Word Count: 1238

Paris leaned against the fence that enclosed the small yard in front of his father’s house, the metal chain links cold in the early March morning. His breathing was quick and labored, his lungs desperate for air in a heaving chest and a tired body; his stomach, empty but for the water he drank before leaving the house, twisted angrily, uncomfortably, making him feel sick. He hung over the top of the fence, gripping it with shaky hands as he heaved and retched into the unkempt flower bed his mother had planted years ago, but which he and his father had left to wither and die.

Only when his stomach settled did Paris move, releasing the fence with one hand to drag his forearm over his mouth, as if that were enough to remove the sour taste on his tongue. He opened the gate and crossed into the yard on trembling legs, moving off of the short path up to the porch to collapse onto the grass, arms and legs flung out and chest rising and falling with quick pants. His hair was damp, his brow perspiring, and his t-shirt clung to him in multiple places. Even as he rested, his leg muscles burned, protesting the physical strain he’d put them through.

The sky above was clear and blue, pretty and cheerful looking, at least compared to some of the weather the city saw this winter. The grass beneath him was cool and covered with morning dew, clinging to his arms and legs and neck, tickling his ears and threading through strands of his hair. The air was still chilly, but it felt good against his overheated skin, fanning over his flushed face and offering a bit of relief.

He’d never run as much as he had that morning, heading out the door without breakfast to make his way around the block once, twice, three times, again and again until he lost count, until his mind was empty but for the little voice that encouraged him, “just a little longer, just a little longer,” and his heart beat so fast he thought it would give out and leave him dead. It was exhilarating, the way his blood pumped through his veins and his lungs ached and his legs felt as if they’d fall off, and he thought that maybe if he ran enough now, maybe if he got it out of his system, ran until he could hardly move, maybe he wouldn’t want to run anymore, and he’d stand up and face his troubles without having to fight the urge to flee.

Elysion was over, but his problems were only beginning.

Paris was disappointed, not just in the expectations that had been set before him in the last month, but in his inability to live up to them. He did not want to be the sort of person who ran away from a fight, who was considered weak, incapable—worthless. He didn’t think the expectations were fair, no, nor did he like the lack of control he suddenly seemed to have over his own life, but the way he’d handled the situation so far left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was better than this, strong in his own right, and resilient. Since when did he cower? Since when did he let anyone get the best of him?

Since the world had turned upside-down and tossed him into the middle of a war he felt he had no part in.

He didn’t know if he could do it. Paris was many things—stubborn, wild, greedy—and he’d admit to it all, but he was not a fighter. He was confident, but not courageous; independent, but afraid of being alone; flippant and careless with his life, but terrified of death. He seemed bold and sure of himself only because he’d grown used to the way he lived his life, but any change, any circumstance drastically out of the ordinary, and he faltered and stumbled toward failure. Anything unfamiliar and he fumbled and froze and clung stubbornly to that which was familiar.

Elysion had made it easy to pretend. It had all happened in his dreams, and so it had been fairly simple to think of it all as just another nightmare. His broken wrist was already healed, and the bumps, scrapes, and bruises he woke up with were easily overlooked. He could go about his life as normal, pretend as if the things he’d seen had never even happened. It was almost like the people he encountered there were figments of his imagination, nameless and faceless mannequins, puppets of a tired and confused mind. He didn’t have to process any of it because when he awoke he could tell himself it wasn’t real. He could focus on himself, worry about his own safety, and watch as those around him fell because by the time morning came he could go back to pretending as if it were all just one crazy, messed up dream.

He didn’t know any of those people outside of his dreams, and so even though it had felt real, been real, he could pretend that it wasn’t. If he ignored the pen, the phone, the appearance of monsters, he could continue living in his little fantasy world where things like that didn’t exist, where he was just Paris, just a boy with a penchant for excitement, just a kid trying to be an adult.

But it would be different now, and he wasn’t sure how to cope with that. He didn’t know how to change his life, his comfortable routine, to accommodate this new part of himself. Before, he’d always done everything on his own; no one took care of him, so he learned to take care of himself. But this was something he didn’t understand, something bigger than anything he’d ever done in his life, and he didn’t know how to handle it. How does one go from being a normal teenager with normal teenage problems to being… whatever he was?

Sighing, Paris rolled over onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms as one of his hands idly tore at the grass.

He didn’t know what to do. He hated the confusion about as much as he hated being involved in it in the first place. At the moment it seemed as if he would have to seek his own answers, find his own reasons to fight, or else he’d end up avoiding it, and if he did that he knew some part of him would never be happy with himself. There would always be questions without answers, and the crazy events he’d almost convinced himself were nothing more than dreams would never have a conclusion.

“Ugh,” he said, momentarily resting his forehead against the ground as his thoughts spun around and around. “Stop it, Paris. Just stop,” he told himself. “When did you become so depressed? Get off your a** and do something. You’re not going to fix anything if you keep laying here.”

He pushed himself off of the ground and rose to his feet on unsteady legs, still tired from his morning run. “You’re better than this,” he continued. “Get out there and prove it.”

His pep talk didn’t make him feel any surer of his path, but it got him moving, and he thought that, for now, it was as good of a first step as any.