, feeling like you've just lost a little more faith in humanity.
>But you'll have to come up with something, sooner rather than later.
>Despite how nice he is, you can't keep him cooped up in your home forever, both for your sake and for his.
>Sure, he might have been fairly stable lately–apart from the turnip thing and being overly emotional–but if something actually happens to him, he'll need professional help.
>You already feel guilty enough for patching him up yourself with limited supplies and knowledge instead of driving him to a hospital, his protests notwithstanding.
>And if you find yourself with a psychotic break on your hands, there's bound to be questions.
>Questions you are neither able to, nor willing to answer.
>It would be a lot easier if he'd have anyone else to rely on, like a family member or something, but it doesn't really seem to be the case.
>Otherwise, he'd have gone straight to them, right?
>...
>Well, only one way to make sure.

”Duane? Where you at?”
>Behind you, you hear a toilet flushing and the tap turning on, the old copper pipes softly resonating at a high pitch, and the door creaks open, Duane emerging clad in his baggy outfit, the towel in his hand wiping away excess moisture from his hair.
>Through the open bathroom door, a puff of mist escapes, the neutral smell of soap joined by something else, something... flowery?
>Oh, right.
>The conditioner.
>You still haven't thrown it out.
>You probably should have, considering it must be over two years old by now, but you've always forgotten about it, just another shampoo bottle among many.
>”Y-yeah?”
”We need to talk. Again.”
>You sigh, trying your best to ignore the familiar smell of lavender-scented conditioner and head to the living room, coffee cup clutched in your hand.
”You want some coffee?”

>You sit across from Duane, both of you nursing a cup of coffee, the boy idly stirring the sugary, milky mixture with a tiny spoon, eyes fixed on the lukewarm liquid, the round bulge in the pocket of his sweatpants indicating that Mister Turnip would be listening in on your conversation.
>Not knowing where to start, you take a sip of your coffee, now almost room-temperature, the bitter black liquid running down your throat.
>”S-so, Anon, uh, w-what did you want to t-talk about?”
>You put the cup down with a silent clink and sigh, trying your best not to look away from his curious, worried eyes.
”So, uh... about what happened earlier today. I'm... I'm really sorry.”
>Duane looks away and bites his lip, the spoon now clinking loudly against the edges of the cup, the stainless steel hammering out a ringing cadence.
>”I-it's okay... You d-didn't know...”
>You scoff and shake your head, taking another sip of coffee.
“Yeah, but I should've guessed that something was wrong. I mean, the bruises were already pretty obvious, and-”
>Duane seems to shrink away, one hand in his lap, the other rubbing his shoulder awkwardly.
“Shit. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have...”
>You give him a weak, sad smile, the "I'm-an-idiot-I-know" kind, now really regretting not thinking this out in advance.
>You two sit in silence for a while, the young boy clearly uncomfortable, his gaze jumping around the room in an all too familiar way.
“So, well, enough about me. What about you, man? You got any, uh... family?”
>As soon as the words leave your mouth you know you've dug yourself even deeper, Duane now practically hugging himself with one hand, nervously rubbing the skinny triceps hidden underneath the sleeve of his baggy white t-shirt.
>”...yes.”
>His tone tells you more than a thousand words, his voice again a a shaky, sorrowful whisper.
“Oh.”
>Your voice is hoarse, somehow both too quiet and too loud at the same time, and you curse yourself for not saying anything else.
>Come on, Anon!
>Comfort him, now!

>You lamely lay your hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing his traps, the faintest hint of muscle making itself known, briefly tensing at the contact before relaxing, the boy still chewing his lower lip.
“Duane, listen. I know it's hard for you, but... I need to know if there's anyone you trust that I can contact. I can't send you back t-there after what they...”
>He draws a shaky breath, his hand now idly playing with his hair, twisting the messy, pink strands into tiny curls.
>”I... I d-don't know... The last t-time they v-visited I had, well...”
>You stroke his shoulder reassuringly, waiting for him to be ready to continue, the memories clearly painful for him.
>”I, I h-had an... an “e-episode”. I c-can't remember a-anything...”
“Jesus, Duane... I'm so sorry.”
>”T-that was a-almost a w-whole year ago. They a-always used to come v-visit m-me once every t-three months b-before that, but after t-that...”
>He swallows—loudly—and clears his throat, clearly too tired to cry any more.
>You rub his shoulder silently, not knowing what to say, hot anger slowly rising inside you.
>Fucking hell, what could you even say?
>...
>Yeah, Duane, I'm really sorry that you're crazy and that your family doesn't want to see you any more.
>But listen, I can't keep you here, you know.
>My comfort is worth more than your life.
>...
>You grit your teeth and shake your head, white-hot rage bubbling inside you, not knowing whether you're angry at your own selfishness or at everyone who put him in this position, the staff that beat and branded him like a dumb animal and the family that left him behind.
>Noticing your discomfort, Duane looks at you with trepidation and pulls away, stammering out a question.
>”A-Anon? What's w-wrong?”
>You give him a weak smile and squeeze his shoulder gently, trying your best to seem as reassuring as possible.
“It's nothing. I'm just, well... a bit shocked, to be honest.”
>”Shocked” is an understatement, you're practically seething.
>How could anyone in their right mind abandon him like that, not only leaving him to rot in that hell-hole, but turning their back on him—their own child, you remind yourself, your vision briefly flashing red at the reminder—completely, just forgetting about him?
>Looking into his eyes, dark pools filled with sorrow and suffering, you almost want to scream, to break the coffee table in half, to do something, anything to get this disgusted, burning feeling to leave you alone.
>...
>Relax, Anon.
>Deep breaths.
>Remember that there's two sides to every story.
>And for the love of God, don't fly off the handle with a guest in the house, especially not with Duane here.
>...
>Taking a deep, shaky breath, you smile at Duane as reassuringly as you can, the incandescent, rising feeling inside you slowly subsiding.
>”A-Anon...?”
>His pupils are wide, fear, apprehension and worry emanating from his whole body, the boy flinching slightly as you knead your palm against your eyes with a sigh, the movement—and your barely-repressed anger—clearly scaring him.
“N-never you mind. It's nothing important.”
>Duane nods warily, clearly at a loss for words.
“Well, uh, I guess you'll be staying with me, then...”
>He gasps, mouth forming a large, surprised “O”, his hand quickly moving to cover his lips.
>”W-what? Y-you aren't g-going to...”
>His words are muffled, his hand still covering his mouth, his eyes now shining again, blue orbs shimmering with happiness and surprise, and you shake your head with a tiny chuckle, his excitement contagious.
“You heard me. You're staying here, at least until we come up with something else. I'm not leaving you out in the forest all by yourself, and I'm sure as fu... heck not sending you back to that shitho... I mean, place.”
>You lean back, letting go of the scrawny boy with eyes wide as dinner plates, slicking back your hair with a friendly grin.
“So for the time being, consider yourself an unofficial member of the Moos household.”
>You extend your hand to the boy, Duane still clearly in shock from the recent events.
“Come on, man. Don't leave me hanging.”
>You wiggle your hand for emphasis and Duane springs into action, squeezing your hand between both both of his, slender fingers squeezing your calloused palms, a wide smile on his face, an overjoyed look in his eyes.
>”S-so you really... You r-really... oh m-my God, Anon, t-thank you... thank you so m-much...”
>Without warning, Duane leans over, squeezing his cheek to your hand, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth set in a wide smile, letting out a tiny noise that almost sounds like a...
>...squeak?

