~Flashback~

"Uno, dos, tres... tres, dos, uno ¡Así es como cantas la canción de la familia McClain!" I sang from the top of my lungs. 

At present, I was skipping home on my way from school, which was let out of early because the heat shut the power off. It was a short day but I liked the idea of playing on the tree swing Mama put up. Besides, it was the hottest day of the year and I didn't want to spend it in school.

Today was the day Mama promised to take me to get ice cream! I think it would cheer her up, since she's been super sad for a while. Maybe it's because my brothers and sisters haven't come home yet or because Papa's been getting angrier and he's leaving messes all over the place.

She's always hated messes.

I eventually skipped up to my porch steps, after three more verses of the song, and pushed the door open, luckily it wasn't locked. A warm puff of air blew onto my face so I assumed they decided to air out the house today.

My feet slowly pulled my body further in so Papa wouldn't yell at me for being noisy, but after closer inspection I determined he wasn't there. I plopped my school bag on the coat hook I could barely reach and began to search the house for Mama.

"Mama? Dónde Estás? Dijiste que podríamos obtener helado!" (ET: Mom? Where are you? You said we could get ice cream!)

I searched all downstairs but she wasn't anywhere I could see and she wasn't answering my calls. I began to venture up the stairs, but as I gradually ascended something felt wrong. Something was trying to tell me to turn back, to haul-ass out of the house and just run, but something else in my gut told me that I had to keep going up.

The staircase seemed to stretch on forever as I made my way up steadily. The atmosphere began to change and the feeling wasn't a good one; neither was the putrid scent wafting through the upstairs. I peeped my head through most of the bedroom doors, covering my nose, and then moved on to the bathrooms.

The only one left in the end was the bathroom in the master bedroom which belonged to Mama and Papa.

I tiptoed across the carpet but stopped, dead in my tracks.

Blood was smeared on the carpet leading to the partly closed bathroom door. Each splotch only grew heavier the closer to the door they sat, like a vulture waiting for unsuspecting prey but you know what they say about vultures.

"¿Mama?..." I waited for a few moments, hoping that she'd pop up behind the door after doing her makeup to get ready for ice cream. "¿Estás aquí?"

I didn't want to look, my heart dropped at the realization of what could be happening. Even at my age, I was taught these kinds of things just in case. I'm not oblivious, but even so I wish I never threw that door open. This event made me finally realize how tattered our family really was. I learned that my family had been long broken before then. This just happened to be my wake up call, and it was indeed a rude awakening if I've ever had one.

I sprinted to the door, and threw it open only to come face to face with the most gruesome thing I could never have imagined.

Blood was sprayed on the walls in the form of crosses and words in maroon were jaggedly spelled out in the midst of the mint green paint.

"El diablo nos maldijo!" (The devil has cursed us!) and "Él está viniendo!" (He's coming!) then other things I couldn't make out along with symbols and more chants written twenty times over. Different sizes, different spacing, same handwriting.

The tiles were supporting bucket-loads of red liquid and there were blades (knives, razors, scissors and an abundance of other sharp objects) scattered across the floor, each and every one of them drenched in blood.

The water in the bath had been dyed a deep shade of burgundy and Mr. Bubbles, my rubber duck-shark, was floating upside down in the tainted water.

I dropped to the ground, blood from the carpet soaking into my pants and outlining my hands, as my eyes landed on my Mama.

She was leaned up against the bathtub, that was currently overflowing from the running faucet that I couldn't bring myself to turn off. Her brilliant blue-green eyes were dull and lifeless, staring at the ceiling. She appeared limp, but at the same time looked as though she were only asleep.

Most of her skin was covered in small gashes until you got her wrists which were barely recognizable due to the amount of red applied. One arm was in the tub feeding the once clear water it's crimson poison, and the other laid atop her baby bump, clutching a kitchen knife.

I couldn't move.

My younger self wasn't built to deal with this, I didn't know what to do or say. What would even be the point in saying anything if she wasn't here to listen? To reason with?

Was she still alive? Could I save her? I want to hug her but I don't want to be anywhere near her. I want to cry but I don't want to waste tears that, for some reason, refuse escape the ocean in my eyes.

I want to yell at her for doing this and leaving Papa and I even more alone than before.

I wanted to hear her voice again telling me that this was some sick joke and that she loved me and would never leave me!

I wanted so many things at that moment... things that I couldn't have.

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It's been about a week and a half since I've talked to Lance. After the whole locker ordeal I've been trying my hardest to avoid him.

He looked scared to say the least and I knew that kind of utter terror... I've lived it for fucks sake! Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At least that's the best thing I can come up with. Either that or he was faking but it's kind of hard to fake that glossy gaze. 

I have no idea what he was saying in Spanish and no one around us knew how to translate Spanish as fast as Lance had spoken it. Lance is from an immigrant family, I know that much, so he's one of the only people in the school that know Spanish fluently. I only know a few words and even that knowledge can't really do much to explain what happened.

Anyways, this brought up a lot of old feelings for me that I wanted to keep buried. They can't resurface, not now of all times, I won't let one tiny screw up undue all I've worked to bury. So, I've been avoiding him and skipping most of my classes in order to do so. I just don't want to talk to him about it and I don't want him being dramatic about the whole thing.

But for some reason the same stupid question keeps popping up in my head...

Is Lance okay?

But, why the fuck should I care if he's ok or not? He's fine. I'm fine. But he didn't seem fine... Fuck! This boy's gotten into my head.

Then again, I can't forget that PTSD isn't some magical entity, and that something really fucked up must have happened to create it. However, I'm not about to analyze a situation I have no knowledge of or connection to, other than becoming a trigger for someone else's post-traumatic stress.

