First

He rooted through the drawers, being careful to stifle any rustling his hands might cause as they extricated a change of clothes. He dug further, pulling out a wallet that, though light, at least had something in it. He lifted up the drawer as he slid it back in, preventing the scraping of the wood from reaching any ears other than his own. Treading slowly on his sock-clad toes, he carried his small bundle to his bed and set the items down on the fleece blanket that covered it. His hands now free, he bent down to reach under the frame of his bed, retrieving a black backpack kept hidden for its contents and its purpose.

The zipper jingled as he lifted the bag and he froze, holding his breath and feeling the pressure of his pulse pounding in his head. He gazed around in the dark, knowing his fear was irrational. There was no way a zipper would wake someone, especially when he'd made far more noise on previous occasions. But still, he peered in the direction of his younger brother's bed, watching fearfully for any sign of stirring.

Satisfied that he was safe, he cautiously unzipped the backpack, checking what was already inside to find that the plastic and rubber object was still there. He packed his clothes and wallet, and a passing thought compelled him to pull the fleece blanket off his bed and stuff it in his bag as well. Brown stains on his sheets were exposed to the open air, but he didn't care. Let them find the stains. He'd be long gone before they could confront him about them.

He picked up his pair of black boots from the side of the bed, shouldering his backpack with his free hand. Softly, he tiptoed across the hardwood floor out of his shared room, trusting his mental image to guide him through the shadows. He turned left towards the stairs, conscious of which boards would creak under his weight.

He reached the stairs, letting the handrail on his left and the wall opposite bear his weight rather than the boards beneath him. Halfway down, his foot landed sooner than he expected, and a sharp yowl rang through the darkness. He resisted the urge to shush the noise, instead crouching and reaching out his free hand to where the bundle of fur had retreated. He turned his palm upward, unable to see the cat, but feeling its breath and wet nose as it tentatively sniffed his palm. When it rubbed his fingers with the side of its head, he apologetically stroked its long fluffy coat. He would miss Leo. One of the few reasons he'd stayed in this place until tonight. The gentle cadence of Leo's purring brought a melancholy smile to his face, even though he felt a stab of pain in his chest.

A paw was placed on his thigh, heavy, yet gentle and pleading. But all it really did was call attention to what lay beneath the denim. The thin irritated sections of skin that screamed louder than he could. He brushed away the paw, wishing he had time to say goodbye with a lengthy cuddle session, but there was no way of knowing when one of his siblings might awake. Leo's cry might've roused them, too, so he stood and finished his careful descent, leaving the vibrating feline behind him.

The stairs let him out in the entry hallway, dimly lit by a small lamp in the window by the door. Shadows were cast about to his right, obscuring the doorway leading to his mother's room. The space beyond it was completely dark, but he had it memorized. He'd spent enough time absently gazing at the contents of the room to know where everything was, and could imagine it in perfect detail. Especially the chair upon which his mother always sat when she talked to him. He heard her voice, tone sharp and volume perpetually rising, interlaced with swearing and insults.

Tyrant.

The word echoed around in his skull, beating around in it with a cold stick. The dim hallway seemed to fade out and a chill came over him, freezing him in place. His breath came fast and he winced at each gasp. He needed to move. He had to get out. But he was stuck. Couldn't move. Stay.

No.

He took a step.

The cold abandoned him, leaving him slightly dizzy. His next step was a stumble, and though the socks muffled it, there was still a heavy thud of his foot on the floor. He heard shuffling from his mother's room. The unmistakable sound of someone casting aside their blankets.

Abandoning any attempt at stealth, he rushed to the door and turned the locks, throwing it open. The hinges seemed to scream in the relative silence, and their outcry was quickly followed by the harsh thump of angry footsteps. He dashed through the open doorway into the chilly night air and shut the door behind him, practically shoving his feet into his boots and zipping them up. He put his other arm through the free hanging strap of his backpack and careened down the brick steps off the porch, slipping slightly on the thin layer of ice.

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he trudged down the sidewalk, and he heard the creaking of the door to the house from which he'd just escaped. "Chrona!" He flinched at the sound of her calling his name, her voice as harsh and biting as the cold breeze. "Get back here or I'm calling the cops!"