>After a minute-long barrage of thank-you's, Duane's grip hard enough to leave you feeling like your hand would break, you laid down some simple ground rules.
>Rule number one: no opening the door while you were gone, for example.
>The last thing you'd want would be your friends bugging you about who the pink-haired boy living with you was.
>Or even worse, connecting the dots.
>There's bound to be some form of manhunt going on right now, and with you living so close to the asylum, it's only a matter of time before the cops come knocking.
>Rule number two: always inform Anon if you go somewhere.
>You don't want to end up dragging him out of the forest like you did just yesterday.
>And finally, the most important rule of all: don't break anything.
>Although your job pays fairly well, you don't want to end up having to replace any of your furniture.
>Duane accepted happily, and you went upstairs to get dressed, having to go to work in an hour or so.
>As always when you are alone, however, your mind starts bringing up questions you'd rather not think about, your figurative plate already filled to the edges.
>But still, you can't help wondering about the things Duane told you.
>...
>Just what did he mean by “having an episode”?
>Is it a common occurrence?
>Does he become epileptic?
>Catatonic?
>...Murderous?
>Whatever it was, it was bad enough to make his family abandon him...
>You shudder briefly at the implications, absentmindedly buttoning your shirt, white cotton straining at the shoulders, and you make a mental note to buy a bigger one the next time you are downtown and have time on your hands.
>Also, how the hell has that place not been shut down yet?
>While no expert on modern psychiatry—or much else, for that matter—you'd imagine that a psychiatric ward going back to using medieval methods in “treating” their patients would cause quite an uproar in the community, and that's putting it lightly.
>...
>You wrestle with the top button on your shirt like every morning before, again coming to the conclusion that you will probably never manage to button your shirt all the way.
>Not that you'd do it, even if you could.
>...
>But the fact that the asylum is still standing has some unnerving implications, worst-case scenarios hurtling through your mind, each worse than the last in it's own way.
>Maybe this is a recent thing, and only some of the staff know about it?
>Maybe everybody there knows about it, but decides to keep quiet for some reason, maybe in the fear that they'd be on the receiving end if they overstep their boundaries?
>Maybe this is even bigger than that...
>Or maybe, just maybe, this is all an elaborate hoax.
>Who's to say he didn't whip himself a few times and then burn a number into his ass, all memories of abuse just elaborate fabrications by a diseased, psychotic mind?
>...
>Shut up.
>Shut the fuck up, right now.
>Another burst of anger flares inside you, and this time you oblige the white-hot rage inside you, driving your right fist into the white wall beside the full-body mirror with a muted thunk, the concrete-backed wood barely even acknowledging your fist.
>Gritting your teeth at the slowly growing pain in your knuckles, you pull back and rub your fist with your left hand, the index and middle knuckles adopting a familiar, red color, the pain soon dissipating until it is barely more than a reminder.
>And with the pain, your rage fades away, replaced by a familiar hollow, disappointed feeling, the hateful screaming inside you now not even a whisper.
>With a disappointed sigh, you lean against the mirror, staring deep into your own narrowed pupils.
>...
>Don't you even dare to think like that, Anon.
>Just think about it rationally for a second.
>The angles on the scars go across his buttocks, not down them, and it would be practically impossible to get enough force behind a strike from that angle to leave scars like that, especially for someone as weak as Duane.
>Not only that, but the charred numbers look even in size, like they were made to a certain standard.
>Besides, even if the burn marks were self-inflicted, just having a set of branding irons inside an insane asylum would already be grounds for an investigation.
>Deep breaths, Anon.
>...
>Giving yourself a once-over in the mirror, you nod, unsure of what exactly you're even nodding at.
>At a loss for answers, you exit the bedroom, the door gently clicking shut behind you.

