I was in a lone Taxi Cab driving North towards the airport. Soon I'd be on a plane and everything I found happiness in would be a distant memory, dream. A distant melody I would never be able to play again, for if I did it wouldn't sound the same. 

Looking outside my window, it was like I was seeing everything through a gray filter. The laughter, the smiles, the cars driving by without a care in the world, it all seemed meaningless.

And yet, here I was, driving towards my death. You'd think most people with sound minds would run away from their impending demise, but I didn't have a choice. I was being forced to by the government and its so called 'rules'.

I knew in a few hours I'd be on foreign soil. At least it'd all be over soon, my chances of surviving a Suicidal Mission were slim to none.

H*ll, I could hardly survive high school, and they expect me to come out of there alive? They obviously didn't take the time to read my file!

"Here you are. New York's Airport, where did you say you were going?" The Chatty Kathy who I was so fortunate to call as my cab driver asked. A wide grin on his raisin face.

"To face my ultimate demise," I said blankly, my green eyes empty of amusement.

His smile faltered, and then he coughed awkwardly.

"That's fifteen dollars--"

"Put it on Scarlett's Tab. I'm here on official business," I muttered, walking out of the cab.

"Hey! Where are you going? There's no Scarlett--"

"Scarlett Roger's, my friend, Scarlett Roger's," I shouted over my shoulder, stalking towards the airport.

Great. Just great.

Airport security would totally be fun this time of year.

~~~

"Mitchel? Mitchel Bennedet?" A voice called.

"What do you want?" I snapped, annoyed. I lazily lifted my head up and looked up at the flight attendant. What could she want?

"We've arrived at your destination," she smiled, but it was dripping in a fake poison. In other words she was saying get-the-f*ck-off-this-plane-before-I-call-security-on-you-you-lazy-boy.

"Could you not let me sleep? I'm dying tomorrow. People have no compassion or empathy for others these days, and to think some people still have faith in humanity!" I said loudly, just enough, so she'd hear and feel slightly guilty.

Rule number one about Mitchel Bennedet: You NEVER disturb him when he's sleeping. And yes, I know I just referred to myself in third person.

"Look, I need you to get off the plane, okay? I don't have time for your I'm-going-to-die-give-me-some-love crap, 'kay? My brother he was on that same list. He lived. It's not that bad, so shut up and suck it up," the brunette muttered, her curls bouncing as she turned on her heel; nostrils flaring.

I just rolled my eyes. Of course she just had to think I was hitting on her. But, I listened, and got off the plane without having too many security guards escort me out. It was only one--okay, maybe two. But that second guy didn't have to come, the other was doing a perfectly good job at dragging my body out of there.

My plan was if they hurt me enough, I wouldn't have to face death.

Look how well that worked out, I thought as I stood in front of the military base, Fort Bragg. It was the largest one in the States, and it was where I'd receive my training.

Great, just great.

I'd be training in something that looked like a prison for people who got caught doing psychotic things. Like ripping someones hair out of their head, and eating like spaghetti.

"Were you on The List too?" A voice asked, causing me to turn around.

I saw a guy with dark brown, almost black, tussled hair. He had tired looking grey blue eyes.

"No, I just have this fascination with staring at buildings that could be potential Asylums," I said sourly, looking up at the guy.

He let out a long labored sigh, the kind my Mom would make. I instantly felt a pang of homesickness. Mom, sitting down on the front porch humming softly while I strummed on my guitar. Mom, yelling at the school for not allowing me to attend. Mom, leaving my Father when he wouldn't stop hurting us. Mom, patient and kind, always encouraging me in everything I do. Mom, who bought my first keyboard--I can't think of her anymore. I need to stop before I completely shatter.

"You okay? I'm--I'm Grayson, and I think you probably don't care. But it doesn't have to be that bad--"

"If you don't make it that bad. Yeah, yeah. I know. Some flight attendant tried to give me the same speech," I waved the idea off.

"And?" Grayson asked, amused.

"And it took two security guards to get me out of that plan. Did I mention they had to tase me first? Mitchel" I extended my hand for him to shake, a small smile making its way on my face.

"Wow, and that story seems so believable."

"Okay, maybe there wasn't a taser involved, but you weren't there so how could you know?" I said, feigning mysteriousness.

"I happen to be an expert in identifying pathological liars," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Oh really? Let me guess, you also work for the CIA?" I thought aloud, and we walked into the building together.

"How'd you know? It's the shirt isn't it? I knew white would give it away," he laughed. It was the kind of easy, deep chuckle, that was infectious, and you couldn't help but smile too.

"Boys, glad you could make it. Orientation is in fifteen minutes," a voice snapped. A woman wearing bright red stilettos and a pencil skirt ordered. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, strict brown bun. She was scowling and looked stern. I could already tell she'd hate me.

Miss. Stick-Up-Your-Ass completely ruined the easy going mood, and Grayson and I found our feet to be Vincent Van Gough's long lost paintings.

"So, I guess we better head over there, huh?" Grayson said quietly, his voice seemed like it was miles away.

"Or we could, you know, hijack one of their planes and fly to NASA where we can board a rocket and shoot ourselves into space," I shrugged, looking up at him.

The smile, which I'd later call the Grayson-smile resurfaced, and he pushed me away playfully.

"You're a piece of work," he laughed. And again, it was the deep throaty laugh, that made me smile.

"So I've been told," I mused, a smirk playing with my lips. I couldn't help but feel the tingling of where his hand touched my shoulder. I tried to shake it off.

I can't do that here.

I can't be that here.

A/N: What do you think of Grayson?

Mitchel?

Thanks for reading! Vote, comment, and have a good day!

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