CRIES FOR HELP: Lawndale is in trouble when Mr. O'Neill discovers his monstrous potential. Alison, Wind, and Link guest star.

WARNING: This story contains some disturbing scenes. It is horror and it’s also very gritty. If it were a movie, it would definitely be rated-R.



CRIES FOR HELP
by Dervish

“I’m the fear that keeps you awake, I’m the shadows on the wall, I’m the monsters they become, I’m the nightmares in your skull,” --Voltaire, When You’re Evil

1.

Imprisoned
Fighting to tread the dark despair that haunts me
makes me beg to know why
Why this ever happened.

When joy of the bright mornings was my existence
my soul was already starving for something it had never known
and now it withers away to nothingness
And now I must paint a smile on this empty vessel
entropy swallowing all I ever had
if I ever had anything

Despair hints at terror as I contemplate this road of destruction
My fate blooms into rotting pain with every passing day
It’s so hard to watch the dying rain blood on the thorny roses
the love I once might have known giving way to rot and loss

Desperately, the razor is all I feel now
dulling the constant pain of being alone
Craving one last taste of my lost dreams and desires
Watching the petals of my roses wither and fall
my heart beating its last


Lori looked up from her poem, but barely registered the park at night around her, or the dry, crackling leaves she sat on. She wasn’t ready to stop yet. She needed to pour more of her pain, confusion, and despair out. To write was a pressure valve for her soul.

Her tears had stopped, she could no longer cry. But she could write. It didn’t stop the pain, but it made it bearable. Poetry had become her only relief.

But just now something smothered her muse, like the plug was pulled. She wasn’t sure what it was, so she kept looking to see if she could pick up where she left off, trying to figure out why her inspiration had suddenly dried up.

She sighed. Maybe she should just go home. But she really wanted to finish this. She NEEDED to finish this. If she didn’t finish this, she might finish herself with the lancet. Slit her wrists. She wasn’t quite ready for that. Not yet. She wanted....no, first she needed to unburden this pain from her soul. Otherwise, it might follow her into the next world.

Out of the blue, despair hit her like burning fire and she stifled a sob. She put pen to paper to continue, sure that all her pain would pour out of her soul tonight so that she could finally shuck off her mortal coil, freeing her soul into blessed oblivion.... maybe even peace.

Link to Darlarcarscar

She looked down at what she just wrote and nearly snarled. Rage joined despair. Oh, fuck this. Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this! She wanted the tears she felt behind her eyes to come, but as usual, her eyes remained dry as she silently writhed in more misery than she had ever known was possible. Even after all she’d felt, she was amazed at the intensity of this horrific pain that wracked her soul, bound her in ineffable agony.

Ineffable Agony

Good. That was something. She tapped pen to paper, willing more words to come. Instead, she drew a picture of Lawndale High. She’d hated moving here and getting put into Mr. O'Neill’s self-esteem class. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but the pathetic Mr. O'Neill struck her as dangerous. She tried to write in his class to take her mind off his psychobabble, but nothing came. And she had nightmares of him cutting her with her own lancet, licking the blood, eyes lit with vulpine pleasure that would cause her to jerk awake, unable to sleep.

Her mom didn’t care about her nightmares. She just told her that Ms. Manson and Mr. O'Neill were there to help her, so go share her nightmares with them. Yeah, right. Her mom insisted that Mr. O'Neill called more than once because he was truly concerned about her. That made her want to gag.

Lori pulled her headphones out of her pack and put them on. A moment later Danzig was alternating between tragic ballad and gritty cacophony in a piece called “Dead Inside.” Maybe it would inspire her, or at least take her mind off everything.

“How does it feel when you're dead inside, Lost someone to the other side,
Felt so bad 'cause you didn't cry, Couldn't shed a tear cause you're dead inside.”

She drew crude sketches of Mr. O'Neill and Ms. Manson. She followed with a crude sketch of Ms. Li. She didn’t know why, but this seemed to be helping her. They sucked, yes, but they had nothing to do with her parent’s fucked up divorce, her mom’s exploiting her and her sucky brother and sister for child support, her dad's frequent tantrums over having to pay it and the police ignoring the court order against him, and finally moving to Lawndale, leaving everything she knew behind. Perhaps she should feel relief, but instead she felt a cold, painful emptiness.

Danzig continued to sing to her. “How does it feel when you're cold inside, Emptiness constant at your side, Freezing ever secret thought you hide, Motionless, frozen hell design.”

Lawndale High wasn’t really the problem, even if Mr. O'Neill gave her nightmares. It gave her someplace else to be besides home. She didn’t really have money to hang out elsewhere. And she met Andrea there. Even if they weren’t exactly friends, Andrea showed her places where she might fit in. So if anything, Lawndale High was a respite from her home. But that should be taken as a statement at how much her home life sucked, more than praise for Lawndale High.

Danzig was screaming in her ears about how cold he felt.

Andrea had taken her to cool place called Arcanum 17, a place for the “artistes” of the gothic persuasion. It wasn’t only goth. There were plenty of college students, artsies of all ages, and others. But it was half goth. And many of them, not just Andrea, read poetry like this. Maybe she could work up the nerve to read her own.

Danzig asked (rhetorically, it seemed), “How does it feel when you're lost and blind, Loneliness is your only guide, And how does it feel when you're black inside, Numbness calls from your inner eye.”

Lori suddenly realized she was drawing a picture of the lancet that was in her backpack. One day, she would use it. Black despair wafted a miasma of hopelessness around her. Why couldn’t she write more lines? Why couldn’t she cry?

She jerked her backpack to her lap, put her headphones back in, and fished for her scalpel-like lancet. Finding it, she glanced around to see if anyone was here. For a Saturday, it was very quiet, and she didn’t see anybody.

Pulling the lancet out of its plastic cover, she pulled her sleeve up to find a good spot to cut herself. She had many red scars hidden under her sleeves. No one ever seemed to wonder why she always wore long sleeved shirts. No one cared.

She hissed as she cut, blood instantly showing. Her breathing quickened. Her mind focused on the cut. Focusing on the pain of the cut took her mind off the pain in her soul. This was the only other valve she had, for when her poetry didn’t work. One day, her lancet would not give her some small, pitiful relief, but would relieve her of the pain forever.

She cut herself again. This time she did not hiss. But she heard a gasp.

Whirling her head, she stared at a nearby tree. Lori wondered if someone was hiding behind it. Straining her eyes, she thought she did see a man trying to hide behind a nearby tree. There, he moved. There was someone there, and she would guess it was an adult male.

Lori felt fear twist her gut and tighten her body. But then she choked it down. So what? If he killed her, she would thank him. Anything to stop her pain. But she was also pissed. This was HER private time.

And she suddenly knew with utter certainty that this man had chased her muse away. To return to her poetry, she needed to get rid of him. That didn’t make sense, but she just knew it to be true to the very core of her being. She could never write poetry while he was there.

Lori gripped her lancet hard and snarled, “Go away!”

The intruder stayed behind the tree, remaining very still. Lori got angrier. “I see you, asshole! Go away before I hurt you, you fucker!” Rage and despair mixed to create an odd sense of liberation from fear of what he might do to her. She honestly didn’t care. And she didn’t care if she went to prison for killing him. Maybe she could write undisturbed in her cell. That’s all she cared about. She frowned when she thought they might make it difficult to cut herself, let alone kill herself. Despair and rage both crescendoed to a new high as she realized this horrifying possibility.

“Motherfucker!” Lori got up, ignored the sleeve as it fell roughly over her bleeding arm, and the man finally moved. He came around the tree, slowly coming toward her, his hands out to show he was harmless. Still, some part of Lori was suddenly afraid again. Something ancient in her spine and brain urged her to run very fast. But the despair and rage at this intruder kept that instinct in check.

Her rage rose even higher as she finally recognized him: Mr. O'Neill.

“Brittany?” asked a shy Mr. O'Neill. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” He actually sounded sincere.

Lori suddenly remembered just how pathetic this man really was. “It’s Lori!” she snapped. “Why are you stalking me!?”

“Oh, no,” said Mr. O'Neill, sounding shocked she would even think that. “I saw someone in the park, and I just had...had to see who it was. I was....” Here Mr. O'Neill actually seemed confused. He took in another breath. “I was drawn here. To you.”

Lori rolled her eyes. “Right, fucker.” She wondered if he’d tell her mom she was cutting herself. Probably. Luckily, her mom wasn’t likely to care, as long as she didn’t fear losing her booze and cigarette support money. She glared at him as Mr. O'Neill came within a few feet of her. A light behind Lori cast her shadow out in front of her, and it nearly touched Mr. O'Neill.

Lori’s eyes widened when she saw the... desire? Yes, desire in his eyes. She couldn’t believe it, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. It was why he became a teacher, no doubt. And right now, he wanted her! Within her contempt, some unsuspected vanity reared itself. He didn't regret her the way her dad did. He wanted her. And she momentarily wondered if he could somehow fill the emptiness that afflicted her.