>You are seated at the kitchen table again, the last of the coffee pot now inside your mug, the bitter black drink barely even filling the cup halfway.
>Your elbows on the table and your head resting on your hands, you stare out into the yard with narrowed eyes, your mind somewhere else entirely.
>Duane, after getting used to the idea of actually staying here for the foreseeable future and calming down enough to speak coherently, shyly asked for permission to look around your house, wanting to make himself acquainted with his new lodgings, the boy currently looking around the basement.
>You would have showed him around, but can't really muster up the energy to drawl some pseudo-MTV-Cribs bullshit to him.
>Besides, he's probably smart enough to understand what a washing machine is and what the barbells, racks and free weights are for.
>It's not fucking rocket science.
>You drain the last of the coffee from your cup, grimacing at the bitter, overcooked taste, and turn around, rinsing out the cup and placing it into the sink.
>In between the cadence of thanks and—admittedly adorable—squeaks, Duane had literally promised to do anything for you in return, wide eyes beaming up at you.
>So, like the sadist you are, you decided to test the kid's mettle right away, telling him to do the dishes left over after breakfast.
>To your surprise, he didn't even falter.
>You smile, despite yourself, the situation again feeling a bit more under control.
>But as you turn around, your gaze finding its way out into the street, your heart skips a beat, and you consider yourself lucky to have left the cup in the sink, the porcelain most likely having fallen from your hands and shattered if you'd still be holding onto it.
>The unmistakable outline of a police car lurks right outside your yard, the vehicle slowly grinding to a halt, the black-and-white Chevrolet's side emblazoned with “Canterlot City Police” in large blue block letters.
>Your heart skips another beat as the doors open and a heavyset, mustachioed man wearing aviator glasses steps out, a police cap barely concealing a tuft of messy gray hair.
>You feel even closer to heart failure as he takes a long, calculating look at your house, the mirrored sunglasses making him seem even more unnerving than usual.
>After what felt like an eternity to you but was probably closer to five seconds, he waves at his partner and swaggers down your driveway, his thumbs hooked into his utility belt.
>You stand dumbfounded in the kitchen as he disappears, the sharp buzzing of the doorbell forcing you into action.
>With measured, calm steps and a couple deep breaths, you unlock the door and peek outside, coming face to face with the cop, praying that you don't look even half as nervous as you feel right now.
“Good morning, officer. Uh, can I help you?”
>He gives you a smile that he probably thinks seems disarming, but to you is like a wolf baring it's teeth at a cornered rabbit, his yellow-stained teeth speaking of years of late night shifts and stressed-out smoking.
>”Good morning to you too, mister, uh, Moose? Now that you mention it, I think you could.”
>You ignore the mispronunciation and put on your dumbest smile, the kind of expression that practically screams “I'm a dumb civilian”.
“Well then, what can I do you for?”
>The police officer's smile turns a little more plastic, and you can practically feel him cringing on the inside.
>Score for team Anon.
>”Very funny, sir. Now, I'd love to just stay here and listen to some more of your... jokes, but the thing is, me and my partner are running on an extremely limited schedule right now, so you'll have to excuse me for cutting our meeting short.”
“Oh, that's too bad! I've got a couple more I could tell you, and it won't take more than-”
>The officer waves his hand dismissively, his smile now clearly forced, a death stare making itself apparent despite the mirrored glasses.
>”Oh, no need, no need. I've probably heard them all before. Now, have you-”
“Heard them all before? Well, being a police officer sure sounds like fun!”
>You can practically hear his teeth grinding, the tendons in his neck straining, the mustachioed man slightly reminding you of an angry pit bull.
>”Yes, it's absolutely hilarious. Please don't interrupt me again.”
>You nod at him warily, the idiot grin slowly fading from your face as he takes a deep breath and leans back slightly, hooking his thumbs under his belt again.
>”Have you seen a teenage boy somewhere in this area during the last few days? He's most likely unaccompanied, pink hair, blue eyes, Caucasian, looks to be around fifteen or sixteen.”
>You shake your head warily, trying your best to seem worried.
“No sir, not in this area.”
>”Have you seen anyone matching the description anywhere else, then?”
>You snort quietly, a smile again creeping onto your face.
>”Sir, I work in a coffeehouse. If I had a dollar for every one of our clients that matches your description, I'd probably just register as self-employed and sit on my ass all day.”
>”Hm. Right. Well, I doubt we'll find him there. Anyway, we're assuming he's somewhere in the forest, so if you're outside and happen to see him, don't hesitate to call me.”
>He hands you a plain white business card, completely blank save for a couple strings of professional-looking black text, “Ray B. Sentry – Canterlot Police Department” emblazoned above his telephone number.
>You take the card and press it to your chest with one hand, your other hand covering your mouth, an exaggerated, feminine gasp emanating from your throat.
“Oh, officer... This is so sudden...”
>This time he cringes visibly, clearly going through years of experience, trying come up with something to arrest you for before sighing in defeat, looking back at his patrol car.
>”You'll never cease to amaze me, Mr. Moose. Now, I think we're all done-”
“Sir, wait. Are there any other, uh, recognizable things about him? What was he wearing, for example?”
>The officer shrugs, a bit too quickly for your taste, the gesture seeming fake somehow.
>”Don't know. We don't have a lot to work with, to be honest.”
“Well, does he have any tattoos, anything like that? Scars, maybe?”
>The police officer tenses up, just enough for it to be noticeable, and you feel like you've gone in a bit too deep.
>”No. None that we know of.”
>His tone is calm, practiced, clearly honed by decades of work, his eyes practically boring through you now, searching for even the faintest hint of a crack in your defenses to exploit.
>You meet his gaze, desperately willing yourself not to blink, suddenly incredibly aware of just how much your back is sweating.
>And just like that, he breaks away, his eyes now directed towards the patrol car, waving for his partner to drive further down the street, a harmless grin on his face.
>But as soon as the car disappears from view, he grabs you by the collar and pulls you closer, the sudden movement almost sending you off-balance.
>His wrinkled hands hold your collar in a death grip, the aging man clearly still incredibly strong.
“Hey, what the fuck-”
>”You better listen to me, son, and listen to me good. Drop the act, right now. I know that you know more than you let on. I know that you've seen him. And I know that you're asking some real suspicious questions.”
>He leans in closer, the smell of old tobacco and sweat invading your nostrils, his words spoken in an angry hiss.
>”The only thing I don't know is if you actually want to make a problem out of this. Because, I swear to God, I may not have a warrant for your ass yet, but that doesn't mean I can't get one, or that I won't be coming down on you like a brick shit house when I do.”
>A surge of red flashes inside you and you grab his wrists, pulling them outward and away while pushing him away, the cop's fingers letting go of your now-crumpled collar, the aging man stumbling backwards a few steps from the sudden push.
>You let go of his wrists, his hands immediately going to his belt as you straighten up, your body tensing instinctively, a cold glare boring into his sun glass-hidden eyes, your voice now more a growl than anything else.
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
>Standing stock still in your yard, you and the officer stare each other down for several seconds, your hands balled into fists, his hand at his baton, your eyes narrowed, adrenaline and anger surging through your veins, hate thumping dully in your temples.
>Suddenly, the policeman relaxes, hooking his thumbs back into his belt, a large, friendly grin on his face again.
>”Neither. Consider it more of a... friendly warning. Have a nice day.”
>With that, he turns around and strolls out of your yard, softly whistling a jaunty tune, leaving you sweaty, angry and confused.
>But most of all, scared.