In other news, I've been attempting to go to sleep for a few hours, but it's basically impossible with how much my heart and head are racing at these thoughts.

Shocker.

I've been rolling around on my bed for almost two hours trying to find a comfy position and, of course, I came up with nothing so far.

Shiro's out chilling at Matt's house, so I have no one around which could be seen as a good thing or bad thing depending on how you look at the situation. I might be suicidal but that's completely fine to me, as long as Shiro's living a life of ignorant bliss, I'll hide my pain for as long as demonly possible.

Besides nothing bad has ever come from bottling these things up right?

Well anyway, he got off of work early and I encouraged him to go. God knows he needs it. He invited me to go but I can't see Pidge, especially in the state I'm in right now. They would definitely suspect that something's up, more than they already do, and I don't feel like explaining my notions to anyone.

Somehow, in the chaos of my thought, I ended up toppling over the edge of my bed and onto the hardwood, landing on the fresh cuts I made only hours ago.

The impact caused a throbbing soreness to rampage on the flowerbed of my self-inflicted wounds. Long story short, I just wanted to punch something...

But that's not all too rare for you now is it?

Oh yeah, and I've been hearing the whispers again.

It's basically a constant and endless cycle of torture from high-pitched yelps, accompanied by the numerous amounts of advice they give laced in nightshade. My hands are pressed to the sides of my head, squeezing tighter together like a pressurized cooker. The leather of my gloves are doing nothing to eradicate the sounds of demonic spirits running rampant in my mind.

My body ended up haphazardly throwing the rest of itself onto the carpet before banging my head on the hardwood repeatedly, each time harder than the last, just to get those god damn voices out of my head.

I dab the back of my hand of my forehead and it comes up clean. No blood spilt, so I guess that's a plus. However the sounds don't stop, not even as they're engulfed in the sounds of my screams. So I search my room in hopes that something might kill the monsters living in my head and luckily I spot something hanging on my wall that could do just that.

Fortunately, I was able to get to my feet and walk... well more like trip, to the chair propped next to my bedroom window. Looking out at the stars always clears my head, but just knowing they're there isn't enough to feed my craving.

I want to see them with my own eyes. I want to reach up to the sky and pull a dozen of them down to my chest and just curl up on my chair surrounded by their warm embrace. That's all I want. All I need.

My fingers fiddle with the locked frame and push out my window quietly before grabbing the guitar off my wall. The handle rests on my leg as I begin to pluck a couple cords of complete randomized thinking.

After a few strums and fine tuning I began to play the guitar cover of "Blackbird" by the Beatles. I love this song, just listening to it makes me feel calm.

I guess I've just always been able to relate to my interpretation of the lyrics.

I begin to sing along to the melody as my fingers maneuver their way through the sea of cords.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

Take these broken wings and learn to fly,

All your life...

You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

The music kept flowing as I kept playing. Just closing my eyes and holding back tears of mixed emotions, occasionally stealing a glance towards the stars and... Lance's open window?

I stopped singing for the solo but I kept playing as I observed the shadowy figure in Lance's room. It was the silhouette of a teenage boy, and the moonbeams made his light brown hair appear silver but that's about the extent of its illumination. The rest of the room was pitch black with the faintest outlines of furniture and plants. From here, it almost looked like Lance was changing.

His head seemed to be slightly swaying as if he were dancing to a song in his head and I glanced down at the instrument in my lap. Could he hear my music?

I guess I began zoning out cause in the midst of my imagination, my guitar slipped from out of my lap and almost fell to the floor. Luckily my reflexes were sharp enough to grab it. I put it back up against the wall and rested my head on the window cill.

From afar I probably looked like some creepy pedophile staring into teenagers bedroom windows, minus the haircut, but hey who's gonna judge me... I mean I can look right? I'm one of those teenagers anyways, and it's not like he's oblivious to his window being open.

A few more moments flew by but it felt as though I were trapped in time, the grace of his silhouette sliding around the room like he's the main performer in a shadow show. I guess when he's keeping his mouth shut for once, his looks are something to behold, especially from far away.

The moment was a knife hanging by a thread, so it was bound to come crashing down any moment. In accordance with the realization, a crash sounded from the downstairs of his house. The sound had Lance's shadow jumping, along with mine.

He quickly ran around his room, emptying his pockets and moving things around, just hiding things in general, like a paranoid introvert preparing for a raid. He looked towards his window to shut it.

We made brief eye contact for possibly less than a second, but in that millisecond my head shot straight up, and the petrification in his blue eyes was the only thing I could think of after he slammed the window shut and closed the blinds.

He looks terrified... his eyes were shaking. They seemed dull, and he looked like he had given up on everything. He looked at me as though he couldn't see the world in anything other than the lifeless colors existing in black and white... but why?

That's not the Lance I know.

But I don't even know him! I know nothing about Lance McClain. I don't know his favorite color, his middle name, his past, his reasons to live, his hopes and his daydreams... God Damnit! None of that matters, his life is none of my concern nor is it any priority of mine!

I don't know why I care so much. Caring has never helped me much before, yet I still subconsciously do it. I guess I just keep setting myself up for the heartbreak, betrayal, trauma, loss and any other word associated with depression you can think of.

The whole reason I was playing was to get my mind off of him and now he's still the only thing I can think about!

Fuck. I can't catch a break can I?

I lean back in my chair, surrounded by a flurry of emotions I'd rather not deal with.

What was that sound? Why did Lance look like he was scared out of his mind when that happened? He looked like he had prepared numerous times for that scenario, whatever it was. I have to stop thinking... about school, about my feelings...

And about Lance.

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