in the days - weeks - since everything first changed, you have grown ever more bitter. withdrawing from your siblings, from your father, you hardly speak even when directly spoken to. the cold dark silence surrounding you is frightening in that it is so very unfamiliar; the boy with the heart of fire now struggling to wade through charcoal and ash. there is no light left in your eyes, no spark of mischief or joy, and even your anger has gone cold.

you cannot sleep, you barely eat, and tonight as you stare up at the stars, you wonder if you're better off this way. nothing hurts anymore except the dull throb in your chest that you assume to be a heartbeat. the snow and ash inside you insulate you, keeping hidden the shackles 'round your ankles that weigh you down with guilt. it's not your fault, sweet boy; none of what's happened has ever been your fault, but you have grown convinced that it is.

something must surely be wrong with you if your own mother does not care to stay, if she could find it so very easy to walk away. your rage burned itself out to ash weeks ago, replaced by this awful numbness - but at least... at least nothing hurts anymore. at least, in this fog, in this endless grey mist, you don't have to feel anymore. better numb than drowning beneath the waves, you think, and oh - oh, sweet boy.

if only you'd let anybody know.