Stanley Barber's life was not great.

      What else is there to say about it?

      But it could be worse. People have it worse. People better than him.

      He was just Stanley.

      Weird, eccentric, quirky, loser Stanley. He wasn't important. He learned that fairly quickly growing up.

      He had a safe haven when his mother was around. She wrapped her arms around him, stroked his curls and shielded him from the cruel words of his father. He was too young to truly understand, too young to understand how some days his mother would have bruises that weren't there the night before.

      He didn't understand until he started wearing those bruises.

      When his mother couldn't take it and she left him there, the protective bubble she embraced Stanley in bursted when his father gave him the worst beating he had ever felt.

      Twelve years old and wondering why? Why leave him there? Why not take him with her, away from that man?

      Probably because he was a burden, just like his father always said.

      But it really wasn't all that bad. His father was gone most of the time, twenty-five days out of the month. Stanley was alone and that was just the way he liked it.

      But god...it was so lonely sometimes. Sometimes, he just wanted to be held. To have someone hold him and kiss his forehead or cheeks or lips, to make him fucking feel something.

      The closest thing he came to feeling was his father's fist connected to his face, skin on skin.

      It was violent and filled with disdain, but in some sick way, Stanley wanted it. Thought maybe he did deserve it, for the way he dressed and acted and was constantly high off his ass.

      Getting high made him feel better, to forget the pain that made his heart clench. To fall into a bliss. It was just him and a joint and his music. But then the high would disappear and he was left alone with his thoughts. So Stanley would light up again and again just to forget.

      And then he got fucking stupid.

      He began falling for Sydney Novak.

      Syd was short-tempered and fiery. But did that stop Stan from wanting to get to know her and break those walls? It didn't. Maybe it should have, but it didn't.

      It took time until she finally did agree to hang out with him. They got high a couple times and they even had sex. While it was a bit awkward because they both didn't know what the hell they were doing, Stan liked it. He thought maybe, just fucking maybe, he'll have a chance and finally find that happiness he craved since he was a kid.

      But these things never came to Stanley.

      Why would it?

      He's heard what people thought about him. The shit they say behind his back, saying all those cruel slurs he was used to hearing from his father. He knew that people got close to him just to score some weed, but he never let them know. Stan wore a big smile with an uncaring attitude. He acted like their words didn't hurt him.

      They would never know how often he cries himself to sleep at night, hating himself and wishing to god that he could be different. That he could be likable and have people actually care about him and love him.

      But when he was with Syd, he felt happier. He felt that he could be better if he just had the chance.

      Then there were the twists and turns that he didn't expect, and it was almost as if Stan was thrown into one of his favorite comic books. Because Syd had fucking superpowers.

      How fucking cool was that?

      It did explain why she was much more on edge recently. Even if his recent discovery of her powers led him to have a gash above his eye from his father, this was still the coolest thing he'd ever experienced.

      But of course, Syd had to push him away. Had to be a dick to him, just like everyone else. It hurt like hell, but...what was he supposed to do? Stan tried to act like her rejecting him didn't bother him, asking Mercedes to the homecoming dance instead. And even though she accepted, probably because he had a car, he felt the urge to cry.

      He held it in until he was at home.

      Stumbling past the empty bottles of beer around his feet, scattered on the floor, he finally broke the second he was in the basement.

      Stanley had every intention on holding it in, keeping it bottled up so he could get high and forget, but his body clearly had other ideas. Sobs wracked through him and he had to hold onto the wall to make sure he wouldn't collapse to his knees, nearly choking in his tears.

      Why the fuck couldn't anyone see him? See the real him that just wanted to be noticed? To be touched so gently and shown affection without expecting something in return. Did he not deserve that? Did he really not deserve love?

      Maybe he didn't. Maybe that's why Syd didn't give a shit about him. He could name practically everything about her, all of her problems like it was written on the back of his hand. But he could bet on his own life that she didn't know him. She pointed out the bruise his father gave him. She didn't do shit, but he didn't expect her to. She had her own problems to deal with. And he was just so fucking used to being ignored.

      He could scream from the top of his fucking lungs for someone to just look at him, and they wouldn't even hear him. Not even Syd.

      Stan didn't know when he was on the ground, but he was. His back pressed against the wall, leaning into it because the wall was the only thing giving him some kind of comfort. Supporting him so he wouldn't fall into the abyss and fade away, no longer on fire like he was when he was young and innocent and naive of how horrible the world was.

      Slowly the tears began to stop, but the aching feeling in his chest didn't go away. Stan brought a hand to his sternum, his nails scratching and pulling at the blue fabric of his sweater in some pitiful attempt to make the feeling vanish, but it wouldn't work. It never did.

      He felt his eyes begin to droop, unable to fight the sleep that was already grabbing him. He knew he looked like shit, but he could worry later. The dance was tomorrow and everything would be just fine. Even though he felt like he was fading away, he would just put on a big smile and wear his confident personality on his sleeve as if he was on fire again.

      Just as Stanley fell asleep, a thin tendril made of pure darkness wrapped around his wrists, circling them like shackles, before finally fading into nothing.