He tried to think of something comforting, like Caleb, or his parents praising him but they only appeared as distorted versions of themselves. They invaded his thoughts, twisting them, making him wonder if his parents didn't care after all, and maybe he was just the mistake.

Almost as swiftly as they'd appeared, the parents he'd conjured up transformed into wheels of colour and began weave in and out of one another while his makeshift brother changed into the eye/butterfly on the wall and flapped away.

He opened his eyes, his mouth like the Sahara and beads of sweat continued to roll down his face. His face felt like it too was rolling down his skull, like it was melting off just like the sweat. He put his hands up to it, unsure if what he was feeling was bone or skin.

He opened his eyes, his mouth like the Sahara and beads of sweat continued to roll down his face. His face felt like it too was rolling down his skull, like it was melting off just like the sweat. He put his hands up to it, unsure if what he was feeling was bone or skin.

The walls seemed to move and breath and shifted to a dangerous red colour. He heard himself let out an ear-shattering scream. It could've been the walls though. Walls could scream, right?

The low hum of thoughts in the background, which he had so carefully learned to control changed into a roar, like a river bursting its banks. He could suddenly hear everyone in a mile radius, all their problems, their opinions, their secrets.

Heath didn't want know them though. He didn't care about them. He couldn't think right, couldn't focus with the screech and shrieking of the voices, like they were fighting to be heard over one another. So loud so much noise he couldn't hear he couldn't hear anything but the voices -

His hands flew up to his head and he began grabbing at his hair, as thought it was the source of the voices. His nails dug into his scalp and his fingers wrapped around the large chunks of hair.

His hands flew up to his head and he began grabbing at his hair, as thought it was the source of the voices. His nails dug into his scalp and his fingers wrapped around the large chunks of hair.

He couldn't even think about time repeating itself at this point. He just wanted the voices to go quiet, to return their calm hum. He almost screeched but it caught in his aching throat.

One of the louder voices went silent. Liquid began dripping from his head. Was it sweat or blood? He didn't know he felt sick he couldn't think -

He moved his hands to the source of wetness. It was red on his ebony fingers.

Maybe he was dying. Maybe the drug had killed him. The screams in the back of his head were still out of control. Maybe they were screams of the damned.

Maybe this was Hell.

He glanced over Poppy, who was just staring. She suddenly looked sinister. Was it fire he saw glowing around her? Maybe it was hellfire.

He was going to Hell.

Maybe that was why time was going so torturously slow. The blood (blood or sweat?) slid down the sides of his face and he began to shiver.

He was afraid to shut his eyes and he was afraid to keep them open. He didn't want to see Hell.

The patterns and drawings on the wall looked like they were alive and snaking across the walls. He thought he could see the names on friendship wall scuttle like spiders.

His skin crawled and his hair stood on end. He just wanted it to be over. Were those eyes he saw in the dark?

Poppy was reaching out to him. Maybe she wanted to bring him to Hell.

Poppy was reaching out to him. Maybe she wanted to bring him to Hell.

Poppy was reaching out to him. Maybe she wanted to bring him to Hell.

She spoke in gibberish again. She smiled but instead of being comforting, it was a malicious one. He backed away. He should've listened to Brandon. She was a demoness.

He could hear his heart hammering in his chest and his arms felt like they were tingling again. Maybe he was getting deeper into Hell, maybe he'd been that evil. He couldn't think of anything he'd done that was truly awful.

His mind raced and summoned up memories he'd rather forget. He'd been rude to his parents and to his teacher. He'd lied, he'd stolen and he'd taken drugs. He'd turned on his friends. He'd disobeyed his mother. He he h-

Or maybe he was just getting his arms ripped off. He looked away from Poppy's evil grin and flinched at her touch. The vivid imagery was still blinding but seemed to be getting more faded.

He could still see the shifting patterns and the moving walls but they gradually became more stable. He felt sick to his stomach and heavy, like he suddenly weighed a hundred pounds more than usual.

Heath felt odd in his own body, and it worried him. Maybe he really was dead and he was adjusting to a new body.

He took several deep breaths but it didn't seemed to do much good. His knuckles were white and so was his face.

