((A/N: Well, what do you know? I'm still pumping out chapter after chapter. I thought I'd give us a little break from the seemingly Zoe-centric core of my story and give a bit of Psymon's side of story. Dig in, er… I mean, enjoy!

Misa luv L and Ino luv Shika – Thank you so, so much! I'm really glad you like it, and I hope it holds together.))

Good Morning

"Good morning, Big Mountain. This is EA Radio Big, high above SSX's 3-Peak circuit. We'll have all the newest developments for you right here, right now; anytime and all the time; now and forever. Heh, you get the idea. Here's a little announcement just in from Big Dan's General Store: whomever piled all of last night's snow in front of the door is asked, please, to, uh, 'kindly remove it.' Yeah, Big Dan's not too happy about that. But speaking of last night's snow, the slopes are looking more than excellent today, conditions are perfect, and the powder is sweet. Do me a favor, people: since I have to be at work, go carve it up for me, huh? Please? You know you want to."

No one saw things the way Psymon Stark did. No one ever would. Maybe it was for the better; maybe it was for the worse. Psymon didn't know. Psymon didn't particularly care, either. All Psymon knew was that each day wore on the same way, in the same haggard routine. Day after day after day, life went on.

It is morning time. Wake up, Psymon.

But no, never getting up when he should, just lying and staring up, searching the cracked plaster on the ceiling, or watching the plastic blinds filter dry sunlight in little bars, not wanting to fall asleep, but not wanting to be conscious.

'He can't feel pain,' everyone always said. 'The electrocution did something to his nerves. He doesn't feel it.'

No pain, no gain, huh?

But did he feel other things? Did he feel the softness of the pillow against his cheek, or the comforting downy fluff of his covers? No, the pillow had a large bite taken out of it, and had been tossed to the ground, and the covers were twisted violently around his legs and waist. No one could be comfortable like that. But no one cared about that. 'He can't feel pain,' they always said.

Get up! Get up!

And he could not tell if it was his own voice or his father's, rolling now, and tumbling from the mattress onto the itchy carpet with the little fibers that seemed to crawl like bugs under his skin and beginning to laugh. Sure now that it was his father's voice echoing with grinding authority in his head, the Wildman arched convulsively, reaching out to grope beneath his bed for a hard, unforgiving square, thrown down into the darkness last night. His hand scraped across it, clutched at its corner, and drew it before his face. A picture frame: simple, with the glass broken. There they were, frozen in a coffee-stained print: father, mother, and son. And he saw the ghost of the devil on the father's face and laughed at him, right in his face, and pointed at him, and told him how he could see, how he could see the ghost on his face. His own laughter ringing in his ears, he bore his teeth to hold it back and tossed the photograph, not watching where it fell but knowing he would find it the next morning and laugh at it and curse at it again, and again the next morning, and the morning after that.

Take your pills, Psymon. They want you to take your pills.

Still laughing, still in spite of it all, he rose to obey the command. But no- get dressed first. The pants slid on, and the shirt. Decency was maintained, though perhaps overrated. The lock-and-chain belt had not been removed; he had forgotten the combination, or had never known it in the first place. It fit with his other chains, however. All of them, even the ones only he could see. No one else saw things the way he saw them.

With a grating, cackling sound, the blinds were drawn open. Outside the snow reflected morning sun, bouncing it right back through the window and into his eyes, pill-white.

Take your pills, Psymon. They want you to.

And they did want him to, and they always would. The last of his chuckles dying away, he pushed open the door to his bedroom and paced to the bathroom, leaning instantly on the sink-counter to steady himself. After a while, laughing translated to fatigue. Other people would have said they laughed so hard, it hurt. But then, it took much more for Psymon to feel pain, didn't it?

The counter was sticky and slippery. Soap suds and various gels coated the faux-marble surface, and the sink had the remnants of toothpaste from yesterday morning, and beard-shavings like little bristles. The shower door was open, and a towel lay on the floor, half-soaked. Psymon's hands moved slowly across the counter. Which pills first? Order didn't matter. Sometimes he thought he'd like to play games and take only a few of them, or only several of one kind- just to see what happened. But he never could. He could never choke them down. Who cared why?

But each morning had to be the same. The orange canisters and their little pills, red and orange and pink and white, always were there, and he always reached out and poured one little pill into the palm of his hand, and looked into the mirror- glaring, intent- hard into his own icy eyes, seeing if he could see deep enough; seeing if he could find the crazy part.

Raising the pill, he snaked it with his tongue and pushed it to the very back of his mouth. Several times, he swallowed, but the pill stayed put, and only the warm wash of saliva traveled down his throat. He worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth like a dog with peanut-butter, trying to push the pill back even further. Another swallow, and finally it began to go down, but he doubled over, retching and hacking until the little pill, snowy-white as candy, made a clattering circle around the inside of the sink and fell down the drain. They wanted him to take the pills, and they had prescribed a lot; maybe not enough, they had feared, after such trauma to the system. But if he was crazy, why wouldn't they let him be crazy? Psychotic, and a lunatic, Psymon's reflection grinned wider than the Cheshire-cat.

Are you going to be insane today too?

It was hardly ever lonely. There were plenty of other Psymons. The Psymon in the bathroom mirror, for example, was one; the Psymon in the glass windows of stores and shops was another. And there was the Psymon on the tabloid covers, and the Psymon in the melting puddles, and little Simon in the picture too, with the ghost of the devil on his father's face.

And if there wasn't that, then there was the roar of snow and ice beneath his board, and the adrenaline pounding in his ears, and the sounds of his own wicked laughter rising up like wolves to run beside him, and the swell of a jump ahead, and the churning of his muscles beneath him, and then the isolation and elevation, sailing high overhead and looking down towards reality- looking down towards the place where people walked with both feet on the ground. And all the time, there is that voice, murmuring steadily to him:

Maybe today you go too far, Psymon. Maybe today you kill yourself. Maybe today, it hurts.