No, she thought to herself. The brief hope and excitement withered so fast, she wondered if she'd only imagined it. She wasn’t flattered, angered, or anything else. She just didn’t care. She wondered if she could use it against him, make him silent. But there was no way she’d let him touch her. She shivered as she thought of Mr. O'Neill embracing her, and remembered the nightmares. She felt fear dance over her skin.

“Lori?” asked a concerned Mr. O'Neill. “Are you okay?” He touched her arm and Lori jerked her arm back. She glared at him with all her rage and despair, but found herself suddenly very tired. She felt something..... she didn’t know what it was. She closed her eyes, as if she were falling asleep. She wondered if she had accidentally cut herself too deeply this time. She felt a line of blood go down her arm and onto her hand, but it didn’t feel like much.

Lori felt Mr. O'Neill gently grab her wrist and lift her shirt sleeve up. She opened her eyes, and suddenly felt a soothing peace fill her soul. Mr. O'Neill gazed at her bleeding arm as if in a semi-trance himself. Yes, Lori mused, they were both falling into some kind of trance. She smiled slightly, but there was no happiness behind it. He seemed to be sucking her pain out, which was a blessed relief, but also any will she had to resist, or even to live.

Suddenly, Lori gasped as Mr. O'Neill bent his head down and licked her arm. A moment later, she realized Mr. O'Neill had been licking her blood! Did he have some vampire fetish? That actually sounded kinda cool, until she recalled her nightmares. Fear rose up in her again, but she did not move. Mr. O'Neill jerked his face to her and she felt something in her mind when their eyes touched.

Mr. O'Neill was behind her eyes! She could feel him as clearly as she could feel herself. He was as surprised as she was.

She felt him behind her eyes, searching for her pain. He had known that holding a person strengthened "the connection," whatever that meant, but he never knew just how much tasting the blood actually created some kind of psychic link, and he had no idea how long it would last. He ravaged her mind, looking for every drop of despair within her. And he found it.

Lori screamed, but was cut off by Mr. O'Neill’s other hand. She felt compelled to look into his eyes again and she felt herself lost in those depths. Everything came to her. The family without love, the life without hope, the disappointment that haunted her, the sadness that was her constant companion. She felt something give, and Mr. O'Neill suddenly gasped in guilty ecstasy. She felt her soul being sucked out. She couldn’t even remember her name now. She was nothing. There was no poetry, no name, no hope, no soul.

Lori felt his tongue on her arm again, licking another line of blood. He let go. She still felt him in her mind, raping her of every hell she ever experienced, and he silently told her he would always be there to feed off every other moment of hell. She would never be alone again. She had him and he had her, forever.

She raised the lancet. She would kill him. She had to. But he felt her in her mind. Not me, he mentally commanded. End it now. She took the lancet to her wrist and cut deep. She made a mewling noise as she breathed in. This was a mortal wound. She knew it, and he knew it, too. She didn’t care. He loved her despair and drank deep. As she fell clumsily and weakly to the ground, she knew that this was her last night on earth. She hated O'Neill, but she didn’t want to die alone.

She reached for him. Hold me, she willed. Hold me as no one as ever held me. He took a step to her and then stopped. Then he smiled cruelly and stepped back several steps. Why should I? he thought back at her, flashing several of her suppressed and humiliating memories back at her. Her gut clenched from blood loss and heartache, and Mr. O'Neill cruel smile grew joyous, lost in the moment completely. As her consciousness ebbed, Mr. O'Neill reminded her she never finished her poem. Her pain would follow her eternally, never to be released. One last whimper and Lori was no more.


Mr. O'Neill stared in rapture for several minutes. Slowly the realization that one of his students from self-esteem class was lying dead, blood all around, her shirt soaked with it, only a couple of meters in front of him. He knew with utter certainty that she would never rise again, take another breath, see another morning. And he knew he had caused it. He had... no he hadn’t liked it. Like was too weak a word for what he felt.

For the first time in his life, he felt himself radiating strength and power like he never known before. And, for the first time, he remembered what names went with what faces!

He licked a few stray drops of her blood from his hand, but he felt the vitality of the blood quickly fading. Lori was just meat now. He mused darkly that there had been no release. There was just agony, terror, despair, and indescribable loneliness... and then nothing.

His senses were sharp, his entire being reborn. And.... he felt like writing a poem about it. He had a muse now, and he wanted to celebrate the horror he knew, the horror of what he had done. But he also was afraid of what he now knew he was, and the intense pleasure that came with that self-realization.

He looked again to the corpse in front of him and muttered with only a little concern, “Oh dear, what have I done?”

Whatever he had done, he knew one thing with certainty:

He would do it again.

2.

You know, you two are pretty cool,” said Link, in a tone of voice that said he could hardly believe his own pronouncement. Jane and Daria smiled somewhat self-depreciatively at the tone, while Link took another bite of his pizza. Anyone there at Pizza King this Saturday night might have thought Link was a little brother to either Daria or Jane.

Link had run into them here, and he had joined them. This was his first time to meet Jane. As if in omen what such a meeting could result in, an ambulance raced by Pizza King, its sirens blaring.

“Not many share your opinion,” Daria casually remarked, ignoring the ambulance, just before taking another bite of pizza herself.

“That’s because many people suck!” Link had an intensity of passion, and a surprising ability to cut through crap, that was oddly appealing to the other two. “And they don’t matter anyway.”

“So is it you against the world?” asked Jane.

“Sorta,” said Link mildly. “I have friends, but most wanna pretend the world is either wonderful all the time, or that they themselves aren’t touched by it. Or they try to be one of the reasons life sucks all the time.”

“You use to think I sucked,” remarked Daria.

“Yeah, my mistake,” said Link. “Besides, when Mr. O'Neill came in and practically said he got you to make me open up, I was sure you were just another jerk.”

Jane smirked. “Yeah, Mr. O'Neill is not someone you should face before a certain age.”

“Or any age,” Daria added.

Jane continued, “But Daria and I first spoke to each other in his self-esteem class.”

Link’s eyes widened. “Self-esteem class!?” His voice sounded as if he’d heard they were into necrophilia. He shook his head. “So how did you wind up in his class anyway?”

“We were both tested to have low self-esteem,” said Daria. “And he’s just as bad in class as he was at the OK to Cry Corral. After Jane and I graduated the class, he tried publicly humiliating us in front of the entire school. Luckily, my real problem is that I have low esteem for everyone else. And I used the situation to humiliate Quinn.”

“She also tortured her parents by dragging them to Pizza Forest and a UFO convention,” Jane added.

“Pizza Forest?” asked Link in horror. “The place with the singers?”

Daria smiled ominously at him. Link shuddered.

Jane smiled and added, “In a few short years, Link, you’ll probably be taking Mr. O'Neill’s classes, too.”

This time, Link nearly convulsed. He decided to change the subject. “So what’s your family like?”

Jane shrugged. “Who knows? They’re almost never around. Except Trent. He plays in a band called Mystik Spiral.”

“Cool,” said Link. “I wish my parents were never around. My problem is they’re never around when I could use them, and they’re always around when I can’t.” Jane looked at him, inviting him to continue. “They don’t do anything, really. They’re always out, trying to get ahead in their so-called careers.”

“What careers?” asked Jane.

“Professional butt kissers, one for some investment schemes, another to do with computers,” shrugged Link. “They both work up around the Halcyon Hills Corporate Park, like 12-15 hours a day. Then they come home and wonder why nothing is done. It’s like I tell them I can’t cut the grass cause the mower is broke, and they put taking care of it in their planner while paying someone else to cut the yard. and never get back to it until they demand to know why I haven’t cut the grass again. The mower still hasn’t been fixed, and they haven’t found out that what’s wrong with it is that I cut the cable between the control lever to the engine.”

“Wo,” said Jane. “They might be pretty mad over that.”

“Maybe I’m mad over their always preaching responsibility, but expecting the entire world to take care of all the stuff they don’t care for,” Link replied. “They just think I’m their intern at home or personal assistant or something. And when they can’t use me, they try to ship me off somewhere, like that prison camp that Daria used to be a guard in. Or something else to straighten out their messed up son, never thinking that maybe they’re the ones messing me up, especially by sending me off to be brainwashed on what a wonderful planet we live on, where the only people not happy all the time are delusional.”

Jane gave a slight smirk at his youthful exaggeration, even though she understood what he was going through in her own way. She wondered if he ever got the speech about the butterfly. Probably not. His parents sounded a lot like Daria’s mom. But the way “delusional” slipped off his tongue, it sounded like he used it a lot. Probably heard it a lot, too. She frowned in thought, wondered how much he was exaggerating, and how much he was understating.

“But at least Dad got me a Play Station 2,” said Link grudgingly. “They’re both using it to foist me off as they always do, but at least it’s fun.” As usual, Link said “Dad” in a tone of voice that showed how little he thought of him.

