A/N: sooo. um. hi.

Wasteland

by: anneriawings

Part Three: Collapse

I'd never really realized how long the night was.

The soft pattering of rain on my window had lulled me into a numb stupor. A faint orange glow played across my room from the streetlights, broken up by the occasional flash of lightning. The tree outside my window swayed lazily and black shadows stretched over the walls, my floor, my bed. They curled and twisted like gnarled hands reaching out to grab me. When I slept – when I used to sleep – the night seemed to pass in an instant. But it dragged on forever when I was forced to remain awake like this, waiting, praying for the sun to rise. I'd given up on any sense of time, the hours melting into one endless, hellish eternity.

My fingers played with the thin sheets as I gazed up to the window. Raindrops wandered down the window pane. I'd spent so many nights like this, wrapped in lonely silence. Sleep deprivation was eating away at my mind and trying to rest sitting against the wall was getting old. I couldn't bring myself to lie down; it left me so vulnerable…

With a heavy sigh, I forced myself to crawl out of bed, trying to find something else, anything, to focus on. I leaned over my desk and flipped on the little lamp. Piles of messy notes and unfinished homework glared back at me. I never wrote that essay for history. I never read that chapter in the biology textbook. Midterms were already looming around the corner. I should be freaking out.

I shouldn't be dwelling on this. I went over to the new journal Jazz had given me, sitting under a stack of notebooks, untouched for days. I was almost tempted to try a fresh entry, but what more was there to say? My fingers flipped through half a dozen pages of my scrawled thoughts, a sense of helplessness curling through me… Jazz had said writing would help since I wasn't ready to talk to Mom and Dad (and will never be). But in the end, it was useless – it was never going to get me anywhere and I don't know why she'd bothered trying in the first place.

Swallowing heavily, I set the journal down and slid my gaze to the stack of school papers. Two weeks of accumulated homework, essays, reading assignments…

It hadn't taken much convincing on Jazz's part to have the school excuse my absence for the rest of the week. Probably into next week as well. She'd called in after Dad had driven me home, made up something about a relapsing illness from too much stress. It was a load of bull crap, but given my humiliating freak-out during biology yesterday, I wasn't surprised to hear they'd granted her request without hassle. The entire school probably thought I'd lost my mind.

All because of my parents.

(no, all because of you)

I let out a slow breath, tracing my hand over the dark wooden swirls on the desk. My mind drifted back to biology… the way Falucca had knelt next to me in fear and concern. The way everyone had stared at me, like some freak, as I'd bolted out of the classroom. They absolutely thought I was crazy. Maybe they weren't far from the truth.

…How could I ever go back?

School – something that used to matter – now only reminded me of the past. Of when I'd only had to worry about simultaneously fighting ghosts and keeping up my mediocre grades. None of that mattered now. Facing a throng of students in the halls and being surrounded by snickers, accusing stares, and heated whispers was the last thing I wanted to experience.

I tapped my fingers against the chipped wood, then settled back on the bed. No, I could never go back. Not after that.

(they all saw what a freak you are, they're never gonna forget what happened)

I would drop out or something… disappear from school life the way I'd vanished from everything else. Sam and Tucker would understand.

I flinched at that thought. I hadn't spoken to them in days. Who was I kidding…? They would never…

I was utterly alone. Despite what my friends and sister said about being there for me, they just didn't understand. Anything. They didn't understand what I was going through – they didn't know the screaming panic and terror of being shot at, tied down and-

I stamped down on the thought before it could finish, twisting my fingers in my hair. Stop. I was safe. In my room. Not in the basement – tied down and…

(begging for my life and they just ignored me while they peeled away-)

Panic bolted through me. My mental control slipped, memories threatening to bubble over and consume me – (they didn't stop they just kept cutting and cutting and they didn't stop) – threatening to bring me back down there-

I curled my knees up, letting out a shuddered breath. Stop it. You're fine. Stop stop (STOPSTOP NO STOP PLEASE)

I whimpered, trying to swallow back the terror choking my throat. It was becoming harder to breathe; suffocating, closed in on all sides- oh God, I couldn't breathe- I couldn't breathe!

