Ann paced in the room. Her bloodshot eyes scanning the doors every few seconds. Again, nothing except the ruffling of her own movements.

The sun hung just above the mountain, engulfing their town in pale yellow.

A creak came from behind their home.

Ann whirled around. Dylan stood there, his black outfit clad in mud and leaves.

Dark red stained his legs, mirroring his red eyes. Ann’s heart clenched.

“Are you alright? Is this blood? What happened? Why did you take the Pill? Is this Phil’s stash? Where’s Phil?” Ann’s voice muffled into swirls and echoes. Dylan stood there, in a daze.

Ann started shaking him. Her broken voice sounded like a damaged radio, asking on a loop, “Where’s Phil? Dylan, tell me! Just tell me!”

When Dylan got back to his senses, he told Ann everything. From the officer who died of black blood, lab files he found in Marina’s office, to the trial tests he witnessed at the lab and eventually, Phil’s death.

Dylan went to his room to give Ann space, he stripped away his outfit numbly. Phil’s Pill bottle stashed safely in the back pocket of his jeans. The Pill Research Files placed on his desk. Dylan kneeled in their backyard, scrubbing his outfit violently. He squinted at the black fabric, it doesn’t really make a difference if everything you see is black.

Still, he washed the stains for what seemed like hours. Ann went out to the backyard. She glanced at Dylan before leaving. Minutes later, she came back with a bar of soap. Somehow, Ann’s soap worked better than his. Dylan didn’t dare to question it.

The second pill’s effect worn out sometime around noon. Dylan locked himself inside his mom’s alter when the fatigue rushed through him. When he felt better, Dylan thought about putting Phil’s photograph beside hers. He could go to the blacksmiths place sometime. Today’s too soon for that though, maybe sometime tomorrow.

For all Dylan knew, Ann had locked herself in her room. Possibly scribbling notes on her book.

That night, Dylan and Ann slept in the living room with a make-shift bed, like they’d do when they’re younger. Elise and Phil would set up a tent as they told horror stories and made hand shadows throughout the night. Dylan stared at Ann’s face, wishing they could turn back time. He didn’t want to relive the lab experience, but Dylan would gladly do so because it meant a moment more with Phil. Dylan winced at his own thoughts.

When he finally slept, nightmares crawled to him. Phil, paled and lifeless, hung on a puppetry stage. Dylan jumped into the scene, finding himself tied to strings. He raised his head, Marina stared back at him. She held the sets of strings, one for Phil and the other for Dylan. Dylan screamed in panic. Marina’s face whisked to smoke as it shifted into the masked guard. The guard released Phil. The wooden body crackled as it thumped onto the stage floor.

The guard reached for its mask. Same gray eyes, same ruffled curly hair, same subtle freckles he would see everyday in the mirror. Dylan stared upwards at the guard, at himself. Dylan’s dream went black. His eyes jolted open.

He woke up with sweat, Ann stared at him with concern, saying he trashed and whined in his sleep. She gave him a cup of water before she went back to sleep. Dylan hurled himself up on the couch. Ann sniffled lightly, Dylan didn’t point it out. He watched the whole sunrise.

Dylan and Ann, like some unbidden agreement, stayed at home that day. And the day after that. And the rest of the week.

Until Ann approached Dylan, “We need to start doing something. Food’s running out. You haven’t been to the office. I haven’t went to school. God, you haven’t done your laundry in a week!” Dylan flinched.

“Ann, just give me some more time.”  Dylan pleaded.

“Look at yourself. We need to get this together,” Ann spoke, quietly and sternly.

Dylan ran up to Elise’s alter. It just reminded him he hadn’t ordered Phil’s engravings. He’ll do that another day.

That afternoon, Carlos came to their house. Ann was in her room, so Dylan greeted the guest.

“God, are you okay?” Carlos asked immediately as he laid eyes on Dylan. His eyebrows furrowed with worry. Dylan winced. Suddenly conscious of his appearance.

“You can tell me what’s going on, we’re partners after all,” Carlos offered Dylan an encouraging smile.

Carlos welcomed himself into the house. He dragged Dylan towards the couch.

Dylan debated on whether to tell the truth. The lab. The trials and the wolf-boy.

“It’s Phil. Me and him were hiking last night in the forest. Wolves attacked us. Phil … didn’t make it.” This was the closest truth he could tell Carlos.

“I’m sorry. I wish I knew sooner,” Carlos pulled Dylan into a half-hug, “I thought the office scared all the wolves away decades ago. Seems not.”

“What were you here for anyway?” Dylan asked, straining a smile out of mere politeness.