“Latchkey Stress Syndrome,” remarked Daria deadpan, “The all-purpose psychobabble to guilt your parents into getting you what you want.”

“Maybe a Play Station 2 is the going price for your children’s love these days,” added Jane dryly.

“Or maybe,” said Link a little devilishly, “Dad didn’t want me to turn his girlie magazines and internet porn over to Mom.” “Mom” was said with only a little less hostility. “I mean that stuff was so weird, that even I
never knew that people could like it.”

Daria and Jane frowned, but decided against asking how weird while they were eating. But at least he was learning to take care of himself, which his parents wanted.

“I got some ideas for some games,” said Link with a mouthful of pizza. “I think I’d like to design some when I’m older. No higher ideals, just release for all the sex and violence we hold within us. Keep us from killing our parents. Give us something to do when we don’t have parents around us.”

“So that’s why Tom liked having us play those games, right Daria?”

“What?”

“So he can release all those violent, sexual impulses he felt when he was with us.”

Daria blushed slightly, and then switched to annoyed. “It’s just something to do,” she said. “And maybe it kept us from expending our violent tendencies on him.”

Link, who didn’t like it whenever Jane and Daria talked about stuff that he didn’t know about, turned to Jane. “So what do you do with no games, with your parents gone all the time? Hold lots of parties?”

Jane smirked. “Hardly. Sometimes Mystik Spiral has people come over, which can be sorta like a party. But I’m usually working on my art.”

“Do you paint?”

“Yeah, a lot,” said Jane. “Sculpt, too, and a few other things.”

“Cool. I’d like to see some of your paintings,” said Link, who also liked painting. “Who else is with you? A brother, right? He’s in Mystik Spiral?”

“Yeah,” said Jane. “And Mom’s home half the time. Everyone else just sorta wonders in every once in awhile, but they never stay long. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Anyone else there right now?”

Jane’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Just Mom and Trent right now. But Wind, a much older brother, is supposed to be bringing his newest would-be wife to meet the rest of us. And I think they both need a place to stay.” Jane was obviously displeased.

“Really?” asked Daria. “When?”

“Any day now,” said Jane in a subdued voice.

Link interrupted with, “Is Wind’s last name ‘Lane,’ too?”

“Yeah,” said Jane.

“That’s gotta suck.”

“Yeah,” repeated Jane, taking a distracted bite off her pizza.

“A lot of lives seem to suck,” said Link, sounding subdued himself now.

As if on cue, one of the girls Daria and Jane barely knew at Lawndale High came running in, her eyes red. She jerked her head around until she found some people she knew. She raced to them and blurted, "Ohmigod, you’re not going to believe this! You remember Lori, the new girl?” The others at the table nodded. “Mr. O'Neill found her corpse in the park! They say she slashed her wrists right there for everyone to see! She’s dead!”

Daria, Jane, and Link were shocked but said nothing. An excited murmur with a range of emotions, took hold of everyone else at Pizza King.

“Yep,” said Daria softly, “so many lives suck.”

3.

Daria decided that she and Jane should walk Link home, but made it sound casual. As they passed near the park, they saw emergency vehicles and several people milling about.

All three recognized Mr. O'Neill, who was talking to a couple of policeman. He seemed to be holding together very strongly, but even from a distance he looked visibly upset.

Suddenly, he turned his head and seemed to focus on Jane, Daria, and Link. Daria placed herself between Mr. O'Neill and Link, and put a protective arm around him, until Link casually shook it off a little later. Daria didn’t know why she did that, but all three unmistakably felt something dark there. Nothing they could put into words, so they didn’t talk about it. But maybe “evil” or “hunger” would’ve been the closest word.

By the time they got to Jane’s house, they mostly had forgotten that haunting moment, and Daria and Link continued on to Link’s house while Jane went inside Casa Lane.

Nothing could’ve prepared her for what, or rather who, she saw. Jane stood there in shock, eyes wide and blinking, stuttering several times as words fought to escape her.

“Hi,” said Alison somewhat shyly. THE Alison. The one from the art colony.

Finally, Jane sputtered, “Alison? Wh-what are you DOING here?”

Alison bit her lip, a self-conscious gesture she had never seen her do before. “I didn’t know you lived here until today, Jane.”

“But, Alison,” Jane almost whined, almost yelled, “What are you DOING here?”

Alison sighed. She turned and raised her voice. “Wind!? Wind, can you come here?” She turned back to Jane and smiled shyly again. “He’s upstairs, talking with your mom.”

Jane reminded herself to breath. “Alison?” asked Jane, “Can we talk somewhere private? Please?”

“I thought you might want to do that,” said Alison. “Never mind, Wind,” Alison called out. There was no answer. Alison shrugged and asked, “Where?”

Jane decided against her room. “Is anyone in the basement?” When Alison shook her head no, then Jane gestured for her to follow and quickly walked to the basement and down the stairs.

When down in the basement, Jane turned and asked sharply, “Are you leading Wind on just so you could get back with me?”

Alison displayed a little annoyance, but reined herself. “Of course not. We met at a gallery. He liked my work. We talked, we got along, and we.... well, that’s a long story. But I didn’t even know he was your brother until today, when I saw pics of you in this house.”

“But I didn’t think you were after romance,” said Jane with some bitterness. “I thought a quick lay was all you were into. And whatever that could get you.”

Annoyance washed over Alison again, and was gone. “Jane,” sighed Alison, “The only reason I went with Mr. Dotson was to test you, and maybe make you a little jealous.” Alison laughed a bitter laugh. “You got so insanely jealous that you scared me a little. And that comment you hit me with was too low. It’s not like YOU had anything to offer, except for who you are. And I was willing to be friends, but you couldn’t handle that.”

Jane clenched her fists. “I was NOT jealous!” Jane was the one fighting annoyance now. But she fought as resolutely as Alison. “Look, Alison, I was going through a real rough time then....”

“So was I,” blurted Alison with a little heat, crossing her arms.

“And maybe I did overreact a little. But you have to know that Wind can’t stay married to anyone! And I’m thinking you’re the last person he’ll be able to hold on to.”

“Are you still jealous?” Alison purred. She smiled, but dropped it when she saw Jane fighting fury. “I’ll tell you the details later,” said Alison, “But right now, I really like Wind. I haven’t decided if I’m willing to marry him or not. I asked to meet his family, and if I decide to let him down, I’ll make it sound like it was his family I didn’t want, and not him. I think that would be easier on him.”

Jane stared at her speechless.

After a minute, Alison asked, “Are we done here?”

Without a word, Jane turned and walked back upstairs, Alison following behind.

4.

The next day, Amanda, Wind, Alison, and Jane sat at the table, with an ordered pizza and breadsticks being shared between them. Trent had a gig to go to. Jane might have gone with him, but she was determined to keep an eye on Alison until she could figure out if Alison was playing games or not. So far, Wind was talking about Alison nonstop. It was all good, but Alison seemed to be holding back from asking him to stop.

Wind went into long descriptions of several paintings Alison had at a gallery in the next town over. He said her pain of loneliness in her paintings just called out to him from many of her paintings, and he had
to know the artist. They met, and Alison was fun. It sounded as though Alison might have tried to drop him, but they seemed to have become at least comfortable with each other. With Wind holding on with claws, but knowing when to give sometimes.

Wind and some others seemed to have influenced the gallery owner, Mr. Evans, to get more of Alison’s works. Which was good as Alison was finally able to pay off some bills. But it was only for a short while, and it wasn’t big enough for two to live on comfortably. And Wind had just been evicted from his place.

Luckily, there was Mom’s house. Whether this was good or bad luck was dependent on the person’s frame of reference, Jane thought morosely.

“And she’s an Aries deluxe!”

“Aries deluxe?” asked Amanda.

“Sun, Moon, Venus, Mars are all in Aries! So’s her ascendant! But her Mercury is in Pisces, along with my Venus. Her Aries Venus and Pisces Mercury makes her an awesome artist, too!”

“Huh,” said Amanda neutrally. She had Alison pegged for a free spirited Sagittarius, or maybe even a secretive Scorpio.

Jane tried to suppress her sigh, but didn’t quite make it. But she did have to admit that Alison WAS good.

“And I have a Libra ascendant! We’re both RIGHT for each other, because our ascendants are diametrically opposite!” Wind then held up some fingers as he counted other planets off. “My Sun, Mercury, and Mars are in Cancer, so I guess that means she’s gonna be the head of the roost.” Wind smiled at Alison, and Alison stopped herself from rolling her eyes just in time to smile back. “And Alison said I knew how to pay attention to someone without smothering her!" He missed Alison silently moving her lips over that. "Plus, her planetary and house arrangements make her more easily hurt, but my Cancer placements make me more sensitive to her.”

Alison fidgeted. Jane couldn’t tell if she was being embarrassed by Wind, or for Wind.