The voices began to lower into a hum again and they returned to where the belonged - the back of his mind where he couldn't hear them all the time.

He hadn't realised the bags were still floating (or had he caused them to float while he was high?) but he put them back down.

He came back to earth gladly, feeling shaken up. His breathing was uneven and clumsy but he felt safe. Ish.

He glanced down at his wrist, where Poppy's hand was wrapped tightly around it.

"Bad trip?" she asked and Heath didn't think he'd ever been happier to hear her voice.

He nodded, smiling weakly.

"I'm sure it's fine," she said, slapping him on the back.

Heath wished he could've shared her confidence. He didn't really think it was going to be fine.

"What time is it?" he asked, climbing carefully to his feet.

"Uh... four p.m.," she said, pulling her phone out of one of the drug bags.

He glanced at her, surprised. "Four?" he echoed.

"Yup. They take a while, eh?" she said, grinning.

He nodded. "We'd better be going," he said, picking up his school bag.

"'K," she said, stuffing the drugs into her jackets.

The two left the shack and began on their way home.

"How bad was your trip, man?" Poppy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It was fine," he lied quickly,"Just surprised. At, you know, the effect of the drug."

"You sure? Because you were screaming and you nearly ripped a chunk of your hair out..."

Heath winced. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm good."

She nodded slowly. "Okay..."

"So, I guess we just missed a day of school," he said, then paused and remembered something,"Is that why you miss school?"

She smiled her Chesire smile and nodded. "Exactly, fren. Except I do heroin, not LSD. At least, not all the time."

He nodded, remembering a class he'd had a few years ago on the dangers of heroin. He suddenly became concerned for Poppy's health. Heroin was one of the deadliest drugs there was, after alcohol. What if it killed her?

"Isn't that, you know, bad for you?" he asked, glancing at her.

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Hasn't killed me yet, has it?"

He shook his head. "Do your parents know anything about this?" he asked and gestured towards the shack.

"No," she said, her smile sliding off her face faster than the sweat dripping down his forehead,"Even if they did, they wouldn't care."

"Why not?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, surprised. Then again, how else would she get away with everything she did?

"You see Heath, there are people in this world who care more about work than anything else," she replied, shoving her hands into her pocket,"My parents are an example of two of them. I could sprout wings and fly and they wouldn't give a d*mn."

"I think I have a different problem," he mumbled,"My parents care, but about the wrong things."

She nodded and didn't reply and the two became buried in their own problems.

Heath mulled over what happened when he'd taken the LSD. Even if he had seen things that were definitely not real, he couldn't help but wonder if there was an element of truth in them. His parents seemed only to care that he was a super. They seemed to be intent on proving a point, that supers could have their powers forced out of them. He wasn't sure if he wanted that though. His powers had never done anyone any real harm. Well, except for that one time in the kitchen.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a loud commotion from nearby. He looked over towards the source of the noise and spotted a group. At first he dismissed it as just a group of idiots, but when one person screamed to another to call an ambulance, his curiosity was peaked.

Heath wasn't fond of large groups, as there were too many thoughts flying around, but he didn't think of that. He moved towards the group, pushing to see what the panic was about.

As he came closer to what everyone was crowded around, there was an eerie silence amongst the noise of the rest of the group.

The person on the ground was someone he'd never seen before. The woman was dressed like she was jogging, wearing silver earphones connected to a phone in her coat pocket, leggings and a light raincoat. She looked like she was in her early twenties.

However, her eyes were rolled up into her head and she was limp on the ground. That didn't scare Heath though, she could've just been unconscious.

What scared him was that she wasn't thinking.

He had heard the thoughts of someone unconscious before. A girl in his class had fainted in science, but her thoughts had still been present. Muddled and incomprehensible, but still present. This woman wasn't thinking at all. He could only come to one conclusion, and he didn't like to think about it.

She was dead.

He stepped out of the group, bile rising in his throat as his mind reeled. When he had been on the LSD, one of the loud voices had gone silent.

Poppy must've noticed his pale face, because she asked him,"What's wrong?"

He took a deep, shaky breath and his wet eyes stared at the ground, unable to meet her ones while he tore his dry lips apart, urging his hoarse voice to form words.

"Poppy, I think I killed someone."