>You jog down the basement stairs, still trying to process everything that just happened and what it could mean for you.
>You don't like this, not one bit.
>Sure, the cop could just have been bullshitting, but you don't want to take any chances.
>Time to tread carefully, Anon.
>Walking down the last few steps of the staircase, you look around, searching for any sign of Duane.
“Hey, Duane. You in here?”
>Despite the police already having left, you find yourself speaking quietly, your voice a quiet hiss, paranoia making your nerves tingle.
>...
>If they actually knew, they'd probably be listening in on you in some way...
>Who's to say they aren't doing it already?
>Just waiting for confirmation, a SWAT van parked around the bend, the squad ready to kick down your door at a moment's notice, all of them itching to see some action.
>And when they do, you'll soon go to jail, get fired from your job, another notch on your criminal record making you even less attractive for potential employers when you get out.
>And Duane...
>They'll send him back to the asylum, and when they do, he'll have hell to pay...
>Calm down, Anon, for fuck's sake!
>It's “if”, not “when”.
>Happy thoughts.
>...
>You slowly open the door to your weight room, the door gently creaking as it swings inwards.
>In the warm yellow glow of the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, you see Duane, the boy seemingly fascinated by the large plates organized by weight, gently running his finger along the edges of the iron plates, tracing the denominations printed in white.
>The room is entirely silent, and Duane doesn't seem like he's noticed you, his mouth set in a tiny, curious smile, his eyes looking through the plates, the bare concrete walls, into something only he can see.
>Somehow, he seems so at peace right now, void of all signs of anxiety, and you almost find yourself closing the door and leaving, not wanting to take away his moment of solace.
>Still, if he's going to stay here, you're going to have to keep him informed, no matter how much it might disturb him.
>He deserves to know.
>Gingerly, you rap the wooden door with your knuckles, Duane breaking out of his trance and looking around for a moment before focusing on you, a guilty look crossing his face.
“H-hey.”
>Your voice is hoarse and quiet, and you almost feel like an intruder inside your own home, like you've interrupted something incredibly private, something important.
>”O-oh, h-hey. H-how long have y-you... b-been there?”
“Not that long.”
>You shake your head with a fake smile, your bold-faced lie hanging in the air silently, both of you standing awkwardly in place for a few seconds, not sure on how to continue.
“S-so, uh... You like the place?”
>”Y-yes, it's v-very nice. Very... c-cozy.”
>Duane gives you a shy smile, eyes flitting around nervously.
>”Y-you've got a l-lot of weights here. D-do you, uh... use them all?”
>Despite trying, you can't entirely suppress the dumbfounded stare you direct at him, the boy now seeming even more nervous.
>...
>What kind of fucking question is that?
>Is he serious?
>...
“I, uh... yes. I do. Listen, I'd love to talk PR's with you, but, well...”
>You scratch your neck awkwardly, not entirely sure on how to break the bad news to him.
>”Y-yeah?”
“Shit... uh, you wanna have a seat?”
>You gesture towards the bench press, motioning for him to sit down on the black patent leather cushion.
>Duane sits down, fiddling with his hair, clearly worried about your sudden, foreboding change of tone, and you attempt a tiny, reassuring smile, trying to ignore the anxious stirring inside you.
>”W-what is it?”
“Well, uh, there were kind of some cops looking for you.”
>”P-police? Y-you d-didn't...”
>His eyes widen in fear and worry, and you shake your head rapidly, hands held out in a defensive gesture.
“No! No, I didn't tell them anything. I just, well, asked some questions...”
>He nods silently at you, his hands now playing with his collar, arms clutched to his chest, stare now fixed on the bare concrete floor.
“But, well, I'm starting to get a really bad feeling about this. They... they didn't mention anything about the, uh... the hospital, didn't say anything about your clothes, just gave some general pointers...”
>”W-what are you s-saying?”
“It seems like they're... hiding something. Like they know more than they want to let on. And this one cop was suspicious. Mad suspicious.”
>As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel regret taking over, the boy now looking absolutely miserable, practically curled up into a ball now, blue eyes refusing to meet yours.
>”...oh.”
“H-hey now, it wasn't that bad...”
>You sit down beside him, gently laying one arm over his pallid shoulders, trying your best to comfort him, meeting his eyes briefly with the warmest gaze you can muster.
>”R-really?”
>You grimace in response, and Duane looks away again, the brief spark of hope now extinguished, your expression speaking volumes, his whole body tensing.
“Well... I guess it was kinda bad.”
>”...I'm s-sorry.”
“Dude, it's not your fault. You never asked for any of this.”
>You rub his shoulder and he slowly loosens up again, tension disappearing from his body, now back to his sandbag-like posture.
>”Y-yeah, but...”
“Chill, alright? We'll... we'll figure something out. Just, well, I've got to get to work soon. So, uh...”
>You scratch your neck and stand up, Duane's eyes fixed on you, worry evident in his gaze.
“Well, try not to be seen. I'll pull down the blinds in case somebody tries to peek inside. Don't answer the phone and don't open the door, alright?”
>”A-alright...”
“Other than that, uh... you got any allergies? Gluten, lactose? ”
>Duane gets up from the bench and shakes his head mutely, the boy clearly confused.
>You give him a wide grin in response, ideas for today's dinner already forming in your mind.
“Perfect. I don't know about you, but I really don't feel like eating chicken today. I'll be back sometime after eight.”