“Phil’s disappearance. The office lads missed him. Wait, how about this? We could organize a small team. Hunt the wolves down. How does that sound?” Carlos suggested. Even if the non-existing wolves aren’t guilty, the thought of avenging Phil bought a nice kind of tingling over Dylan. He thought back to the files in Marina’s drawer. He could get revenge. And he knew how.

Dylan almost felt light, almost. Work needed to be done.

“I appreciate the offer. But the wolves looked like they’re on the move. They’re gone into a new forest by now,” Dylan mumbled. The lie scorched his tongue. He edged Carlos towards the front door.

“Give me a note if anything happens. I’m only a few streets away,” Carlos added, as if sensing he was unwelcome.

“Thanks pal. You have no idea how much you helped,” Dylan smiled, trying to be genuine.

Dylan closed the door, turning to lean on it. He knew what to do. He needed to tell Ann, but first. He neared her room. Small sniffles sounded inside. Dylan ached. He glanced into the crack. Ann curled in her chair, notes and books piled before her. Dylan watched as she forced her tears in, her breathe steadying with hiccups. Minutes later, she proceeded to write on her notebook.

Dylan backed away lightly. He went to the living room to wait for Ann to come down. He caught himself in the living room mirror. He knew his appearances were average, but what the boy staring back at him horrified Dylan. He leaned closer and stared at himself. His cheeks visibly sunken inwards. His eyes bugled out from the crying and missed sleeps. Dylan felt like a skull. His dark-brown hair tangled in all sorts of directions. He hadn’t bothered brushing it at all due to the lack of occasion. His body seemed fragile, repulsively thin.

Dylan frantically stripped naked. His ribs poked out. He traced a finger over them, horrified over the lack of protection. If he were to stab his finger in the rib harder, blood might splatter, bones broken, and organs cramped.

The mirror loomed over him, laughing hauntingly.

True, he’d spent a week with minimal eating, but it still cannot justify the body in the mirror. Were they an effect of the Pill he hadn’t previously known? That made sense somehow. Extreme use of muscles meant extreme sources of energy to maintain the body.

Dylan stared down at himself. Thin. Indescribable thinness. He grasped at his knees, nauseous when his whole leg seemed to shudder. Why hadn’t Phil told him? Dylan trotted to his room and flipped through the wardrobe. He tried on everything. Only the sweaters hid the hideousness. 

He ran to the kitchen. Nothing. Dylan groaned, remembering Ann telling him to get the groceries. He grabbed some money and the list Ann made for him.

“Ann, I’m going to the market!” Dylan shouted after him, Ann made way down the stairs. Her eyes glinted under the peculiar lighting.

On his way home from the marketplace, Dylan took the long route, one leading to the bridge. He stood there. The Nepol Canal below him. Dylan snorted as another one of the tourist boats from capital floated in. Children, who were playing by the shores, awed at the passengers, their flawlessly gelled hair, neatly ironed clothes, and silver lined jewelry that shimmered like the water surface.

Everyone from capital is either a hypocrite or addict, except Jen. What was Jen? Dylan shivered, the cold from the night suddenly getting to him. So many secrets. Layers he must uncover. Where could the truth be? He needed revenge, for Phil and for Jen.

Black steam crawled out from the boat’s chimney. Dylan coughed at the burnt smell when the boat passed below him. Black smudge clouded his watering eyes. It resembled the officer’s blood when he died. A hoot came from the boat as it signaled the dock. Dylan heard the howls of the wolf-boy.

Someone clenched at his heart. His lungs disappeared. Dylan wobbled back, his back bumping into the bridge railing. The stone pierced through. He collapsed on the ground, the bags of food with him. An apple escaped the bag, rolling down the bridge. He tried to breathe, a hoarse whimper came out. He winced at his own sounds. A fat lady watched the scene with panic. Her husband went to get water from the river as she knelt beside Dylan, patting his back.

Dylan’s vision fuzzed. He focused on the woman’s bright yellow cloak. Hideous color. Her breath, stained with garlic and expensive spices, hit his nose. Something was clogging him. He didn’t have the power to comprehend what. The husband came back with a cup of river-water. He forced it to Dylan.

The water slithered down his throat, battling away the drowsiness he just felt.

“Are you alright? Where are your parents?” the wife asked, her ridiculous feather hat bounced with her words. Capital people.

“Look at how thin he is. Is he being abused?” the husband whispered with concern.

“I don’t know, maybe he’s a servant, but seriously,” the wife sighed.

“I’m alright,” Dylan mumbled, his voice still raspy. He pushes himself up. The wife jumps back, as if scared that Dylan will ruin her cloak. He snatched the bags and ran. How humiliating.