"For what?" Chrona muttered under his breath, maintaining his pace away from his mother and not even daring to look back at her. If he did, he knew he'd freeze, and it would have nothing to do with the low temperature. He'd keep walking instead; she'd made it clear she didn't want him there, whether she'd said it aloud or not. Why should she bother with the police? Why should she bother with a tyrant?

The slamming of the door caused him to tense up, interrupting the rhythm of his footsteps briefly. He listened for the telltale crunching of snow that would betray a pursuer, but heard none. Chrona continued down the obscured sidewalk, leaving behind the house in which he'd been captive for so long.

His right index finger began tapping—seemingly of its own accord—against his thigh as he walked, forming a rapid beat with his hurried steps. He attempted only briefly to regain control of it, but when his efforts proved useless, he let it drum against him. Each tap seemed to beat deeper and deeper into his leg, as if a jackhammer were pounding on him. His heart joined in with it, keeping up with the alarming pacing of his steps and tapping.

His breath came fast, causing billowing clouds to form in front of his face. The mist glanced off of his cheeks and eyes, and he blinked in response to the cold. Chrona's bare arms stung from the night chill, and he rubbed them absentmindedly. He hardly cared; his mind was still half a mile behind him. He glanced back, gazing down the path left by his footprints in the snow. So far, he was the only one outside, and all the houses behind him were still dark. He turned his head forward once more, analyzing the street next to him. Icy tracks indicated a car had come through, perhaps recently. His chest tightened, possibilities and what if's circling around in his head. The tapping intensified, now in a pattern involving four fingers rather than just one. Chrona couldn't stay out in the open forever. Despite the late hour, he still couldn't risk being seen.

Turning off the hidden sidewalk, he trudged through a snow-covered lawn and slipped between two houses. He gazed at the structures, imagining the people inside and what they might be doing. Sleeping, probably. It was past midnight, anyway. But they… they were probably normal. Whatever that meant. Just… not like Chrona.

He edged his way through the narrow gap left between their adjacent fences, having to hold his backpack in front of him as he sidestepped the gap. His back brushed against the metal bars of one fence while he nearly grazed himself on the wooden planks of the other. It was uncomfortable, for sure, but it would buy him a little time if someone were following him.

There's no one following you, he reminded himself.

I know.

Then why do you keep thinking about it?

Cause I gotta, okay? Now shut up.

Inner voice silenced, Chrona squeezed through the last yard of fence. He restrung his bag over his shoulders and hastened his pace to reach the woods, which waited solemnly for him across a strip of undeveloped land. A white, lonely flake obscured his vision briefly, only to be flicked away by his eyelashes. More delicate crystals of ice began to flutter to the ground as he reached the nearest tree. He couldn't ask for better timing for a fresh snowfall.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped beneath the cover of the leaves, clearing the snow from his head and pulling his golden brown bangs down to drape over his right eye. He scanned the woods ahead, casting his eyes about for any semblance of shelter. Precipitation was impeded by the leaves of evergreens and branches of barren trees, making the snow on the ground much thinner; only a light dusting collected near roots and his steps left almost no print in the small snow banks. If the snow became heavy enough, perhaps Chrona could completely evade trackers.

There won't be any trackers.

You never know.

I doubt it. You know she doesn't want you back.

Yeah, thanks for reminding me.

Chrona let himself slouch, his shoulders drooping and hands gripping the straps of the backpack. He felt his heart sink and he thought back on that home—no, home wasn't the right name for it. It was just a house. Chrona had never had any place there. Despite his many siblings and his mother, he still had the audacity to feel alone. He'd pushed them away, so it was only fair for them to push back. But when each one of them had shown the way they felt about them—yelling at him, avoiding him when he ventured out of his room, looking at him as if he had a disease, anything like that—it had proved too much to bear.

He held out of his arms. The tips of his fingers had begun to turn a little red in the cold, though the stinging tingle wasn't too hard to handle. In the shade from the leaves, and with the rest of his skin paling, making out the lines crisscrossing each other from his wrist to his elbow was difficult, but not impossible. Especially since he knew they were there. Of course. They were always there. Never fading, always crying out for attention. Why did he ever make the mistake of putting them there? At least the new ones, those that now stung from friction and exposure to cold, lay hidden beneath his shirt and jeans.