(I couldn't even scream-)

Huge scissored blades flashed through my blurred vision. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see-

Cold panic tore through me. My breath came in shuddering sobs, my lungs refusing to let in more than a gasp of air. I couldn't breathe-

A horrible wet crack. Suddenly everything was wrong wrong wrong and I was going to die, oh god oh god I was going to die – white molten magma tore through my chest, my throat working out a choked gurgle-

"Help me hold him down."

Lightning flashed, illuminating the entire bedroom (your room, not the basement). A crash of thunder tore through my skull and I flinched, dug my fingers into my hair, trying to focus on something – anything. The way the sheets tangled around me. That steady pattern of rain against the window. Those tree branches casting black shadows on the walls, stretching out toward me like clawed hands. That sick feeling churning in my stomach, the way my heart pounded in my ears and air tried to wheeze from my lungs.

Flesh ripping, bone snapping. A million shards of hot glass were driven into my entire torso. My breathless screams died into gasps. I couldn't speak, and they didn't even look at me-

Nausea whirled through me as the memory assaulted my mind. They hadn't stopped. They just hadn't stopped, even when I'd begged-

I was panting, gripping the sheets around me for dear life. Breathe, I thought faintly. In, out… in, out…

I picked a random spot in the room to fix my wide eyes on – in this case, my closet doorknob – and held still, blinking back tears. The nausea was worse now. I was going to be sick.

It'd been a moment between the screams, but that had almost been worse. I remember hearing my own blood drip on the floor and the mutter of their voices as they picked over some part of me they had over on the counter. I remember just helplessly lying there, eyes clenched shut, every strained breath igniting fire in my chest. I'd tried to moan, but my voice had long been shot. All I could utter were thin rasps.

"Look at the solidity, Jack, the structure here. The detail is just too similar to human tissue."

Dad's voice cut through my skull. "We'll need a larger sample to be sure."

No… A fresh metallic scraping as someone picked through the tools next to me. I shuddered, tried to shy away, but their drugs had rendered my body useless. Fresh tears welled in my eyes and I bit back a terrified sob. (noonononoNONOPLEASE)

My mind collapsed. I couldn't take more pain – it was happening all over again and I couldn't stop it-

I gasped, wrenching myself out of bed and throwing myself to the door. I staggered down the hall, to the bathroom, pushed the door open and stumbled to the toilet. My stomach twisted and I heaved, bile burning up my throat.

My chest flared angrily, sending molten fire shooting through my stomach. A tightening sensation throbbed through my torso, almost as if the scar tissue was being pulled apart. I moaned, dropping my head on the seat, and swallowed harshly.

(my insides felt frozen and boiling at the same time)

Another wave of nausea. My breathing came out fast and heavy as I gripped the edge of the toilet. (you're fine. you're safe.)

"Danny?" A soft knock. I jerked around, eyes wide. Jazz.

I couldn't get my breathing under control. My mouth moved, but no sounds would work past my throat. I tried to focus on the cool porcelain under my hands, the stench of vomit. Not the acrid smell of ectoplasm, the tang of blood-

Fine. The word flashed desperately through my mind – I snatched onto it, holding on as if it would anchor me to the world. You're fine. You're fine.

There was so much blood… I grit my teeth, breathing steadily through my nose.

More knocking, louder. "Danny, you okay?"

(hell no) "Yeah." I winced; the word came out as a choked whimper. "Yeah." Stronger, this time, a little more coherent. Better.

"Can I come in?"

"Jazz, I'm fi-" I heaved again, coughing out what was left of the bile in my throat. More fire. My breath came out in ragged sobs. God, I was a mess. Shaking, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve – then flinched as a hand gently fell on my shoulder. I hadn't even heard her come in.