>You are patient number 141, room number 327, resident of Everfree Psychiatric Hospital, currently lying on a couch in an unfamiliar house, your stare fixed on the white ceiling above.
>Well...
>Maybe “former resident” would be a bit more accurate.
>You have, after all, been on the run for several days now.
>Since Tuesday, if you remember correctly.
>You're not quite sure.
>It wasn't exactly easy to keep track of time while... inside, and the forest made things even harder.
>At least in the hospital, you could always assume that the food delivered to your room followed some kind of schedule, but in the forest, with its thick, almost impermeable, canopy and near-constant darkness, all attempts of keeping time were hopeless.
>After your wristwatch got taken away, you mostly counted breaths, trying your best to make them into a standard time unit.
>The time between lunch and dinner, for example, was usually somewhere around 2,500 breaths, give or take a few depending on how agitated you felt that day.
>From dinner to lockdown—as if being locked down made any difference, you still weren't allowed to roam the halls—you usually counted 2,000 breaths, and from lockdown to reveille, usually 2,850 breaths.
>Of course, keeping track of days was a whole other story since your calendar privileges got taken away after the last visit your family made, after you...
>...
>Never mind.
>Don't think about that now.
>No point in crying over spilled milk.
>Day to day, right?
>Day to day.
>...
>After Anon left, his last-minute instructions and a phone number written in a hurried scrawl on a crumpled piece of paper, the house somehow got a lot quieter than you expected.
>Now, it's just you and Mister Turnip.

>You haven't talked to him since last night, after your... disagreement, and you're not entirely sure you want to now.
>You know he has your best interests at heart, but...
>After Anon took you in, you've found yourself wondering if Mister Turnip actually is right all the time.
>He's always told you to never trust anyone, to keep away from people, to only rely on yourself.
>The first sleepless night spent here—last night, you remind yourself—you were sweating bullets, practically paralyzed with fear half the time, watching the staircase door with terrified anticipation, dreading the moment the staircase door would swing open and reveal Anon with a belt in his hand and a sadistic grin on his face.
>But it never happened.
>You passed out maybe 1,000 breaths after he went upstairs, and woke up feeling better than you have in ages.
>Anon's never done anything bad to you, despite having more than enough opportunities to do so.
>Not even when you were dead tired and your whole body was aching, when you were unable to walk without crutches, lying on his sofa completely defenseless...
>You know Mister Turnip doesn't trust him, that he'd rather just want you two out on the road again, but you firmly believe that Anon would never—and could never—hurt you.
>There's a certain look in his eyes, a kind of warm friendly glow, almost brotherly, in a way.
>A kind of glow that almost makes you want to stay here forever.
>Well, after everything that's happened, you really wouldn't mind a surrogate big brother...

>An impatient muffled tapping sound catches your attention, not unlike a rattan cane on wood, the familiar sound sending shivers down your spine.
>Suddenly, feeling a lot less comfortable on the couch, you gingerly rise to your feet, wincing as your torn up feet make contact with the carpet.
>A sharp stab of pain surging through your left knee brings an unwelcome reminder of yesterday, your knee a swollen angry red underneath the layer of heather gray cotton covering your lower body.
>Yawning, you start limping around the house, keeping your footsteps as quiet as possible, thick socks and years of treading softly rendering your steps completely inaudible.
>A cursory glance in the kitchen shows you nothing out of the ordinary—as far as you can tell, that is—the sparse illumination filtering in through the blinds giving an almost forgotten look to the place, small specks of dust disturbed by your presence dancing in the rays of light.
>With a quick glance around, you sneak over to the radio, carefully inspecting the modest black cube, carefully setting the volume to the bare minimum.
>You press the power button with a silent click and the speaker comes to life.

[YouTube] Louis Armstrong - Blue Turning Grey Over You

>Soft, pleasant music—not unlike what you listened to during breakfast—starts quietly echoing through the kitchen, a deep male voice singing a song about longing and kisses, the whole house instantly feeling more alive.
>With a tiny smile playing on your face, you limp out of the kitchen, a sudden rush of confidence brought on by the music, your steps now a little more steady, your back just a bit straighter.
>Absentmindedly drumming your palms on your thighs, you try humming along, your butchery of the—presumably classic—tune not dulling your enthusiasm in the slightest.
>Walking back to the living room, you take a look around, scanning the room, the tapping still as insistent—and hard to place—as before.
>With a sigh, you begin walking around the room, taking note of where the tapping seems to be the loudest, occasionally peeking under chairs and tables.
>After a few minutes, you are a lot more frustrated and none the wiser.
>The steady, twice-a-second rhythm is now seriously getting on your nerves.
>You slump down on the couch and sigh, doing your best to ignore the muffled noise, the sound almost seeming as it would come from... above?
>You stand up again and cast a furtive glance at the staircase door, realization and anxiety dawning on you almost simultaneously, your heart starting to beat just a little faster.
>After quickly, almost instinctively, looking around—why, you're not quite sure—you silently limp to the white oak door, nervously swallowing saliva as you realize just how much you're actually sweating.
>...
>You probably shouldn't go up there.
>It's not your home, and it's most definitely not your bedroom.
>If Anon finds out you've been up there, he'll probably...
>...
>Probably what?
>That guy wouldn't hurt you, not even if you begged for it.
>Besides, it's probably just an alarm clock—or something else—that he forgot to turn off.
>It won't take more than a minute.
>And, you might even find out something interesting about him...
>...
>Your muscles tensing and your heart hammering anxiously, you grab the doorknob with your clammy right hand and turn, trying your best to ignore the foreboding feeling churning in your stomach.
>This really doesn't feel right...