The toe of Chrona's boot caught against a protruding root, causing him to trip. He took a hasty step forward with his other foot to regain his balance, and the leaves that had fallen from the tree upsetting his balance crunched loudly. Standing up straight again, he decided the brooding was better left for when he was settled somewhere for the night. He kicked some of the leaves beneath him around, making sure whatever disturbance he'd made no longer looked unnatural. Maybe it was best to get off the ground for now.

Trail obscured, Chrona looked up the trunk of the tree directly next to him. It was considerably bent, the weight of another thick tree having pushed it almost to the point of toppling it over. Perhaps that's what had twisted the roots above the ground. But at the very least, there were low branches within reach. He gripped the nearest, sturdiest one and pulled himself up, using all his instincts to inch his body up the tree.

Grab that branch. Put your weight on this one.

Thanks, but I got it.

In truth, though, he was thankful for the inner commentary. That voice in his head, even though it was his own, made it seem as if… well, as if he wasn't completely alone.

If you are alone, it's your own fault.

Maybe I don't like you, after all.

I'm you.

Exactly.

He came to the point where the other tree had fallen into the one he was climbing. Together, they formed almost a sort of platform ringed by intertwining trunks, as if the trees had grown together for the sole purpose of making him a nest. Here, he was close enough to the top that snow had begun to fall on him, and some had already piled up on the ledge. Chrona decided it was as good a place as any to rest. He knelt and unslung his backpack, placing it in front of him and undoing the zipper. Pulling out the fleece blanket, he shook it out to lay it down flat on the wooden ledge. It might get a little dirty, but that was something he had to live with now. He shuffled around until he was sitting cross-legged on the blanket and dug around in his bag once more.

Beneath the clothes he'd packed, he once again confirmed the comfort of the one thing that made things make sense. He pulled it out and looked at it briefly. The red plastic and black rubber grip were difficult to see in the absence of bright light, but that didn't matter. He hesitated with the slider, thumb resting on it as cold snow pricked his hands and arms over and over again. He pushed the slider down and forward and he heard the sequential clicks that were so familiar. The blade sprouted from the casing, and he imagined it glinting, almost smirking at him as he freed it from its sheath once again.

Only now that it was there did he start shaking. Chrona hardly felt the cold of the wind, didn't even register the nipping, biting snow that was slowly caking his clothes and melting on his skin. But the blade scared him. It enthralled him. What, he really thought he could get away without punishing himself? He was being selfish. Again. He knew he shouldn't be selfish. So he had to balance it. Had to receive punishment.

The tip seemed to move on its own, turning down to his right wrist. Chrona wasn't living in that place anymore. He'd cast aside anyone who'd notice. So why not? He could scar himself up all he wanted to now. The edge touched his skin and he felt himself react, want to pull his wrist away.

No. Don't you even dare.

Now he couldn't. His inner voice and the blade both screamed for its use. Both begged for blood to flow from his veins and drip onto his blanket beneath him. Let it stain the fleece, the snow. Red was a beautiful color. It looked good on him. And the way blood shone when it flowed freely…

Chrona put the blade down beside him, letting his right arm drop and the tensity out of his shoulders. He was unharmed, but not because he wanted to be. He still felt a deep ache that longed to bleed. But he had to be ready to escape anyone that might be after him later. Sure, it might be paranoia, but he really didn't want to go back. Not now.

He put the blade away, hiding it under his clothes in his bag once again. He pulled the corners of the blanket close to him, the fleece simultaneously sheltering him from the cold and comforting him with its soft texture. Chrona pressed it to his cheek, brushing it up against himself the way Leo would. The tickling fluff was almost identical to his beloved cat's fur, and the thought made his eyes water. In the wind and the cold, tears began to form in his eyes and soon, they were spilling out. They stung as they fell, but not as much as the sobs stung his heart. With each choking breath Chrona gasped, each droplet of salty sorrow that fell onto his jeans, he felt the extent of just how much he'd lost. Any hope of having a family, his pet that loved him as much as he loved him back, and all of his friends, especially those that expected him to somehow stay in contact with them when their families were too interconnected for him to be safe from his mother. He thought about the argument that had brought him to this, his mother accosting him about the girl on whom he'd gotten a crush. How she'd found out about the crush, he had no idea.

But what Chrona had learned was he couldn't trust anyone.

He was hopelessly, utterly alone. And all he could do was bundle up in a blanket and cry.