Jazz, clad in robin's-egg blue pajamas, pulled her hand back. She took one look at my pale, sweaty face, and pulled her frazzled red hair behind her ears. "Oh my gosh, here, let me help you get cleaned up…"

Tears burned behind my eyes and I looked away in shame. "I'm alright, Jazz, just go back to bed."

"You stop that right now." She reached up to flush the toilet, then grabbed a washcloth from across the sink and handed it to me. "Here. Let's get you back in bed."

I wanted to push her away. I wanted to be left alone, and yet… I was grateful she was here. I needed her. "Okay," I rasped.

I blanched, wiping away the saliva and vomit that had dribbled on my shirt. I couldn't find the energy to protest as Jazz gingerly helped me up and led me back to my room. Two minutes later I settled back on my bed with a fresh shirt and no sense of dignity. Jazz left, then returned with a glass of water. I sipped gratefully, letting the cold water wash the bile down my throat.

"Thanks," I mumbled, setting it on the nightstand.

Jazz took a seat next to me. I bit my lip. She was doing that annoying hovering thing again, getting me to open up and spill my thoughts to her. She wanted to fix me – my problems. I could see it in her eyes – she wanted to analyze me, put her psychology skills to the test and try to figure me out, like I was something meant to be solved. Fixed.

(fixed?)

"So… what happened? Are you okay?" she asked, placing her hand over mine.

Not even close. I curled my knees in on myself, looking like some scared little kid. "I'm alright," I mumbled. "Must be catching a bug from the kids at school…" Shame crept through my heart. I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't tell her I'd been up and huddled on my bed, terrified over nothing at all. It was stupid. I was stupid.

Despair twisted through me. If I couldn't talk to my own sister, then I really had no one.

Jazz didn't look convinced, but she didn't say anything. "Is there anything I can do? Do you need something to settle your stomach?"

"I'm good. Why are you even up, anyway? It's late…"

"Couldn't sleep," Jazz said, offering a small smile. "I'm surprised anyone could in this thunderstorm. Heard you in the bathroom, and… yeah." She looked at me in concern. "You sure you don't want anything? There's probably leftovers in the fridge…"

Coldness curled around my heart. My parents' stares echoed through my mind, their eyes boring into the back of my skull as I'd hastily excused myself to my room.

"No, I'm sure," I said. "What… what even happened after I went to bed? Were they mad?" Do they hate me?

Jazz bit her lip, studying me. Clearly debating whether or not to continue. My heart sank.

"Jazz?"

"Well, Mom, she… she sort of broke down after you left. Dad was arguing with her and…" She hesitated. "I kind of fled upstairs. I don't know what they said."

I let out a quiet breath, twisting the soft sheets through my fingers. Of course they fought about me. Everything about me was making them miserable… this was all my fault.

Jazz lay a hand on my shoulder, tilting her head, trying to see my face. "Hey. Look at me." Slowly, reluctantly, I met her eyes. "It's going to be alright. We'll get this sorted out."

I didn't answer. Settling back against the wall, I pulled my pillow into my lap, tucking it securely in my arms. I didn't know what to say. How could I possibly agree that things were going to be okay?

"We should talk to them," she said, looking at me. "You should talk to them. I know it won't be easy, but maybe if we clear the air with them…"

I shook my head. "I can't, Jazz…" Even though it's been weeks.

"Why not?"

"I just…" My eyes wandered the room, as if the answer would hit me then and there. "I just can't. I already tried. Twice." Two weeks ago, back when everything was still fresh, raw. I hugged my arms and leaned back against the wall.

It was easier to pretend like this, to sink into this routine of avoidance and fake smiles and "I'm fine"s. I chose to pretend. Confronting them would rip that control right out from under me, just like they'd done in the basement.

(so you like this? You're fine with this?)

"You know…" Jazz began, pushing a strand of red hair back behind her ear, "It keeps me up at night a lot. Wondering how things would be different if I had just known…"

"Jazz," I started helplessly. It was my fault, not hers. She didn't deserve that kind of guilt.

