My heart and brain are shades of gunmetal gray and heather blue, caught in between the unholy desire to be holier than angels and the wicked need to be human.

My soul is a different matter. It is the color of swamp water, not black but not gray. Brown muddies it up, swirls in its own shades of fucked up with grains of mustard yellow dragging it down.

My hands are the worst though. They're black, like soft ink. There's blood crusted beneath my short nails. Don't worry, it's not anyone's living. It's my own blood and the blood of my demons. It's thick like ichor, brackish red and flaky and smells like rusted out iron. It don't matter how hard I scrub, it's not coming off.

My bones ache with a coldness that won't leave. Winter hides beneath my skin, in my mind. It numbs everything I see, everything I touch. Only the burn of smoke can breathe warmth back into my body. It scorches the roof of my mouth, drying it out like a desert in the summer. I don't mind though as the smoke tingles and burns as it curls into my lungs, chasing away the frost as it permeates the flesh and wraps it's ghostly tendrils around my heart.

With a raspy sigh, it leaves, taking it's warmth with it. The empty full moon turns the translucent smoke silver, just barely visible in the blackness of night. I watch as it escapes, disappearing like a whisper in a maelstrom. It helps though, even as it slips away. The icicles are melting, the frost disappearing. The icy blanket that wraps itself around my shoulders lightens, making it easier to breathe.

Smoke curls into my mouth a second time, my chapped lips wrapped around the blunt as burning embers flare with each huff. I can feel the icicles melting, turning into cool water as it seeps from my bones. My demons are quiet. They sit in the darkest parts of my heart, watching and waiting but temporarily sated.

Tomorrow, they whisper to themselves, tomorrow we snarl and claw at the walls of our cage. Tomorrow, will be another day. Another battle, another war. They conspire, even as silvery vines wrap around their muzzles, around their throats, heavy as white smoke. Tommorow, they promise, voices sugary sweet with eyes like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Winter was settling in slowly, as if it was scared to fight off the blistering heat of summer. The moon hung low in the sky, the sun’s last rays barely peeking over the trees when he showed up at my window. I stared at him in startled silence before cautiously slipping out of my bed and sliding the window open. He pressed his hands against the screen impatiently, movements jittery and anxious. Carefully, I pressed the sharp blade of my pocket knife against the screen frame and pried it from the window. He struggled to pull himself up and I grabbed the back of his hoodie, hauling him up until he fell through. We both tumbled to the ground, freezing and holding our breath in fear that we had awoken my sister in the next room. His bony frame sagged against me in relief and I pushed a hand against his shoulder complaining, “Elliot, you got your elbow in my ribs.”

He looked down at me in surprise, eyes not quite focused. “Oh,” he muttered, clumsily rolling to the side, “Sorry.”

For the first time that night, I got a good look at him. The front of his shirt was damp, crimson blood still dripping from his nose. Purpling black bruises colored the right side of his handsome face, blending with faded green bruise that circled around from the back of his neck. His coffee colored eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, like he’d been crying. My chest tightened at the way he avoided my gaze, pale hands tugging at his sleeves of the too big hoodie.

“I’m leaving,” he whispered, voice strangled and hoarse. Elliot looked up at me expectantly. I stared blankly. “Come with me?” he offered. I sat down on the floor next to him, letting him lean into me.

It was different this time I knew. Elliot often swore that he was leaving but this time he really meant it. He was asking this time, not telling, not whispering his plans in that hopeful tone that told stories of beautiful futures on the west coast, days spent in the ocean. The tone he used to describe our successes as artists. I loved the stories that he would tell: stories of long days in the warmth, of the cities he would tour as a musician, of the pictures I would capture and the drawings that I would put on display in the most revered museums. His stories were nothing like the reality of the tiny town of southern Illinois that we lived in. Even knowing they would never come true, we dared to voice our most hidden ambitions.

“Won’t you come with me?” he whimpered, “Just like we planned so many times.”