“I’ve always believed butterflies had to be free,” said Amanda indulgently.

Alison turned to Amanda. “What’s your sign?” Jane thought Alison just wanted to change the subject, than from any real interest in Amanda.

“I’m an Aquarius,” said Amanda, with some pride. She cocked her head considering. “For some reason, all my kids are Aries, except Trent and Wind. Trent is a Pisces. But Jane is an Aries, too. I think she has a
Sagittarius ascendant, don’t you?” Amanda looked toward Jane.

Jane breathed out. “I don’t know.” I don’t care, either!, she thought. She thought she would change the subject before they bored her to death. “How long do you think you’ll be here?”

“I don’t know,” said Wind. “Until we can get on our feet better. Then we’ll plan the wedding!”

Jane rolled her eyes. So this was Alison’s game. Get a roof over her head. Well, Wind himself would be plenty of vengeance enough, Jane thought sourly. As they continued, Jane finished her pizza and then went upstairs. She decided she would get her mind off Wind and Alison by painting something.



Later that night, as Jane neared Wind’s room while she mentally repeated her story of wanting to ask Mom something in case they saw her, she smelled the unmistakable smell of cannabis. Wind and Alison were laughing and saying stupid things that probably struck each other as somehow witty or even profound.

Then Alison started singing. Off key, but not too bad in a relaxed sort of way. “Yeah, yeah, God rolls great, yeah, yeah, God smells good, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” Alison started giggling again.

Then Wind and Alison both sang, “What if God smokes cannabis? Do you suppose he had a buzz when he made the platypus? When He created Earth our home?” They both started laughing.

They shouldn’t try going professional, Jane thought. Alison kept humming. Jane knew she heard that song somewhere before, but she couldn’t remember where. Maybe she was stoned when she heard it. She leaned closer when she heard Alison go, “Oh, oh, good spot!”

Driven by some unknown drive, Jane casually passed their room. Alison was mostly on Wind’s bed, her legs hanging off. Wind was massaging one of Alison’s feet, while Alison rested her other foot on Wind’s shoulder. Since Wind was focused on Alison, and Alison was lying back on the bed gazing up laughing lightly, Jane was not seen. The sight disturbed her for no reason at all, and when Alison made a sound that revealed she was enjoying whatever spot Wind had found, Jane felt furious, at them, and even more at herself. But she left to go down the stairs as originally intended before she could betray herself or the depth of her feelings to them. After all, what was there left to say?

5.

Come Monday, Jane was still in a foul mood. Daria had been a little taken aback by the repressed fury that her best friend just barely let out of its cage. Jane felt confused, too, and she didn’t know why, and that only served to worsen her mood.

So when Jane walked into Mr. O'Neill’s class, she wasn’t pleased to see Mr. O’Neill smile at her. Somehow, it looked obscene, but Jane shook that ridiculous notion off. Mr. O'Neill was just annoying, that’s all.

Right after the bell rang, Mr. O'Neill got up from his desk. Jane noticed right away that there was something different about him. She couldn’t place it right away. But it seemed he wasn’t cringing anymore. Beyond that, she couldn’t really say.

“Class,” said Mr. O'Neill in a voice that sounded faintly amused, and stronger than ever, “I’m sure you have all heard of the terrible suicide of Lori Goodman.” He paused, and the entire class got quiet. Nearly everyone had heard he had been the one to find the body, too. Someone coughed nervously.

“This was a horrible tragedy,” continued Mr. O'Neill, “And the faculty at Lawndale High are very concerned. We don’t want anything like this to happen again. But we know statistically it is only a matter of time. So we will be pausing in our Shakespeare to take time to write an essay.”

Some slightly annoyed noises were made. Mr. O'Neill ignored them.

“I want everyone to write about something that has every made them think of suicide. If you never have, then what do you think would? And I want you to include something that you think could help you overcome these obstacles to your actualization.”

Daria raised her hand.

Mr. O'Neill frowned. “What is it, Daria?” A hint of steel in his voice.

A slight murmur quickly picked up in the classroom. Even Daria’s eyes widened. “Um,” said Daria off balance, “How did you remember my name?”

Mr. O'Neill sighed. “Daria, other people aren’t as stupid as you like to say in your pretentious stories and essays. In fact, you’re probably less intelligent than many in this school, or you’d know how to get along better.”

Daria was so shocked, she forgot to ask him what actualization meant. Daria knew, of course. She was planning on telling him at the end, she just wanted to remind him that using a word and knowing what it meant were two different things, and as payback for when he annoyed her by using it and refusing to tell her what it was in his self-esteem class. But now she had forgotten what she intended to do.

Andrea spoke up lowly, but audible to everyone. “Like getting along with the locals is a sign of higher intelligence.”

Mr. O'Neill turned to her. “Andrea,” he said, “I can see right through you. It’s not like you’re that deep. You’re just as pretentious as the Fashion Club, only in a darker way. The only reason you chose your gothic pretension is because you know you're way too fat to be beautiful. But in the end, you are no different, except you are isolated and deluded. Just as Daria is no different by deluding herself about being smarter than everyone else.” He tried not to show how he drank her pain as she bled in unseen ways from the little nicks he just dealt her. She refused to show him how he hurt her, but she couldn't hide it from HIM. Mr. O'Neill couldn't help but grin a little which actually caused Andrea to flinch a little.

Brittany raised her hand and spoke without being called on. “What if you don’t have any reasons to feel bad, and you never thought of suicide?”

Mr. O'Neill blinked by the unexpected question and then shook his head sadly. “I think you’re repressing, Brittany. Don’t you remember how you were snubbed by that modeling agency? Don’t you remember how Kevin left you for another girl before you seduced him back to you?”

“Eep!” Brittany’s eyes widened. Kevin kept smiling like an idiot without a clue.

“Brittany,” Mr. O’ O'Neill continued, “you put so much stock into your looks and popularity. But just because you are above average at these things at Lawndale High, doesn’t mean you will be out in the real world. When you go to college, you will find there are people so much better looking and so much more popular than you could ever hope to be. You will become a non-person, fighting to retain what you once thought you had, and you will ultimately fail at everything: school, cheerleading, modeling, life.”

There was real fear on Brittany’s face. Like Daria, she was stunned into silence.

“What will you do, Brittany,” Mr. O'Neill continued relentlessly, in a lower, slower voice that suggested confidentiality, “when your family and friends have disowned you? What will you do when you’re a burnt out junkie selling your butt to complete strangers in hopes of your pimp giving you another hit of the drugs you used in a futile attempt to hold onto what you never had?”

It was obvious Brittany was seeing it. Her mouth was opened in a silent O of fear, and it looked as if her eyes were misting. She had even forgotten to be humiliated or outraged that someone would say such things to her, particularly in front of other people.

Daria and Jane looked at each other in shock, and a little anger. Then Jodie spoke up. “I have a question.” Jodie’s tone suggested anger. “How is this supposed to be helping us to feel better about ourselves?”

Mr. O'Neill shook his head and laughed a little mockingly, causing about everyone to blink. “Jodie,” he said with a smirk, “The point isn’t about feeling good. We can all pretend that we do, but then we’re completely unprepared for when life strikes us a blow.” He clenched his hands into fists, bringing them up, as he made his face looked concerned and wise. “We must learn to be stronger than the pain, to face our demons without fear or weakness.”

“With all due respect,” said Jodie bluntly. “I don’t think that’s what you’re doing.”

“With all due respect,” said Mr. O’ O'Neill just as bluntly, “I think you need to fess up more than anyone. You don’t think life is wonderful. You’re so busy in your nonstop quest to prove to your parents that you’re worthy of their love, and yet you haven’t proved it in all your life. You try so hard here at Lawndale High to show your best, but all your manipulations of people do is show your neurotic need to suck the approval of everyone around you. What happens, Jodie, when you can no longer do that?”

Jodie started to speak a couple of times, choked, got up and left. Mack was right behind her, glaring at Mr. O'Neill.

“Walking out of class, Mack, is a real good way to lose your position as captain of the Lawndale Lions. What will you have to offer Jodie, then?”

Mack actually blinked at that, but quickly followed Jodie out of the classroom.

Daria got up and left. And then Jane.

“Anyone else want an F for the day?” asked Mr. O'Neill in a kind voice.

Andrea got up and left, pointedly flipping him off as she went. No one else moved. No one else remembered that he was getting their names right.

It was one of the worst days many of them ever knew at Lawndale High, and they could only hope things would soon go back to normal. As the bell ring, Mr. O'Neill demanded they have the essays done by tomorrow. He looked forward to giving the ones who walked out of his classroom another F if they didn’t turn such an essay in. And then making them “redo” it.

But he had to admit, while this was all good, it wasn’t anywhere as good a high as when he had tasted the blood. And he could feel the strength in him slowly leaking away. He needed more if he was to continue feeling this good, this strong. And to feel even stronger. Because deep down, he knew his potential had barely been tapped. He was in the process of Awakening.