>Gently tiptoeing up the stairs, the tapping growing louder with every step, you find yourself in an L-shaped hallway with doors on both sides of you, the one to your left clearly leading to a bathroom, the one to your right presumably to a bedroom, a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the doorknob.
>A peek around the hallway corner brings another door into view, this one lacking adornment.
>The dark brown door stands out in stark contrast to the plain white walls, the only light in the room provided by a four-pane window at the far end of the corridor.
>Now, the tapping has grown more insistent, more frantic, and you could almost swear that the noise is coming from your right.
>You limp to the bedroom door and try your best to ignore the sign hanging from the doorknob, trying your best to suppress the slowly rising feeling of guilt inside you.
>Reminding yourself that you'll be in there for less than a minute, you put your hand on the doorknob, mentally count to three, and push the door open, a bit more forcefully than you intended, the brass knob meeting something wooden with a resounding thunk.
>Anon's bedroom is—unlike the rest of the house—practically covered in various decorations, with posters of muscular, sweaty men engaged in various forms of exercise taking up the vast majority of the space on the walls.
>The room is dominated by a large, cleanly made bed, a bedside table with a small lamp and a half-empty bottle of water on its right side.
>A desk with a wide computer monitor and assorted clutter stands opposite, one of the drawers rattling slightly.
>Curiosity overwhelming trepidation, you sneak over to the desk, pulling the drawer open, gasping quietly from what you see inside.
>Glass vials—not unlike those used at the hospital—labeled with words you've never heard before fill one corner, blister packs of needles and syringes held inside a small plastic bag beside them.
>Neatly stacked pill bottles with esoteric-sounding names are lined up opposite, a bag of swabs and a yellow sharps disposal container completing the disturbing picture, briefly leaving your mind blank with shock.
>Blank enough to almost ignore the small turnip nestled in one corner.
>Almost.
"M-Mister T-Turnip, what are you d-doing here?"
>He stays quiet, practically radiating smugness.
>Absentmindedly, you notice that the tapping has stopped, the bedroom quiet save for the sound of heavy, labored breathing.
>It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the breaths are, indeed, coming from you.
>...
>Just what is going on?
>What is all this stuff?
>Looks like Mister Turnip was right, after all...
>...
>No, let's not jump to conclusions.
>He might be sick.
>I mean, the doctors always put needles in you when you were feeling really bad.
>Who's to say Anon doesn't need this?
>You barely know anything about him, after all...
>...
>Despite your best attempts at thinking positively, anxiety and fear rapidly build up inside you, the incredibly smug-looking turnip sitting among the vials and needles doing nothing to make you feel better.
>You should never have come here.
>”I told you so...”
>You don't know what to reply.

