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When the sun goes down, he's no longer protected from himself, but he's not in the spotlight either.

He can't decide which is worse.

There is nowhere to hide in the light, because people surround him and he takes up too much space to fall into the background. The night is safer because he can't dwindle away when no one knows he's there, but at night he is alone and unwatched.

He can't breathe without thinking of inhaling a nostril full of powder. He tries to hide the packet form himself, but he knows where it is. He knows there are drugs in his apartment and that by the end of the night they will be inside him. And he may die because he knows no restraint. He can't stop himself from taking too much.

He's not strong enough.

He sinks again into the shadows of his mind; the weary, wounded thoughts that kept him from greatness. First the shakes radiate from his legs and next will come the sweat. He'll be soaked in it. Stewing in his own boiling skin because his body craves the drug that keeps him from crashing.

He tells himself that this will be the last time. He'll kick it tomorrow. But he knows if he tastes the grainy white pureness, he won't come back. The pressure will ease with each pounding second and he'll be so high above the clouds he won't care about this world.

He wants that.

He wants to forget.

He wants to feel the sun on his face and not have to shield his eyes. Wants the light to stop burning his skin and the hours of the day to stop haunting him.

There used to be a bully, Damion, a rough around the edges, underprivileged kid, that went to public school with him. Everyday after school the kid would beat the shit out of him. He begged his father to put him back in private school, but after he got tossed out of the fifth prep school his dad was too fed up to foot the bill anymore. He never told anyone about Damion and explained away his bruises and cuts as sport injuries. The torture and humiliation went on for months.

Then one day it just...stopped.

Just out of nowhere, he could walk around the school without anyone laying a finger on him. For weeks he strutted around puffing out his chest like the rebellious youth he thought he was, until he learned his brother had kicked the crap out of Damion and warned the rest.

Pete always took care of things for him and he never asked for his help, but he never complained either.

They never spoke about it.

Not once.

He used to listen to his father compliment Peter and say what a screw up he was. And Pete wouldn't laugh and more importantly, never agreed. He'd defend his pain-in-the-ass, little bro and tell their father to knock if off.

When he got sent to juvenal hall the first time, Pete was already dead and there was no one to protect him from the tarnished boys that beat him until he was bloodied.

After enough time had passed and he'd grown a little, he showed those boys what it meant to be beaten. He hit them hard and fast until he split his knuckles wide open and he could see his white bones splinter as he pummelled their ratty little faces. That stunt had cost him two weeks in solitary confinement where he discovered he liked to be alone.

There was no one to pester him. No one that could tell him what a fuck-up he was.

He liked that cell.

He liked the padded room they sometimes locked him in too. Liked the feel of the cushiony fabric under his cheek as he slept at night.

It was the closest thing to peace he ever felt.

He thought he deserved to be alone because of how he'd killed his brother. Without him, what was the point? So he pushed himself and punished himself because it was the only thing he'd ever gotten right.

He was the screw-up.

The rotten kid.

He was...not Pete.

No one, not a single person in his enter life, but Pete had ever defended him. And no one did again until Emily came into his life.

Emily.

The thought of her starts his pulse racing again. He remembers the smoothness of her lips the first time they kissed. How she touched the side of his face and molded her soft body against his. It was the first time, maybe the only time, in his whole life that he felt he mattered. That it was him she was kissing and not the ghost of his older brother.

He always considered himself a Rottweiler; strong, angry and hard to tame.

Emily saw him as something different.

She always told him he was more of a Shih Tzu; a companion, protective, all bark and little bite.

He's all bite now.

His teeth are numb from it.

Emily knew how to make the memories go away and when she left, he was lost again.

The thought of her is what keeps that slippery plastic bag of crack out of his reach and out of his body. She's coming back and he knows she'll bring him redemption. He'll soak in her instead of sweating his existence.

He waits in paralysed silence for her to return.

Until then, everything is lost to him and at night when he closes his eyes he sees the dead face of his brother and knows everyone wished it was him.

And...so does he.

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I disclaim. Please share your thoughts.