But he did not yet know what he was Awakening into.


6.

Jane had come back from another jog. She had to get the adrenaline out of her system, and she needed to clear her head before she bumped into Wind or Alison again. While a part of Jane was secretly glad to see Alison, another part felt angry that Alison had intruded on her here. With her older brother. She quickly went into the shower and cleaned herself off. Daria should be over soon.

Going down to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge (if anything), she found Alison eating a salad that she'd apparently made herself. There was more in a bowl, but Jane turned to leave.

“Jane, wait.”

Jane turned, raising a brow.

“I wanted to talk to you about Wind. Do you mind?”

“Do you mind if I eat some of your salad?”

“Help yourself.”

Jane went to the fridge. She pulled out a can of Ultra Cola she saw and filled a bowl with salad at the table. “Rabbit food isn’t really my thing,” she said sitting down. “But it will work for the moment. So what’s up?”

Alison seemed uncomfortable. “Has Wind always been secretive?”

Jane chewed as she thought. “He's usually willing to talk,” said Jane cautiously. “But now that I think about it, he doesn’t say much.” Jane shrugged. “Maybe he’s just shallow.”

Alison shook her head. “Sometimes, there’s a depth about Wind that’s intriguing. But only sometimes. Other times I want to strangle him for being such a jerk.”

Jane laughed. “That what all of Wind’s ex-wives say.”

Alison nodded cautiously. “He won’t talk about them much.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to make you jealous.”

“No, that’s definitely not it. I’ve caught him flirting with other women, and he enjoys it when I come to chase her away and drag him off where he’s less likely to misbehave.” Alison covered her face with a hand for a moment as she exclaimed, “Gods! Sometimes I even talk to him, and about him, like he were a child!”

“Maybe he just wants a little fun.” Jane’s voice took on a slightly darker tone.

“Jane,” said Alison. “I’m sorry I tried to make you jealous. I was hurt over your just brushing me off like that. I was sure we could’ve been something special. That you were willing to throw that aside really hurt. What I did was petty, but I think it was understandable.”

“Maybe,” said Jane cautiously.

“If you’re still mad at me, maybe you should let it out of your system.”

Jane put down her fork and listened. She heard nothing, and didn’t think anybody else was home. “Is Wind home?”

Alison shook her head no.

Jane took a drink and then said, “First, I felt used cause you got me drunk. Next, I didn’t like how you came onto me. I wasn’t ready for that. Then, when I thought about it, and realized that just maybe there was a little truth to it, you wouldn’t let me say it. You just had to show off how fast you could find someone else. I really needed to talk to you about that then, and about so many other things. I was scared of being hurt again, and then you seemed to show me how little I meant. Maybe that’s why my ex-boyfriend dumped me for my social outcast of a best friend.”

“I’m sorry, Jane. Except for the getting you drunk. I didn’t set out to get you drunk. I’ve been drinking and getting high since I was 13. I had a high tolerance by the time I was your age, and I just assumed you would to. After all, you were out there on your own, just as I was on my own at your age.”

“Okay, granted. But a lot of that other stuff still sucked.”

“You’re right. But some of it was just thoughtlessness on my part, not nastiness. And I ask you to remember something. What I did not do. I did not plant one kiss on you. In fact, I didn’t even touch you beyond that of a friend.”

“Not from any lack of trying,” Jane mumbled.

“When I like someone,” said Alison, “I do go off like a rocket. But as uncomfortable as I made you feel by my sudden advances, I did not actually violate your boundaries. When you told me to back off, I backed off. Maybe I tried convincing you not to shut me out, but I did respect your boundaries. Believe me, Jane, that means something. At least it does if you’ve dealt with the kind who don’t respect your boundaries. The ones that think they can force you to do what they want, or that saying no just means you’re playing hard to get.”

Jane took a few more bites, contemplating.

Alison looked at her with sad eyes that made Jane soften her expression, if only a little. “Can we still be friends, Jane?”

Jane shrugged. “I think so. But give it time, Alison. And I try to avoid Wind, so don’t take it personally if I seem to be avoiding you while you’re with him.” Jane took another bite. “And I’m glad you found a gallery to display your work. You do some really amazing work. You wouldn’t have to sleep with anyone to get your work displayed, and I’m sorry I said as much.”

Alison nodded her thanks. “Wind and Amanda are coming to see my work at the gallery tomorrow. I’d like it if you came out, too.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Jane. After a moment she asked, “Can I bring a friend?”

Alison smiled. “Of course.” Then Alison stared at Jane intently as her tone took on a stronger tone as she asked her next question, changing the subject. “Did your mother NEVER scorch a shirt, burn a biscuit, sing off key, waste money, or lose her temper?”

Jane laughed. “Wind is always telling stories about how wonderful the women in his life are, whoever they happened to be at that time.” Alison blinked at that. Jane continued with, “He definitely lives in Camelot, and he thinks he’s Lancelot, and Mom as the Lady of the Lake.”

“Pretty delusional, huh?”

“You better believe it. Especially about the wasting money bit. Unless you count not buying us food when she had to choose between feeding us and getting more clay.”

Alison winced. “Doesn’t sound like it was fun growing up around here.”

“It had its good and bad points.” Jane smirked and added, “Wind might be right about Mom not burning a biscuit, given that I only remember her making biscuits once in my life.”

Alison laughed a little at that. “But did she always know what to say when he was sad and blue?”

“Maybe for Wind,” said Jane, “But she usually told me things that made me want to rip the wings off of butterflies.”

Alison’s laugh was a little lighter over that.

“I meant to ask you, Alison, did you do some of your paintings on acid?”

Alison smiled slightly. “Yeah. A few. But don’t be fooled by my paintings. They don’t have all the colors of an acid trip. The ones that make people ask if I were on acid were really done by my focusing on one object, and silhouetting everything else around it. It gives a new perspective on the object of my painting. I do a little surrealism from time to time, too, but when I’m sober.”

They heard the front door open. Jane went to see who it was. “Hey, Trent! Hey, Daria! Hey, Link!”

“Hey, Janey.” Trent went for the kitchen.

“Hi,” said Daria. Link waved once. He was carrying a sketchbook, which made Jane curious. Jane went to meet them.

“You were riding with Trent and Link? Does Tom know?”

Daria gave Jane a slight glare. “Don’t start that again. Trent passed us while we were walking over here, and he offered us a ride.”

“So bring any real food from your house to mine?”

“Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Already made.”

“That’ll work.” Jane took a sandwich and started eating. With the salad, this wouldn’t be too bad. Jane heard Trent in the kitchen laugh and cough at something Alison must've said.

“My mom is going to call Ms. Li tomorrow,” said Daria. “Seems Mr. O’Neill really freaked out the fashion drones. He told them they were into fashion because they knew how badly they needed to cover their blemishes.”

“They must have loved that.”

Daria frowned. “Quinn also said he cornered her while she was alone and told her that everyone else was far more aware of her own imperfections than she was. She said he claimed she was popular only because people felt sorry for her.”

“Wo,” said Jane. “He’s turned into a real prick. Or do you think Quinn is exaggerating again?” When Daria gave Jane a look that somehow implied an unspoken sympathy for Quinn, Jane sighed. “Yeah, there’s something up with Mr. O’Neill. I haven’t figure out what, though.”

“He’s a jerk,” Link added helpfully.

Daria added, “Quinn was really freaked by it. She couldn’t even eat her lasagna.”

“Maybe she’s on a diet, and knows that being upset is the only excuse your mom will take.”

“No,” said Daria. “Mr. O’Neill has definitely crossed a line. But Mom says he’s just upset over the suicide. But she does wonder why he isn’t taking time off over it so he can come to terms with it.”

“I wonder what that girl’s parents are doing?”

“Oh, did you hear? Mr. O’Neill is supposed to be spending a lot of time with the dead girl’s mother. And the mother is wondering whom she can sue over her daughter’s suicide.”

Jane shook her head. “What does Ms. Barch have to say about that?”

“I don’t know,” said Daria, “But we’re sure to find out.”

Link spoke up. “I think Mr. O’Neill just likes going wherever people are suffering.”

Jane’s eyes widened.

Daria looked up to Jane. “What?”

“I think Link’s right, Daria. Mr. O’Neill.... he seems to like hanging around people who are suffering.”

Daria made a noise that said she agreed, but wasn’t sure that meant anything.

“Remember?” pressed Jane. “He wanted you to read some of your writing at the coffeehouse that would have insulted the people listening there. Then there were all those problems, most of which he set up. When you read that unexpected story instead, he was shocked and shut the place down.”

“Maybe because he thought I had incited a riot?”

Link piped in, “You did? Cool!”

