I do not own Danny Phantom.

Yeah, so this is really short. I APOLOGIZE! Just a quick idea that popped into my head because I love Skulker :) . Also, my first Danny Phantom story... I suppose... So...

Fallacy

"I just don't get it.

I don't understand."

He stared down at the floor beneath his feet, his scowl deepening. It just didn't make sense. Nothing made sense anymore. Absolutely nothing.

The world was boring now, and it was all his fault.

He stood up, his legs unsteady and shaky beneath him. He'd never been strong enough, he never would have been, it seemed like …

But he had been, god damn it all, he had been strong enough, and it was so fucking pointless!

He felt like screaming.

So he did, his fists grinding into two clutched mounds of fury as he shouted out his frustration, letting loose an ecto-blast at the closest wall. It blew a hole through the wood, and he looked outside with no small amount of apathy. Who cares anymore? Nothing matters.

He fell back to the ground, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and anger, as he opened his mouth to speak once more. The darkness of his home beckoned to him at the edges of his vision, the shadows lurking behind every furnishing, within every nook and cranny. Mocking him for who he was, for what he was.

"You've ruined everything."

His hands flew up to his face, his palms pressing vigorously against his eyes sockets, his teeth grinding against each other.

"You know that right? This is all your fault. You did this."

There was nothing, nothing left. Nothing he cared about anymore. He'd gotten what he'd wanted most.

But oh … He'd been so wrong.

His normally luminescent skin was ashen with despair and his will shaken by sorrow. Everything was so meaningless now.

"If I could do it again right now I would, just because you deserve it.

I can't believe you. Can't believe you did this."

He grabbed his face, his cold skin even more unnaturally chill than he'd ever felt before. His hands hardly across the sides of his jaw, but he shook him all the same, his voice raising, pulling out of his throat shrill and toxic, poisoning his vocal chords. Nothing was right anymore.

"Tell me why I feel this way! Explain it to me. Because I sure as hell don't understand!

Where are you!"

Somewhere deep in the ghost zone, Skulker's island looming in the distance – in his view, on the horizon, through the damn hole he just blew in the wall – a small figure sat on the floor of his home. Mind gnawing at his soul as he stared at the face of his greatest enemy. His biggest mistake.

Behind the bars of their caged walls ghosts howled endlessly, moaning out in haunting, eerie voices – look what you've done, look what you've done; are you happy now – and empty faces stared at him from his walls. They all screamed out their displeasure, tore at his consciousness.

"It's not my fault," he muttered, his whisper echoing throughout the room, bouncing off wall after wall, after wall, after wall, after wall, after wall …

(He could hear his own voice again and again and again, 'my fault … my fault … my fault …")

… after wall. He growled, looking at the flattened skin that he'd always desired most, the pelt that he'd always wanted for so intensely. The boy's pallid, lifeless skin peeling apart in death, rotting, deteriorating; his body falling apart piece by piece. He always was different.

"It's your fault, whelp.

How dare you lose?"