She looked down at her hands. "I should have been there. From the very start. Before they even went ghost hunting." Jazz scoffed humorlessly, shaking her head a little. "It's so stupid, really. Of all the days I could have chosen to go to the library. There weren't any exams to study for, not even a paper to do."

"I'm just glad you got there when you did. If you hadn't been there… If you hadn't gone downstairs…"

"I wasn't in time anyway," she mumbled, closing her eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she lightly picked at a loose string hanging from her blue sleeve. A sting of guilt shot through me. "It's my fault. You were just… there, bleeding; I didn't even know if you were alive-"

"Don't… don't blame yourself, Jazz," I said. "Please. There was… no way you could have possibly known… " I took a breath. "If anything, it's my fault."

Her head snapped up, and for a moment her eyes flashed in anger. "Don't you dare say that, Danny," she chided, seizing my hand. "Nothing – nothing about this is your fault-"

"But it is." I pulled away. "I shouldn't have been so careless." Sitting on the Ops center as a ghost, picking a fight with some stupid harmless blobs not three blocks away… I was right outside of the lion's den and I didn't even care.

I stared down at my hands. "I was practically asking to be caught."

"Danny."

I should have ignored those ghosts. Chased them away and left it at that. Shouldn't have hesitated when my parents had me backed against a wall, murder in their eyes.

Hatred curled up in my stomach as I mulled over that. Why did I linger in that alley for so long? Why didn't I just tell them right when I'd woken up? How could I have been so stupid?

My head rolled to the side, my eyes gazing blankly at the desk lamp. "It's my fault," I repeated, voice catching in my throat. "If only I could've known."

"No, Danny. You couldn't have predicted what would happen. No one could." Jazz bit her lip, looking to the floorboards, almost… almost as if she were trying to convince herself more than me. "It just… happened."

The words twisted through me, igniting an ache that was worse than the one in my torso. It happened. It happened because I'd been so stupid. That's all there was to it. I couldn't take it back – couldn't even beg Clockwork to return me to that golden evening on the rooftop.

I curled my arms around myself. Had he been there in his lair, watching me try to explain who I was? Had he watched Mom slide that scalpel through me as easily as butter?

I glared down at the floor, arms wrapped around myself even tighter, fingers digging into my ribs. The taste of bile lingered in the back of my throat. Clockwork was probably, at this very moment, watching me… and doing nothing. I didn't have to fly half a day through the Ghost Zone to have him refuse any help. To have him stare at me with wizened red eyes, tinker indifferently with his staff, and tell me that this was the way it was supposed to be.

Like hell it was.

There was something twisted about the whole thing, something that just wasn't fair. He'd been able to change my fate from the CAT test incident – why not this? Why couldn't he just press a button, fiddle with his monitors – something? Why didn't he do anything to stop it?

"I hate this," I whispered weakly. "Why did this have to happen?"

She lay her hand on my shoulder, "I know, little brother, I know. I do, too. But maybe…" Jazz seemed to struggle for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Maybe… it was meant to happen."

Even through the haze of numbness, her words stung. It was meant to happen? I would have faced this all along?

Noticing my expression, she continued hastily. "No, I mean, it wasn't a good thing. How it happened was… it was the worst way possible. You and I don't like it; Mom and Dad don't like it…" That's a gross understatement. They don't like it – they don't like me, that's probably how it's always been-

"But it's already happened." She offered a small, tentative smile. "There are no more secrets between you and them. What we can do is push through it and rebuild. That starts with talking to them, right?"

My gaze drifted down to my knees, silent. It was my fault there were secrets to begin with… secrets that wound me up in this mess in the first place. She didn't understand…

"You can't wait for all of this to go away on its own. You know it won't."

I was quiet for a long time, unable to answer. In a twisted sort of way, she was right. No matter how much I pretended, this would never fix itself on its own. Finally, my shoulders sagged. "I'll think about it, okay?"

Jazz stared at me for a long time, lips pursing. "Well, it's a start." Her eyes softened, but worry was still settled on her face. "I'm not giving up on you, you know."