“No,” said Jane. “He seemed visibly upset to me before anyone left the Coffeehouse. And another time,” continued Jane, “He chased me when he thought I was crying. He seemed extremely disappointed that I was okay. Even annoyed. I think he felt cheated somehow.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Daria, “back when he tried humiliating us both in front of the entire school.” Daria thought a minute and added, “You remember when he got my mom to send me to volunteer as a counselor at his OK to Cry Corral?”

Jane nodded. Link made a face that said he clearly thought that any parent that would force their kid to go with Mr. O’Neill was unfit to be a parent.

“I thought he at least tried, because whenever a kid was upset, he would try talking to them in his office. They always came out worse. I just thought he was being stupid, but maybe he’s a passive-aggressive sadist.”

“And,” added Jane, “he’s always talking about saving the jellyfish and all, but you remember when he crushed that spider? Even said, ‘damn spiders’ right in front of us.”

Daria was still thinking of the OK to Cry Corral. “When I was trying to get Mr. O’Neill to drop me as a counselor, he told me he had tried to get Ms. Barch before. Can you imagine Ms. Barch and Mr. DeMartino working together?”

Jane smirked. “Poor kids.”

“Yeah. So why didn’t Mr. O’Neill see that? Then he tries getting me. It was as if he was trying everything he could to make those kids miserable. And you should’ve been there, Jane. He sounded all caring, but he was one of the most sadistic counselors I ever saw in my life. Even if he was acting way too nice to be torturing anyone. And it’s easy to torture kids by forcing them to sit still and do pointless busywork like twisting wires together, while a beautiful lake and landscape lie right outside, where you’re not allowed to go. But how do you accuse him of intentionally hurting others when he’s passively aggressive that way?”

“You know,” said Jane, “he’s always been a jerk! I just never noticed it until now.”

Link added in, “He called me into his office once. I told him he didn’t really care about helping kids. He said he did and I told him that if that were true, then he sucked at it.” Link added a moment later, “Daria and Mr. DeMartino were okay. I’m glad I met Daria.”

Daria smiled for a moment before she turned her thoughts back to Mr. O’Neill and she shook her head. “But today was different somehow...” Daria trailed off.

Jane asked, “You don’t know how it was different?”

Link looked up at that, curious himself.

Daria scrunched up her face some. “It’s like before he was stupidly cruel, but today he was cruelly stupid. Maybe even malevolent.” Daria shook her head. “I suppose he’d say he’s just internalizing feelings of guilt and rage over a death of a student in his class, and he’s taking it out on the rest of us.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

“I’m not sure I do. But what else am I to believe?”

Daria, Jane, and Link were lost in thought for a moment.

Then Daria said, “By the way, I left a little early because Link stopped by. He wanted me to show him where you lived again. And I took what excuse I could to get away from the ’rents who won’t stop telling us we need to understand Mr. O’Neill’s position.”

Jane looked to Link. “You wanted to come here? Why?”

“Yeah,” said Link. “I wanted to see your paintings.” Then he looked down at his sketchbook, “And show you a little of my own work.” Link handed her his sketchbook.

Jane’s brows rose, but she took the sketchbook and said, “Sure.” After her own experiences at the art colony, she wasn’t about to practice ageism. She knew how hard it was for a 12-year-old, especially a boy, to find an audience, too. Art is communication, and you don’t feel satisfied until someone else understands what you’re saying.

Alison came in, with a can of V-8 in her hand. “I’d like to see some of your paintings, too.”

Jane glanced up in surprise, “Have you been listening in?”

“Not really,” said Alison. “But I couldn’t help but hear you once Trent fell asleep. He’s in the kitchen with his head on the table. So I got bored.”

Jane flipped through Link’s pad a bit. She stopped on one that was very detailed. A dark, menacing forest. An owl looking at the viewer was downright creepy. A silhouette of a boy wandering, surrounded by thorns. It was bleak. And impressive.

Alison leaned closer to examine it. “You did that yourself?” When Link nodded, Alison said, “You’ve really captured the essence of being alone in a world that is both cruel, and yet somehow indifferent.”

Link blinked in pleased surprise at that. “Thanks.”

Jane turned to a crude sketch of a classroom. It took a few moments before she realized that the teacher and all the students were those Borg drones from the Star Trek series. She laughed a little at that.

“What?” asked Link blushing.

“It looked so ordinary at first. You did really good at making the Borg implants subtle. I didn’t even catch it at first.”

“Yeah,” said Link, “I couldn’t get caught drawing that. I was supposed to draw what I saw--which I did in a way. This would’ve gotten me in trouble. Mr. Drieson only looked at it for a second before dismissing it.”

Jane lifted a brow. “Resistance isn’t futile?”

Link shrugged. Jane turned another page of a sketch of girl. Pretty good, but not too interesting.

The next page stunned her. It was done with the pad long ways. A boy was struggling to walk, maybe even escape something. A lifeless skeleton hung by its talons to the boy’s ankle, its finger bones digging in and drawing blood. The detail was superb. And the boy’s haunting expression, along with the drawing as a whole, conveyed a feeling that wasn’t easily put into words. Alison whistled.

Daria asked, “Is this to alarm parents and teachers, or to enlighten other students?”

Link smiled in a way that reminded Jane of Daria’s evil smile.

Jane smirked, too. “Okay, everyone to my room, and I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

7.

Mr. O’Neill realized he was going to have to be more careful. Apparently, several parents had complained to Ms. Li yesterday night and this morning. She had put her foot down, and said if she kept getting complaints, she was going to have to insist he take a vacation to get his head together.

What Ms. Li didn’t know was that he had his head together for the first time in his miserable life.

He had long stayed around the hurting to help them, to answer the cries for help, but always seemed to make them more miserable. Before he discovered what he really was, he had really wanted to help them, but somehow he couldn’t. And he always felt a little stronger after the fact, as if in the suffering of others he somehow caught a "second wind." He'd long called it his "connection" to those in need of him, and felt that he was something of an empath. He also noticed that when he was particularly down, a visit to a funeral, a hospice, a prison, an asylum could always boost his spirits. He hadn’t known why until Saturday night. He just guessed it came from TRYING to do good, even if he only made everyone feel even worse.

But now he realized he had encouraged the suffering. He’d been careful, but he was almost caught more than once. And sometimes, he learned, anger could be used to thwart him. Any anger that didn’t rot the soul in endless frustration, fear, and despair. While people were often angry with him, they usually could not justify it at all, and so suffered silently, and Mr. O’Neill silently, unknowingly (even to himself) fed.

He wasn’t sure why his hosts had to be down. He guessed that maybe he was feeding off the aura or etheric energy of the body. That the same things that led to sickness--sadness, anger, despair, guilt--not only weakened the immune system, but also their psychic defenses. When their defenses were down, his starving cells or aura could pick off that energy.

Another thing that bothered him was that the more positive emotions tended to elude him. He usually noticed them from a lack of feeling any weaknesses. He wondered briefly if Lori had found peace when he had killed her, or if she really simply stopped when she died.

Another problem had been that he tended to identify things by their feel. He had a hard time with names, but a part of his brain that didn’t deal in words always recognized them instantly. Once, he hadn’t even noticed a broken window at the OK to Cry Corral until after Daria and Link--two people he realized he needed to separate if either were to continue to be of use to him--had run off from him. The energy signatures--or Sigs as he thought of them now--were what called out to him, the way smells were primary to a dog. It was only now, that he was filled with the energy he needed, that he was as grounded as everyone else. Maybe even more so, as he felt his empathy strengthen almost to the point of being able to see inside their head. Not as intimate as with Lori, but definitely psychic.

Yesterday, the classes had been rich sources of feeding. He now realized why he had become a teacher. He had never experienced so much misery in his life as his own time in school. And now, it was only going to get better. For him.

But it wasn’t enough. Whatever was in his biology or soul had been cannibalizing his own energy all his life. The other energy hadn’t been enough, just enough so he could function. He had found it hard to think or get centered or do anything. But now, since he had Awakened, he knew who and what he was. And he quickly made peace with that. And as a schoolteacher, he felt like a child in a candy store. He just had to be more careful how he fed.

And he was going to need to feed again more substantially, and soon. He felt himself slowly beginning to slip back into the starvation state that had haunted him nearly his entire life. It hurt. He felt something of a hollow space in his gut and behind his eyes that demanded to be filled. And there were so many people around him here at school just begging to be tapped.

Jane in particular seemed haunted by something. She was more stable today than she had been yesterday, but he figured he could cause a relapse, if he knew where to strike. He wanted to tap Jane all that he could soon, and she could be another believable suicide. Maybe Daria would follow. It was well known that those close to a suicide often took their own lives.

He was Awakened. The others were prey. He knew what it was to be strong now, and he would never surrender this feeling, ever again.

There. In the library. Sigs he recognized. Jane and Daria. Jodie and Mack. All with a mixture of pain and hope. Interesting. He slipped in to see what they were doing together.