“Elliot, I-” I stopped short, not knowing what to say. I wanted desperately to go with him, to see the world. But I was afraid, and I didn’t want to leave my mother. His arm stretched across my legs, pushing them down so he could lay his head on my lap. Chewing on my lower lip, I combed my fingers through his obsidian black hair, gently tugging out knots. My stomach tied itself up, like it was meaning to make a noose for the heart that beat unsteadily in my chest. I swallowed the bile in my throat as the dried blood in his hair got caught beneath my nails, flaking messily onto my thighs. “Mom’ll be ok without me, won’t she?” I asked, secretly fearing that he would respond. I let out a slow breath when he didn’t. “She’s got Emily,” I told myself, “She’ll be fine so long as she’s got Emily.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, “They all said she don’t need me. It won’t matter if I’m gone with you.” A sob bubbled in my throat. Elliot pressed closer, letting me shift around until I was able to hide my face against his chest. He didn’t say a word as he rubbed my arms comfortingly. It took me few more minutes but eventually I calmed down, sitting up again. “Let me pack,” I muttered.

Elliot sat up quietly, watching with mournful eyes as I packed my duffel bag as full of clothes as I could. “I got a truck,” he said. I stared at him before following his gaze to the heavier, more durable suitcase sitting in the bottom of my closet. I wondered whose truck he had taken but ultimately didn’t care. As quietly as we could, we tossed the heavy duffel bag through the window. I snuck through the house like a mouse hiding from the cat, making several trips to and from the kitchen with as many nonperishable foods as I could. After only a few trips, I had most of the canned goods, packs of honeyed jerky, several water bottles wrapped in plastic, and a loaf of bread. We packed them into the suitcase carefully, deciding to leave the bread out once we realized it would just get mashed. Then we packed my books and art supplies. It was a difficult decision to leave behind my engraved copy of all of Edgar Allen Poe’s works.

“What else do we need?” We sat in the floor on either side of the suitcase stupidly, looking at it as if it could answer us.

“Got wood in the truck bed already and found a flint, knife, and lighter in glove box,” Elliot nodded slowly as he spoke, as if drugged. He suddenly lugged himself to his feet, swaying lopsidedly as he grabbed my sword from its display on my dresser. “Someone might have a bigger knife,” he said seriously. I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, short and harsh like a startled deer. Elliot grinned, pulling open the almost healed cut on his lip as we both attempted to smother giggles behind our hands.

I nudged him towards my bedroom door, still smiling as I tugged him into the dark hallway. As quiet as thieves, we tiptoed to the bathroom down the hall and I left him there to take a quick shower. When I came back with jeans and a hoodie bundled under my arm, he was still in the shower, no doubt enjoying water that actually got hot. I sat on the counter with the door shut, tracing designs into the steam covered mirror. I looked up when he stepped out of the shower, reaching for the fluffy towel and shivering. Something cold wrapped itself around my heart, reaching into my throat as a sickening heat made my stomach roll and pitch like a tiny sailboat on the high seas during a hurricane.

Elliot had his back to me and I prayed to a God that I didn’t believe in that these were the worst of his wounds. The whole right side of his back was various shades of pale reds, midnight blues, and eggplant purple. Deep, swelling cuts were spread all through the bruises like a sketch gone wrong. I could just make out the shape of large hand wrapped around his bicep. A thick, shallow cut split the skin on his left shin and both legs were badly scraped and bruised. He wrapped the towel low on his hips, limping to where I sat with the med-kit.

I wanted to ask but I couldn’t force the words out. Instead I said, “The burns look like they’re healing nicely.” Elliot grunted, not really caring about the three pink puckered scars standing out ghoulishly against his soft skin. He leaned against the sink, exposing his back so that I could doctor his wounds. Elliot never complained, just kept his head bowed and drowned out any whimpers and hisses of pain against the meat of his forearm. When I was done, Elliot slid on the clothes I offered stiffly and I packed the med-kit into the suitcase.