(she ought to) I tried to quirk my mouth into a grateful smile – it failed miserably. I dragged the pillow back around and hugged it to my chest, clinging to it like it was my last anchor to the world. "I know…"

"Come here." She wrapped her arms around me, ever so gentle but secure. I leaned my head into her shoulder, closing my eyes. For once, I was able to push my aching body to the back of my mind. Where would I be without her?

And yet… did I even deserve her help? Wasn't she just wasting her time? Hesitantly I allowed myself to relax – I hadn't realized I'd gone this long without any real physical contact. Her pajamas were warm; that was nice…

She had to pull away eventually, the cool air biting my forearms again. "It'll get better, Danny. We'll fix it. Somehow it'll get better." Her words never lost their reassurance… but she was wrong, I decided morosely. She didn't know. She hadn't seen Mom and Dad.

"I guess," I murmured.

Jazz huffed, then slowly stood up. "You worry too much."

"Sorry."

She seemed to understand. "It'll be okay," Jazz whispered. "Get some sleep." She leaned over, planted a kiss on my hairline, and left for the door. Pausing, she offered a half-smile. "We'll get through this. We'll figure it out." Then she quietly shut the door.

I was alone.

Again.

I wanted her to come back.

I glared at my door from the spot curled up on my bed, practically waiting for Jazz to come back in and berate me for being so useless, for being so afraid of confronting my parents. I shut my eyes and buried myself into my pillow, sinking into the gloom that hung over my bedroom.

Hell, I even wanted Mom or Dad to barge in, to hug me and tell me everything would be okay. I wanted them to tell me that we wouldn't have to act anymore, to pretend I wasn't hurting. And yet… I wanted to stew alone in my own misery.

I wanted them to leave me alone.

I didn't want to be alone.

(no one – no one is coming to help you)

I didn't want this. I didn't want to be alone.

Like you deserve anyone anyway.

Footsteps thumped slowly up the stairs, the floorboards creaking in a way only Dad could make them. A second pair – Mom. Several heartbeats passed. What are they doing up so late? I waited frozen, leaning forward. Nervous energy churned in my stomach as they paused in front of my room. Were they here to talk to me…?

Then the footsteps continued on, going down the hall. A soft click announced their bedroom door shutting.

The tiny flame of hope snuffed out. Tiredness and resignation clung to me. They didn't care. They just… walked right past me and didn't even stop to check if I was okay.

As tears trickled down my cheeks, the last of my energy completely vanished – leaving me with nothing but the empty silence and a numb shadow in my mind.

Hours dragged on. The storm had long passed, leaving me sitting in my room with nothing but my own dark thoughts and the dead silence pressing on my ears. Jazz had long gone to bed. This was probably the longest, loneliest night of my life.

My stomach, still queasy from having thrown up earlier, thrummed with true hunger. An uncomfortable feeling, but at least it was a pinprick of relief from the darkness that clouded my mind. It was something real. I let my head fall back onto the wall with a groan, staring up at the ceiling. I was tired. Exhaustion clung to every inch of me. I could eat something light to settle my stomach, but… why now? Why couldn't I just sleep and be done with it?

Before I could really think about it, I was yanking the sheets off of my legs. My scars tightened painfully. My body somehow managed to shakily get out of bed, and I slowly shuffled to the door.

I crept downstairs, avoiding the one step at the bottom that always creaked. The stuffy air from the hallway gave way to the much cooler living room, and I relaxed ever so slightly. The coldness from the tiled floor seeped through my socks. My mind spun. I shouldn't be down here. I wouldn't be down here at 3 AM in the first place if I'd just eaten dinner like a normal human being.

(…hah, normal…)

I flicked on the little light above the stove. A flash of orange appeared to my left – a prescription bottle sat on the counter next to the fridge – probably Mom's year-old codeine she'd given me yesterday for the pain.