>What was supposed to be a minute-long visit quickly turned into half an hour, with you going through all of Anon's vials and preparations.
>The disgusting, empty feeling inside you grows with every new discovery, Mister Turnip's smug, mocking insults almost bringing you to tears.
>Yet you rummage through the cluttered desk, delve through the drawers, every needle and syringe, every vial and pill bottle making your heart sink a bit lower.
>And still you continue, a nauseating morbid curiosity driving you further and further, stripping away every little bit of privacy Anon has built around himself.
>When you see the small, faded notebook, dog-eared pages peeking out from under a pair of DVD cases, you know there is no turning back.
>With shaking hands, your mouth dry as thatch, you tentatively grab the notebook as your heartbeat hammers in your ears, the filthy, dishonest feeling inside you reaching a new level of intensity.
>With a deep breath, you open the journal—Anon's private diary, you remind yourself—unable to shake the feeling that you're doing something fundamentally wrong, disgust and excitement battling for dominance inside you.
>You had your doubts about the legitimacy of the vials since you first saw them, and the small notebook in your hands extinguishes your hopes completely, page after crumpled page filled with familiar, scrawled handwriting, denoting dosages, chemicals, dates and abbreviations.
>Leafing through the pages, you choose a date at random—June 4, 2015—and start reading, trying your best to wrap your head around the contents of the journal.
>...
>'Thursday, 4th of June, 2015, day 8.'
>'Amazing strength from Halo, crushing PR's like no tomorrow (woo!)'
>'Getting pretty annoyed at the side effects, though. Headaches I can handle, but the aggression seems like it's getting harder to control day by day. Chewed that Zeph guy out for like five minutes straight for coming in late.'
>'Really not looking forward to the morning commute...'
>...
>You flip a couple pages forward, your head swimming with unanswered questions.
>...
>'Sunday, 6th of June, 2015, day 11.'
>'Today was all kinds of fucked up. Went on a date with one of Cliff's “friends” (Berry something-or-other, I think?)'
>'Everything went well, almost had it in the bag, but then she started talking about how big I was, throwing around some steroid-related “jokes”. She probably didn't mean anything by it (maybe even tried to compliment me?), but... I flipped out pretty hard.'
>'Told her exactly what I thought of her “boozy brunches” and fucking mimosas, told her that she's an alcoholic trailer trash whore with no self-esteem and...'
>'Jesus Christ, the whole place was staring at me. Never felt that angry, or ashamed, before. When she started crying I just left. Took all of my willpower to not shove her face into a soup bowl...'
>'Headaches have been getting worse, too. I think I'll halve the dosage, see if I can handle it better that way.'
>'Also gotta remember to apologize to her tomorrow, just don't know where to start.'
>...
>'Tuesday, 8th of June, 2015, day 13.'
>'I'm legit scared of myself now. Can't control myself, can't be around people, constant headaches. Every time I look at people going on about their daily bullshit I can't stop myself imagining how good it would feel to just beat the shit out of them.'
>'Tried apologizing to Berry today. She refused to pick up my calls, so I drove over to the trailer park after work. Turns out that she's pretty popular there, and that her brother (Jerry, or whatever) isn't exactly my biggest fan.'
>'Knocked on the door a few times, and this prison tattoo compilation reject-looking motherfucker opens the door, tells me that she'll be out in a few minutes, and slams the door in my face.'
>'Probably should have just left right then and there. Instead, I waited for a few minutes, and—lo and behold—Berry comes around the corner, practically steaming, walking with some guy that looks like something straight out of a Gangland documentary.'
>'Tried telling her that I'd come to say sorry, but before I even have time to finish my sentence, the bitch throws a bottle at me and starts cussing me out like there's no tomorrow.'
>'After that, everything got really hazy. I kind of remember stomping on the Gangland guy's stomach while screaming something about “fucking trailer trash.'
>'I think her brother tried to intervene at some point. Don't think it went all too well. Hope he's not too badly hurt.'
>'Got the fuck out of there as soon as my head cleared up, didn't look back. I think I heard an ambulance, but I could be wrong. Don't really know if I—'
>Several lines of text have been scribbled over, the handwriting even more shaky than usual, and despite your best attempts, you fail to make out anything coherent.
>The following lines are the last on the page, the paper now practically gouged by the graphite pencil, gray, shiny scratches speaking of barely-harnessed rage.
>'Cliff called. Said a lot of stuff, mostly about needing therapy. I said I'll think about it.'
>'Gonna hide my gear and my journal in case the cops come knocking. The Halo is getting flushed down the shitter. Think I'll need to swing by the clinic tomorrow. Left hand feels broken, can't chew properly.'
>'At least I'll have the whole day to myself. Boss told me that I shouldn't bother coming back for the rest of the week.'
>...
>Unsure of what to do, of what to say, you stay still for what seems like an eternity, your eyes unfocused, your head swimming with questions you'd almost want to keep unanswered.

>After some time you find yourself on the couch again.
>Absentmindedly, you note that the living room clock strikes six, the faint ticking a steady backdrop to your thoughts, a haze of worry and fear still clouding your brain.
>You couldn't bring yourself to read his journal any further than the entries from last July.
>You're not quite sure whether it was the feeling of intruding on something private that did it for you, or the sudden, shocking realization that your host isn't as nice—or balanced—as you first thought.
>Just thinking about the bare, laconic text makes you slightly nauseous, mental images of a red-faced, hateful Anon whaling on a crumpled, defenseless body filling your mind.
>The only thing they did to him was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he...
>...
>Don't finish that thought.
>Sure, Mister Turnip may have been right about Anon.
>But Anon is also right.
>You won't make it out there alone.
>Especially not with police looking for you.
>So, you're pretty much stuck here until another opportunity presents itself.
>Kind of funny, actually.
>You've gone from being trapped in an asylum to being trapped inside the house of an unstable, possibly violent testosterone junkie.
>...

