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too true.

Wow, brilliant. I love the plotline, and it doesn't go on the same path the reader expects it to. It's enthralling. I must say, I'm dying to hear more.

NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick opened the door and peered down the hallway, cringing at the slightest creak of the hinges.

He saw no one.

...

He crept to the stairs and looked down.

Robert had passed out in front of the TV.

...

Nick slipped back into his room, put on a jacket, and grabbed his sketchbook. He climbed out the window and down a rope of tied together flannel shirts. A large, shaggy white dog greeted him there.

It followed him as he walked down the dark, quiet street. He marveled at how peaceful the streets in this neighborhood were, and wondered why people lock themselves in at night, when all he had ever wanted for what seemed like an eternity was the lock himself out.

He walked on until he reached his favorite place—an abandoned old house with weeds all over the yard up to his knees. He had just found it a couple days after they moved in. He had gone exploring as soon as Robert set off to his first day of work and he was given the chance.

He pushed open the rickety door and headed up the stairs past covered furniture, to the artificial fireplace on the second floor. He pulled a tile out of the floor and added his latest drawing to the collection stored there for safekeeping. This was the only place he knew where Robert wouldn't find his art.

He took out of a shoebox a photograph of his mother sitting on a swing.

She had a warm smile. Nick could almost feel the spring breeze, though it was still November. Her brown hair hung to her shoulders in loose chocolate curls. In her lap was a gardening glove and in the hand not holding the chain of the swing, she held a white rose. She was wearing an old pair of overalls and a yellow sleeveless shirt, and he could almost feel her arms around him as he closed his eyes and imagined that both of his parents were still alive.

"Mom," he whispered through silent tears. "I wish you were here. I wish you could help me. Please if you can hear me, send me a sign--"

He was going to go on, but was cut off by a loud crash behind him. He jumped and turned around.

The white dog stood behind him, wagging her tail gaily.

"Go on, get out of here!" He whispered, but the dog just stood there and looked at him. He sighed and put the photograph and the sketches back in their place. He put the tile back where it belonged and then left the house for home. The dog followed him all the way.

"Go home! You can't live with me and I'm not going to feed you!" But the dog didn't pay attention. Fearing he would take too long, he walked home in spite of the paw-steps and heavy panting he heard behind him. But as he was sneaking back in through the window, he slipped and almost fell, and the white dog gave out a loud bark.

"No! Shh!" Nick whispered, but it was too late. He could hear Robert stirring in the Den.

The dog continued barking, wagging its tail and running around in circles as if playing a game. She was unaware of the danger that Robert might come in and find that Nick had been gone.

Nick stumbled clumsily through the window and fell to the floor. He could hear the familiar heavy footsteps on the stairs. He turned off the light and leapt onto his bed just as the door was thrown open.

He shut his eyes tight.

Please… Leave…

There was a long pause and then the door slammed shut.

Soon all was silent.

Nick sat up. He reached for the pocketknife in his jeans pocket. Pulling up his flannel sleeve with a quick jerk, he revealed his already scabbed over arms. He wanted to have control. He wanted to release his pain. He wanted to tend to the bruises that would never go away.

Somehow, through some kind of ironic twist, he felt he might be able to do this here and now, with this blade. With one slash of the blade at a time, he opened the older wounds, watching the blood trickle down his arm. It left large droplets on the thin blanket he slept on, but he found it impossible to care. It was so numb. Everything about his existence had become numb. The only time he could still ever feel pain was when Robert was around. He fell asleep exhausted from blood loss, his wrists caked with crimson.

xd