I yanked the fridge open and grabbed a jar of peanut butter, then a loaf of bread from the cabinet, then rummaged around the drawer for a butter knife. I tried not thinking for once. It was… surprisingly working. I didn't have to think about anything. I didn't have to feel.

I dug out two pieces of bread, spreading the peanut butter evenly. It was weird, almost eerie, being down here at three in the morning. Standing not ten feet from the basement door, where-

The metal knife glinted under the light – I jerked. For a split second, I was back down there, watching the scalpel glimmer above me-

The knife slipped from my hand and clattered loudly to the floor. Disoriented, my hands found purchase on the smooth countertop and I leaned into it. I was going to be sick again. I looked up, taking in the warm glow of the stove light, the ancient coffee maker sitting in front of me. Home. (idiot. It's the kitchen. It's a butter knife.)

I rubbed my forehead. My knees were shaking. Damnit. I couldn't even make a sandwich without freaking out. Why couldn't I do anything right?

'You can't wait for all of this to go away on its own. You know it won't.' I couldn't get Jazz's words out of my head. This facade wouldn't go away on its own because my parents didn't want to talk to me. They were miserable because of me – they didn't even want to see me.

Even Jazz thought all of this was meant to be – being captured, cut open, having a horrible chasm work its way between my parents and I. Even she thought I deserved it. And… she was right, I realized. All of the lies and secrets I'd kept from them for so long… why wouldn't I deserve it?

Bending over to pick up the knife stretched the muscles in my torso, sending an awful burning through my navel that rippled up to both of my shoulders. I glanced over at the prescription bottle by the stove, biting my lower lip. Codeine. The stuff Mom had offered me yesterday after school. One more for the pain wouldn't hurt… I picked up the bottle – and then my heart sank as the blocky words on the label stared back at me.

(take one tablet by mouth as needed for sleeplessness)

Sleeping pills. For insomnia and stuff. Guilt washed over me, and my breath caught in my lungs. So Mom couldn't sleep either…

No shit she can't, thanks to you.

(so Mom gets to sleep and you don't? no one cared enough to send you to a doctor)

I rolled the bottle in my palm, still tempted to take one. Maybe then I could sleep – could find a reprieve to this endless living nightmare. I was so tired. If I could sleep, I'd forget about all this misery. Wasn't that a good thing, even for just a little while? And… and everyone could forget about me.

…And then tomorrow I'd wake up, and it would start all over again. The thought hurt, a misery that coiled deep under my ribs and closed up my throat. My mind drifted back to the conversation earlier. Jazz was right. I would have to talk to them. But… I couldn't. Not again.

I stared at the words printed on the side of the bottle as if they had a magic solution. That colorless shadow in my mind curled up with interest. Unconsciously my thumb brushed over the label, my breath catching in my throat. What if…

What if…

A clatter as ice settled in the freezer, yanking me back to reality. I staggered back, knocking into the kitchen table. The room spun. I forgot how to breathe and stared down at the bottle in horror. What the hell was that? What was I thinking?

…I could… enough of these could-

I gasped, threw the bottle onto the counter and bolted back upstairs.

A/N:

So I'm a different person from when I started this thing six years ago. Over those six years I've battled and conquered some rather crippling depression, started (and finished!) a Bachelor's degree, completed two really awesome internships, started a full-time job and am now working on a third and final internship. Because of how busy I've been and how much I want to focus on my career, I unfortunately won't be continuing anything else I've started on this site - Wasteland being the only exception. It started as kind of therapeutic for me, and I want to see it to the end.

If Danny's ever-worsening ruminating seems repetitive throughout this story, it's because it's meant to be. Depression can be a debilitating illness, every negative thought circling around and around with no end in sight. I've pulled from my own experiences to try and make his emotions as believable as possible, hope it worked out. It only gets worse from here.

I can't give enough thanks to the lovely Haiju for beta work, as well as riding my ass for months and months and months to write this chapter. She's amazing, go read all of her stuff. Next chapter comes out very soon! (it won't take years this time I promise)