“You aren’t using each other,” Daria was saying. “Look, you’re both dedicated to your duties. You can relate that way. You are among the few who can understand why the other puts out all that time and focus on other activities. Most other people would feel neglected. Another woman would say Mack thought football was more important than she. Another guy with Jodie would wonder when Jodie would make a little time for him. But you don’t have that conflict, because you both understand it.”

There was silence. Some murmuring that he couldn’t quite make out.

“If you really were just using each other selfishly, then you wouldn’t be torturing yourselves over it.”

Jodie and Mack both lightened up. Daria was definitely dangerous, Mr. O’Neill told himself. For all her antisocial acting, she was a do-gooder at heart. And she knew what she was doing. Mr. O’Neill thought it might be better if Daria offed herself first, and soon. Maybe he needed to push for that now. He walked further in, letting them know he was here.

“Excuse me,” he said disarmingly, “Might I have a word with you?”

“Only if it’s to apologize for being a jerk,” said Mack.

Mr. O’Neill felt a stirring of rage he hadn’t known he possessed, but he suppressed it and gave an apologetic laugh instead. Ms. Li and the coaches had nearly gone ballistic when he urged them to kick Mack off the team. He was told to leave Mack alone in the future, so he had to tread carefully. For now. “I’m only trying to help,” he said.

Four hostile faces glared at him.

“I was only pointing out possible deficiencies and sources of insecurity so they can be dealt with now, rather than festering and ultimately triggering another suicide,” he told them with as much false sincerity as he could. “I feel it’s my responsibility to see that doesn’t happen again.”

"Right," replied Mack in a sarcastic tone.

They were drawing strength from each other. He had to stop that, he had to divide them. “Jodie, you remember when you wrote that essay on Mack thinking he was BMOC and it was making his head a little big? Mack wrote something similar about your student council duties.”

“I don’t remember writing anything like that,” said Mack.

“It was a long time ago,” replied O’Neill. “But not as long ago as Daria and Jane. They seemed to think the other pretentious in her talent as an artist or a writer respectively.” He noticed they were all a bit nervous. That was good, and he brightened just a little. “And I find it hard to imagine Jane and Daria giving advice of the heart after that unfortunate incident with that rich boy.”

Too far. They instantly solidified against him. Damn. He needed to catch them alone and take them out one by one. He laughed disarmingly and then said, “Anyway, I’m glad you’re working the problems out so that they don’t fester.” He turned and left.

As Mr. O’Neill left the library, he saw Charles growl at another student. Can’t have that. This time, he’d pick him off while he was alone. The way he’d do to Mack, Jodie, Daria, and Jane soon.

“Charles,” said Mr. O’ Neill, “Come with me.”

Charles shuddered, but followed Mr. O’Neill to his classroom.

“Have a seat, Charles.”

Upchuck nervously sat at a desk near Mr. O’Neill.

“Now Charles,” grinned Mr. O’Neill, “I’ve noticed you’ve harassed a lot of girls here at Lawndale High, but you don’t seem to care that they are constantly rejecting you. Are you afraid of them?”

Upchuck shook his head, very uncomfortable. He had a bad feeling about this, and it was all over the school how weird Mr. O’Neill had been yesterday. And all the teachers seemed a little down or angrier than usual, too. Especially Ms. Barch.

“I think you are afraid, Charles. You’re not afraid of being called Upchuck, though, or even of being rejected. You’re afraid of being called faggot.”

Upchuck eyes widened in shock. What the hell was Mr. O’Neill doing?

Mr. O’Neill put his hands on the desk Charles was sitting at. “You are gay, aren’t you? You can’t face it in yourself, and you can’t stand others knowing it. But I’ve found out. I’m here to help you. Help you leave the closet and realize your actuality!”

“Um, no thanks,” said Upchuck. He got up to leave. Mr. O’Neill grabbed his arm.

“We’re not done talking, Charles. Sit down.”

“No.”

“Charles, do you want me to call your Dad to talk about your latent homosexuality?” Mr. O’Neill thrilled in how he masked his exuberance and triumph with the false sounds of a concerned teacher.

Charles gasped, and then stared in shock. He was tasting good, Mr. O’Neill thought. All of a sudden, he tensed, and Mr. O’ Neill felt something gathering momentum within Charles. But before he fully realized what it was it, a fist smashed into his nose. A surprised and hurt Mr. O’Neill ducked away, letting go of Charles, and covered his nose.

Charles ran.

After a few moments, Mr. O’Neill centered himself again. He then found the energy within him could heal. He felt the cartilage in his nose re-knit, the bleeding stopped. He wiped it off. But now he felt much hungrier. Charles would pay for that, he swore. Charles might have run, but he couldn’t hide. And then the things he was going to do to Charles. Even if he wouldn’t report this to Ms. Li for the moment. He’d take care of this himself at a later date.

But first, he needed to feed again. But from whom?

Yes, things could get most unfortunate for the students of Lawndale High. It was good there were self-esteem teachers like him to answer such cries for help. Maybe he could even open a new camp, the Cry for Help Corral, for worried parents to send their troubled teens. Maybe even troubled teens like Charles. Yes, that would bear thinking about. Mr. O’Neill grinned at the thought.

Grinning, but also tense. It was time to feed.

8.

Danzig’s “Stalker Song” was tormenting the hapless passengers of the Tank. The hapless passengers being Amanda, Wind, Jane, Alison, Daria, and Link. Trent grinned, lost in the music, slightly nodding his head to it. Yet it somehow, for some reason, seemed ominous.

no one knows my name
where I come from
no one sees my face
sees me coming
you can never hide
if I want you
you can't even try
keep from crying

no one sees my face
sees my pain
no one can see my shape
in the shadows
you can feel the dark
when it's stalking
I can slip right in whenever I want you

The Tank pulled up at the gallery, and the occupants filed out with some relief. A full hour plus of Danzig, along with bands like Prong, Godsmack, Coal Chamber, Slipknot, and Drowning Pool was enough to try anyone’s nerves, if they weren’t into that kind of music. Trent might have been, but Amanda and Wind seemed grateful to their higher powers as they got out, almost jumping. The others seemed okay, but relieved to be out, too. Only Link, who'd come at the invitation of Jane and Alison, seemed unfazed by the rough and noisy ride.

Still, it was better than the other stations right now, and the increasingly depressing news of people killing themselves or killing others.

They entered the gallery to find a surprising number of people there. Jane and Alison stared at one in particular, and both bore expressions of distaste.

“I take it you know him,” said Daria, looking at Jane.

“Mr. Dotson,” said a shocked Jane. Was there some weird karma thing going on here? Or were they just unlucky? Alison seemed even less pleased than Jane.

The Lanes and friends went over to the display of Alison’s paintings. They were done in brilliant hues, and psychedelic renditions of the ordinary turned into the fantastic.

They looked at some of the other artists’ works. They were mystified how Dotson’s works ended up getting space next to all the others. It must be NEA, known to provide support for artists that couldn’t make it on talent. There was no other explanation.

Mr. Dotson came out to join them. “Alison! I’m glad you could make it. I bet you didn’t think you’d get to see a master artist unveil his latest work tonight!”

Alison dryly remarked, “You’re right. And I still don’t.”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Alison,” clucked Mr. Dotson. “But you should know I have the ear of Mr. Evans himself! And you know he has impeccable taste. And he thinks your works are taking up valuable gallery space. I told him to leave your works alone, but I think I’ll tell him to do what he thinks best.” Alison glared while Mr. Dotson smirked at her.

“Mr. Evans?” Daria asked Jane.

“He owns several galleries and is a revered art critic,” said Amanda, from behind Daria and Jane. “Eccentric in the extreme, but the few artists he favors often do well enough. You’ll see enough of artists hoping for his favors.” Amanda shook her head. “I tried talking to him a couple of times, but he wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Maybe his son could paint something better than you could, Amanda.” Mr. Dotson replied dryly.

“And any one of my kids could come up with a better cliché than that,” Amanda retorted.

Mr. Dotson turned back to the rest of them. “I’m glad you could all make it to my exhibit. All the way from Lawndale, hm? I assume Amanda is still living there. So how was traffic on the way out?”

“Glad you asked,” remarked Daria dryly, “I was afraid this talking was never going to stop being so boring.”

Mr. Dotson’s laugh was light, if somewhat strained. “Let me show you some of my work.”

“We’re here to see Alison’s,” said Wind, “So if you don’t mind....”

Mr. Dotson interrupted Wind with, “And you are?”

Wind smiled. “I’m Wind Lane, Alison’s future husband!”

Mr. Dotson smiled mockingly at Amanda and Alison both. “I find that very interesting,” he said, sounding highly amused.

“That’s more I can say for you,” blurted out Link. “Leave us alone.”

“Charming kid,” Mr. Dotson murmured, obviously thinking otherwise. He looked at Amanda. “One of your brood?”

“Link is a very talented artist. Jane is helping to foster his talent.”