>”Hey, Duane?”
>You sluggishly turn towards Mister Turnip with a tired look in your eyes and a noncommittal grunt.
>His deep, calming baritone, lately either decisive—almost bossy—or smug and sarcastic, is now tinged with a definite trace of regret, of sorrow, his tone one you haven't heard since you escaped the hospital.
>”I'm sorry about what I said back there, I really am.”
“'s fine...”
>That's as far from the truth as you can get, but you really don't want to admit it to him.
>He's always told you to be strong, to persevere, even when things were at their worst.
>But now, you're not sure what the most painful thing to admit is.
>Is it realizing the trust you put in Anon was misplaced?
>Or is it accepting how much it actually hurt you?
>”Come on, Duane. You don't have to lie to me. I can see you're hurting...”
“It's fine. I'm fine.”
>”Now, now. No-one can blame you for this. It's completely normal to be upset after a betrayal, to feel hurt.”
>You choose not to reply, your gaze finding its way to the clock on the wall, not wanting to look at your companion.
>”I mean, look at you. All your life, you've been hurt, betrayed, treated like trash. And all the while, you've held on to hope, wishing that things would be different on the outside, that you wouldn't have to feel this way ever again.”
>Despite his reassuring, compassionate tone, you can't help noticing something else in his voice, something you can't really place, his sympathetic words feeling almost too sincere.
>Still, it's the same voice that's guided you through your darkest hours, the voice that's been a beacon, an anchor to you, a voice you could never fully distrust.
>So, you listen, the hollow, empty feeling inside you now back in full.
>”It's only natural that you'd want to trust someone, that you'd wish for someone to support you, someone to show you that the world isn't as bad as you think.”
>A brief flash of anger surges inside you, and you almost want to shush him, to tell him that he's the one that's always thought ill of the world, that you'll prove him wrong.
>But as you remember the journal, the vials, the needles, your protests die in your throat, the burning spark of anger doused by cold, wet misery.
>Instead, you sit still, completely silent, Mister Turnip's tone now almost sickly sweet, his honeyed words doing little to ease your mind, a distant, foreboding feeling blossoming somewhere in the back of your mind.
>”I've always been there for you, haven't I? I've never left you, never lied to you, always helped you. We can make it on our own. I know we can. Just walk out. Walk out, and take me with you.”
>His tone has grown more bossy, more decisive, now practically ordering you to do his bidding.
>You grit your teeth and slowly shake your head, a defiant glow building inside you.
“No.”
>”Duane, you know you can't trust him. He never even told you—”
“I never asked him. Besides, it's not like I'm not hiding anything...”
>”That's different. You have reasons for doing it. He—“
“He has his reasons too. I don't really think he's very proud of the things he did.”
>”Duane, please, don't do this to me. How long is it going to take for you to realize that people are not nice? How many more times will this have to happen before you accept it?”
“There's still a chance! I'm not going to just... give up on everybody else! My family, they, well... you haven't seen them, but—“
>”Exactly. I've never seen them. Not once.”
>His callous remark—true as it is—shocks you into silence, your mind briefly going blank, your protests dying in your throat.
>Mister Turnip presses on, unrelenting, every word driving spikes of pain through your chest.
>”What does that say about them? What does that say about the world? That the people that should be the closest to you, that should always be there for you, just left?”
>Painful as it is, you still have to admit that he's right.
>You've been left behind.
>But despite that, some small part of your mind still screams at you to not listen to him, to make your own choices for once.
>And suddenly, the distant, foreboding feeling is back in full.
>...
>Don't you think it's awfully convenient for him to find those... things in Anon's drawer?
>Hasn't Mister Turnip been acting a bit, well, weird today?
>I mean, the overly friendly tone he's been using, the things he's been saying about you not needing anyone, how he's been trying to get you to run away again...
>Don't be stupid, Duane.
>He's manipulating you.
>...
“So, what am I going to do after I run away?”
>Your tone is a bit more hostile than intended, the vegetable falling quiet in turn, clearly not prepared for your question.
“Just keep running? Is that how you thought I'd live the rest of my life? Just... running away from all my problems?”
>”Well, you know—“
“I don't. Please, enlighten me—“
>”I would, if you'd let me finish!”
>You wave your hand, motioning for him to go on, your chest defiantly puffed up, eyes fixed on him in a cold glare.
>”Now, well, while this may not be the easiest way to live, you'll at least be safe, right? You won't have anyone trying to hurt you or control you. You'll be free.”
>With a loud scoff, you shake your head, the defiant spark inside you now growing into a veritable blaze, a sudden flash of warmth flooding your chest, your heart pumping rapidly, beating an angry, rebellious rhythm.
“I won't have anyone trying to control me. Except for you, huh?”
>”I... hey, I'm just looking out for you. I'd hardly call it “controlling”—“
“Then what would you call it? Have you even listened to yourself today?”
>”Well, I—“
“Think hard about just how you do this “looking out for me” thing, okay? Doesn't that seem like controlling to you?”
>The silence—and tension—in the room is palpable now, the air feeling thicker than usual, the steady ticking of the clock sounding somehow distant, muted almost.
>For a few long seconds, both of you stay quiet, the blaze of anger inside you now reduced to embers, ready to flare up again at a moment's notice.
>”Well, my methods might have been a little, well... domineering, so to speak.”
>You suppress the urge to just grab him and throw him across the room, instead giving him a curt, controlled nod, trying to stop your hands from shaking with barely-repressed rage.
>”But, you know, sometimes the hard way is the only way. You're just so stubborn sometimes...”
“Stubborn? Like when I want to make my own choices? Is that what you mean?”
>This time, the hostility is definitely intended, your every word dripping with vitriol.
>”Well, Duane, you just have to understand that sometimes, the choices you want to make aren't the best choices for you. I mean, it's completely understandable, but—“
“Oh, I understand.”
>Mister Turnip seems taken aback at your sudden friendliness, a cold smile fixed on your face, your tone as warm as you can make it.
>”You do?”
“Yes. You remember what you said earlier, about freedom, about not having anyone to control me? I understand it all now.”
>”That's... good? So, well, I guess we can just put this all behind us, and be on our way?”
>He doesn't seem entirely convinced, more disconcerted than anything by your sudden change in attitude, his voice tinged by uncertainty.
“Correction, you'll be on your way.”
>You bounce to your feet, ignoring the brief flash of pain in your swollen knee, your smile now more genuine than before, and grab the turnip, ignoring his muffled protests as you limp to one of the living room windows.
>”Duane, what are you doing? Hey! Put me down!”
>You ignore him as well as you can, your free hand now twisting open one of the windows, the resulting rush of fresh air making the curtains wave, filling the room with the smell of pine tree and lilacs.
“You know what I just realized?”
>You stand in front of the window for several seconds, a fresh summer breeze blowing through your hair, the turnip clutched in your right hand staying quiet.
“I'm more free than I've ever been before. But as long as I have you breathing down my neck, telling me what to do... I'll never be truly free.”
>”No, no no no! Don't you remember what I've done for you? How much I've helped you?”
>You sigh, a heavy cloak of sadness settling on your heart, giving Mister Turnip the most apologetic look you can muster, your anger suddenly gone, now replaced with cold, hard, miserable certainty.
“I remember, and that makes this so much harder than I want it to be. But sometimes... sometimes you just have to let go. Sometimes, you have to let go of hate.”
>The turnip stays quiet, defeated, and you pull your hand back, your muscles tensing in anticipation.
“Goodbye.”
>Your voice barely more than a whisper, you fling him out of the window with all your might, the purple vegetable arcing through the air and into the forest beyond.
>...
>You'd like to say that you stood there for several minutes, unwilling to break away, remembering all the good things he'd ever done for you, everything he's ever helped you with.
>But in reality, you slammed the window shut as quickly as you could and practically ran to the sofa, burying your face into the soft cushions, trying to suppress tears you neither understood nor wanted to shed.
>...

—END OF PART 1—