"They take memories when you enter," Slate said, even though I could barely make out his words against the rebounding cement. My glove smacked the heavy weight again, sending it an inch backwards.

"None of them will know their parents, none of them will remember anything about their previous life unless told. Their only memories were from inside the Insane House." He instructed. I tried to listen to his words, but the blood pumping in my ears made it hard.

"Why's it called the Insane House?" My voice was choppy from my breathing. I tried my best to slow it but I couldn't. Taking in gulps of air while I rested felt too good.

"Keep going," Slate interupted my moment of relaxation. "And it's because society thinks the people there are insane. Which is because they have Violence."

"Do you have Violence?" I asked, putting a hand on the floor as I spun to hook kick the bag. The impact took more breath and energy out of me than it actually moved the bag.

"Four percent." Slate said stiffly.

"Do I? Have any Violence I mean."

"No," he looked away from me. That didn't mean he was lying. And even if he was, it didn't matter - There was nothing wrong with being Violent. Slate had Violence and he was a good guy.

"Okay," I said awkwardly, hating myself the second words fell from my lips. Why, why, why did I have to be sick a screw up?

"Woah." I heard Slate breath. When I looked up, he was staring wide eyed.

"What?" I had to keep myself from snapping at him. "Is something wrong?"

"You're red. You have Rage in you. And you're mad at yourself too." He muttered. His eyes swept the floor.

"So?" I demanded, looking at my hands and proving what he said. They sparkled with a cool red. Just seeing them like that mad them spark. "Yeah it happens all the time. Not as often as I have Sorrow." I shrugged.

"Alright. Let's see how many push ups you can do in a minute. To qualify for guard training you have to hit fourty, giving you slightly more than a second for each." He muttered, crossing his arms.

"Push-ups? But I just did a work out." I complained.

"That was your warm up Cass."    

"Fine," I mittered, dropping to the floor and getting in plank position.

"Go." I heard a small click and shakily lowered my body to the floor.

I never really was athletic, but it wasn't like I was slow. I just hated how competitive gym was. And I was terrified of messing up. Probably because I'm bad at everything.

More red lines my finger tips, only motivating me to keep going. I heard the clock again and stopped.

"How many was that?" I asked, looking towards Slate.

"I don't know you were supposed to count." He shrugged. My face fell, eyes glaring inwardly. "Only kidding. You did thirty three. No bad. For homework, I need you to do two hundred."

"Two hundred?" I made a face. "You just did a huge workout! And I'm tired and hungry and-"

"Hormonal?" He mumbled.

"What?" I frowned.

"Nothing," He said in a way that obviously meant he had said something. "Nothing at all."

"Jerk," I mumbled.

"Three hundred." He shrugged.

I groaned, leaving the room before he changed his mind again. Funny how stubborn people are absolutely willing to become open minded if they can force a situation deeper into a hole.

I walked back to my little 'room'. Not much of a room, really. If calling a cupboard a closet was acceptable then maybe the tiny room actually 2as a room. Part of me liked the tiny home, closed off from the loneliness of opportunity.

I sat down on the lumpy makeshift mattress of pillows Slate found for me. I could hear the wall scratch like graphite on paper as I leaned  my head back.

Being cramped up underground all day had its disadvatages, but for the most part I enjoyed it more than my old life. Thinking back on it now interrupted sweet respite.

I had an older sister. Poppy. She was better than me at everything: school, sports, cooking, talking, every event or catogorey, I was always second to my parents. I was always a disappointment.

Here,  I might not have been the epiphany of the century, but at least I was valued. I could feel myself brim with happiness at the though - valued.

Suddenly everything dropped, my good mood, my eyes to the floor. I reluctantly, feebly, stupidly realized what I was really getting myself into. I  could die. I wasn't ready to die.

The kids at the Insane House - were they even like me? If they had Violence in them, then maybe not. Slate had four percent which is more than average and he seemed to struggle almost less than I did. Then again, I wasn't so sure I was unaffiliated with Violence percents either.

My mind spun like a wooden toy. They walls waved around me, dropping corners and bobbing in and out of my vision.  Cotton clogged my throat. The worry, the doubts inside me clutched my heart, tearing pain throughout every vein and artery in my body. My stomach felt completely empty, yet it seemed to have a multitude of different insects.

"No," I whisper - sobbed to myself. "Please not right now." Fingers found my fore head and glued themselves tight. I wanted to scream but I kept it locked away with all the other pleads for help. At least I was alone.

I buried my face in a pillow and tried to muffle any signs of weakness I was showing. This is the reason you're a stupid Sorrow, I told myself.

I hadn't noticed my back, desperately pressing into the wall corner. I let out a startled choking noise and shrunk, trying to stay hide in my own world.

The door creaked open. Blue flashed through the cracks, shining large square of moon light onto the dusty hardwood.

"Are you okay?" Came a shell of a voice.

"N-no. I'm not." I said shorty, regretting it nearly a millisecond later.

"It's okay. I get what you're going through. I have them all the time." A tiny girl shut the door behind her and sat next to me, leaning into my shoulder.

I was shocked. She must have been five, which explained the boldness. But I didn't look shocked, or upset. I just looked confused.

"Panic attacks I mean. I used to have them more often. Mrs. Conners taught me how to get them to leave me alone. You just find a friend to talk to. But a good, close, trusty friend." She smiled up at me. Gray eyes somehow managed to light up. Like a world without hope, throw into darkness, finding a match that seems to light miles.

"She taught me to read and write and talk too. Mrs. Conners is nice. So was her son. I liked Owen.  Then he disappeared. Mrs. Conners was blue that day." The girl rambled adorably.

"Thank you. And I'm Cass."

"Victory. My friends call my Vicky. You can call me Vicky." She said, clapping her hands together in conformation.

Something about the blue on that child made me happy. Not happy that she was a Sorrow like me. Happy that I could have someone to talk to, to understand. The first Sorrow I'd ever be friends with. Of course I had seen my fair share of Sorrows, hiding, trying to avoid the Insane House, but I wasn't about to compromise our safety. And they all left before I could even learn their names. No, they disappeared.

"Alright Vicky. Thanks for being my friend." I smiled, green bouncing from the walls. The emotergy itself was estatic.

"It's so pretty," She replied with a yawn.

We fell asleep together, using the smiles we saved for those happy, happy moments.

It's eleven at night and I have to get up early and I cleaned all day. I thought writing might help and it didn't. I should and could write more but I seriously need to catch up on all my procrastination.