“I see,” said Mr. Dotson, in a tone that said otherwise. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said with obviously false sincerity. “However, I must excuse myself to meet with my fans. Adieu.”

Jane shook her head. "Well, he hasn't changed much."

"You said it," replied Alison tightly.

The Lanes and friends continued touring the gallery. Wind seemed infatuated with so many paintings. He might not have much in the way of artistic expression or talent, but he certainly appreciated it. He was hypersensitive to whatever an artist might possibly mean. Sometimes he even seemed to be right. But Trent appeared oblivious to the entire gallery.

Wind would say things like, “Such color! Such form and movement! I could look at that picture for hours...”

“Me, too,” Trent would reply hoarsely, “and I still wouldn’t figure out what it’s about.” Wind looked bemused as Jane and Alison stifled a laugh.

They couldn’t help but notice Mr. Dotson displaying several of his works to a varied crowd and some people with cams. One work on display was the “Paper Plate Genocide” he had showed at the art colony.

But what drew Daria and Jane’s attention was the cam marked Sick, Sad World. They drew closer, and everyone else followed them unconsciously.

Right now, Dotson was showing a new masterpiece of his that he called, “Judgment of the Walrus.” It was several open and empty clam shells on a tray with a judge’s hammer glued to it. He was explaining how he was inspired after reading Lewis Carroll.

“I don’t get it,” murmured Amanda.

“You have to know what the artist was thinking,” said an art major, who seemed shocked by Amanda’s lack of artistic understanding.

Jane interrupted with, “Why should she know something that Mr. Dotson doesn’t?”

Amanda excused herself suddenly, and went into the ladies room to run some water and hide her laughter. Because of that, she missed the best part.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dotson!” shouted a blonde, Sick, Sad World reporter with a strong accent that none of the visitors could identify. “What do you have to say about the footage of yourself and Mr. Evans in a passionate embrace at the New Year’s Ball?”

“Lies! All lies!”

“But Mr. Dotson, you couldn’t get space at a garage sale until Mr. Evans gave high praise to your work, and he didn’t do that until after the New Year’s bash! Is that a coincidence?”

“Ridiculous! I had good reviews from him long before that time!”

“But weren’t you his editor? And didn’t you replace Hanson Dmitri’s name with your own?”

“It’s true!” shouted a man with dark hair and a beard. “My best works! From Toy Train Disaster to Paper Plate Genocide, he took them all from me! Mr. Evans said he would deal with it, but then it was the New Year’s bash!”

“I’ll not take anymore of this slanderous abuse! You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, all of you!” Mr. Dotson stormed off the stage.

“I never knew,” murmured Alison.

“I’m not convinced,” said Daria. “Who would steal Paper Plate Genocide?”

Since they had seen all there was to see, and the excitement seemed to be over, they went outside back to the Tank as soon as Amanda had rejoined them. As they left, they passed Mr. Dotson smoking a cigarette. He glared at them, assuming that they had come out to taunt him. The fact that they were leaving never occurred to him. “So,” he said bitterly, “after that ridiculous personal attack on me by my enemies, you’ve come out to mock me.”

“On the contrary,” said Daria, who was only a few feet away from him now as she passed, “it’s scarcely necessary.” Daria smiled as Mr. Dotson glared at her with some fury. With Trent behind her, she wasn’t worried about a physical attack, and with a lawyer mom, she wasn't worried about being sued. She left him to his muse.

Daria wondered if they could all gang up on Trent and have him play something else--anything else, or even nothing--on the drive home.

9.

Mr. O'Neill was in the homeless area of Baltimore, the proverbial “wrong side of the tracks,” away from Lawndale. The area with all the drunks and crack addicts, the soup kitchens and pimps. He was dressed down, but not shabbily. He wanted to be as bland and unmemorable as possible. He wasn’t the slightest bit afraid as he had parked his car and got out. He was the predator. The demonic hunger within him told him with full certainty that all the people around him, even the violent ones, were his lawful prey and he would not be denied.

Like any predator, he favored the weak and the wounded. His heightened senses were attuned to any cry for help that would tell him where to feed. And he needed to feed, but he knew it would be a bad idea to be in the area of too many suicides. And out here, no one was likely to be missed by anyone important. Walking along, he slowly absorbed the energy that was made digestible to him by the despair. There wasn’t as much as he thought there’d be, but it would hold him until he found true game.

Instinct focused on a woman looking in a window. She had a cigarette in her hand, but it was unlighted. Instinct told him to light it. So he went up to her and said, “Need a light?”

She smiled at him and nodded. With one hand, she brought the cigarette to her mouth. With the other, she put 4 fingers under her shoulder for a moment. His instincts told him she said, “Starting price is $40.” A prostitute. That was fine. Maybe even perfect. This street etiquette was new to him, though, and he had only instinct to go on. He would have to remain wary.

“I’m new in town,” said Mr. O’Neill, by way of greeting as he lit her cigarette.

“Yeah, I thought you were,” she said. He could feel her sizing him up. She wasn’t too impressed with his appearance, judging him as not having much money. “And it’s not vice night, so you’re probably not a cop.”

“No, I’m not a cop,” said Mr. O'Neill, “I do have $200, but nothing to do. I was wondering if maybe you could show me around?”

She smiled more sincerely, then said, “We could go to your place. I’m sure we can find something to do there.”

Mr. O'Neill laughed shyly. “Well,” he said, “I have someone there and it would be.... awkward.”

She shrugged. “I know a place real close. Come on!”

She led him to a nearby apartment that he hoped he never had to live in himself. The fridge in an adjoining kitchenette was small and in view the moment she opened the door, and everything was in shambles. He sensed someone sleeping in another room, but he couldn’t get any firm details.

Then a sleeping gray cat suddenly bolted up right and stiff, hissing at Mr. O'Neill. Then it came at him, hair standing up, baleful glare and unholy yowl. Mr. O'Neill backed up a step, truly afraid. The anger in this cat was too much to cut through, and somehow IT KNEW WHAT HE WAS! Worse, the tenuous psychic link he had already formed with this lamb was suddenly even more tenuous. He was too shocked, and almost ran.

“Oh, Mary Jane,” chided the woman. She picked the cat up and put her out. The cat remained outside the door hissing and yowling.

She turned back to her date. “Let’s see some money,” she said, very business like. The link was reforged, and he could feel her excitement. She not only was getting money, which was survival, but she was also being accepted. Mr. O'Neill allowed her the moment, grateful to her for saving him from the evil cat, and out of pity at what was about to happen. He pulled out $60 and said, “This is a start.”

“Cool.”

She took it into the kitchenette, and asked him, “Do you want a drink? Some grass?”

“No, thank you. You’re enough.”

He heard her moving around, and then she came back. “You mind if I play my Last Dance CD?”

O'Neill gestured that he didn’t mind, thinking it might be useful for drowning out sounds that he didn't want to disturb others with. Haunting darkwave soon filled the front room.

last night I thought I saw you staring
staring at the sky
last night I thought I saw you wishing
for your dreams to die
last night I thought I heard you crying
crying all your tears
last night I thought I saw your shadow
as you disappeared.

As she sat beside him, he was able to tell she had taken a pull of some hard liquor moments ago, and with his heightened senses, he could’ve even named the brand if he’d known them.

“Do you want me to suck your dick?”

Mr. O'Neill actually blushed. He didn’t know why he hadn’t expected something like that. “Um, I’m not sure. Let’s just neck, and let nature take its course.”

“Neck? Neck!?” She seemed to think that was funny. “Okay. Let’s neck.”

do you believe in angels
do you believe in blood and wine
do you believe in broken hearts
or is this something
you’ve never heard of
do you believe it’s a better world
do you believe that no one cries
do you believe in bitter tears
or is this something
you’ve never wanted to believe in?

She was fairly aggressive, measuring his reactions, while he fully attuned himself to her energy. He sensed all kinds of things: unhappy home and school, drug problems, betrayal by friends, nasty johns, a pimp that scared her who was trying to force her into his stable, a possibly suicidal guy going nowhere in the next room that had her pull tricks while he tried hooking up “with some old friends” to do a little B&E with the hope that they could trade stolen goods for drugs. Her name was Vicki, but she liked going by the name of Joyleaf. So far, she hadn’t actually given him any name, mundanely speaking.

last night I thought I saw you staring
staring at the sky
last night I thought I saw you wishing
for your dreams to die
last night I thought I heard you screaming
screaming out your heart
last night I thought I saw your shadow
tear you apart.

A suppressed memory came to him of her meeting a guy, going off with him, being gang raped by him and four friends. She was in her early teens when it happened, and the experience left permanent scars and various STD’s, including a “non-specific” one that came and went, but couldn’t be identified, let alone treated. This was his key.

“Tell me about the time you were gang raped, Vicki.”

She instantly stopped. “Get away from me, fucker!” She was instantly pissed, but he could feel that her fear was stronger than her anger. He caught her realization that she'd never given him her name.