Neither of us said a word as I snuck my dog into my room. Guilt made me hesitate before I grabbed the wads of money hidden under the false bottom of the chest in the living room. I shut my bedroom door tightly, locking it behind me. Elliot climbed out the window again and I propped the now completely packed suitcase against the window. It took several minutes for me to wrestle the suitcase over the edge of the window and into Elliot’s grasp. Once we got that out I handed him my little dog, shut off the light, and climbed through the window after him, replacing the screen and taking my dog, Harley, from his arms. I slipped into the barn, grabbing a rope for a leash to walk Harley. Silently, Elliot and I walked down the drive, the duffel bag fastened to the suitcase so we could drag it more easily to the truck, which was turned off and hidden about a quarter mile down the road. The truck, I realized, belonged to Jake and Joseph, two of Elliot’s older brothers. If they caught us, Joseph would be livid, belt off to beat some sense into us with. Jake would hover behind him, trying to calm his violent-minded twin.

Stupidly, we never bothered to check the gas, driving out on the highway just passed midnight, heavy metal screaming through the speakers with the volume turned down quiet like a whisper. I tried not to look at Elliot when I drove, the full moon’s white face turning his skin silver and greenish blue where he was bruised as he slumped against the cold window, black hair turned blue as water dripped onto his shoulder. After panting excitedly in his spot between me and Elliot, Harley realized we weren’t going anywhere special and climbed into my lap to gaze out the window, occasionally growling at cars that flew past at dangerous speeds even though I was already going over seventy miles an hour. It felt like years had passed when the engine suddenly sputtered, the whole truck shuddering. Elliot jolted awake, eyes wide and frightened. I stared in mute horror at the gas gauge, the needle pointing at the crimson “E”. I pulled off the to the side of the road and Elliot scrambled across the seat, mouth open as he stared blankly at the gas gauge.

A strangled noise tore from his throat and he was suddenly slamming the door shut as he got out of the truck. I flicked on the hazard lights before scrambling out after him. Elliot was sitting with his back pressed to the front tire, painful sounding wheezes ripping from his chest, eyes shut tight. I touched his shoulder gently only to be shoved back, the gravel scraping my hands as I fell. Elliot snarled like a beast, screeching and spitting curses like fire as he took his anger out on the old truck. He beat the rusted fender until his knuckles bled freely and tears were streaming down his face. He sobbed as he dropped to his knees, cursing everything he hated about the world, cursing his father, cursing his brothers, cursing his luck, cursing the truck, and even cursing himself.

I didn’t move to comfort him until he stopped and just sat on the ground and tried to swallow his rising panic. Cautiously, I touched his hand and he hauled me closer to him, his fingers digging in harshly against my side and his breath heavy against my bare neck. He curled around me, quiet apologies never ceasing. For the life of me, I couldn’t explain why those hurt more than his violent, hate-filled curses.

We stayed like that until a shiny minivan appeared behind us, the bright lights nearly blinding us. The van’s driver, a blond woman with a motherly air, approached slowly. “Are you okay?” she called, stopping to crouch a few feet away, watching Elliot’s shuddering frame nervously. She tugged her thin jacket around herself tighter.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked, my voice strEllioty croaky. She looked confused but nodded, taking her phone out of her pocket. I glanced down at Elliot as I dialed.

The phone rang once, twice, before a drawling voice answered, “Y’ello?”

“Jake?”

A heavy silence then, “Yeah? Who this?”

“It’s me, Cassie.”

Jake snorted, “Where my truck at, girlie?”

Elliot’s grip tightened on my waist and I sighed, “Two and a half hours west, on I-44 towards Oklahoma.”

“Oklahoma? You headed out west?”

“We were, yeah. You gonna help us out?” I asked. I didn’t tell him we were headed for Los Elliotes in California.

Jake grumbled under his breath before sighing tiredly, “Two and half hours, y’said?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” The line clicked dead and I handed the woman her phone.

Again, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, “We’ll survive. Always do.” She didn’t seem to like the answer but accepted that she wasn’t going to get the truth. She offered to stay with us but Elliot snarled at her to leave, his breathing still ragged and his eyes dead, like a soldier fresh from the battlefield. Hesitating with guilt flashing in her eyes, the woman stood up. Her movements were slow, like she thought Elliot would attack if she moved too fast. She got back in her vehicle and disappeared into the night.

No one else stopped until Jake showed up in a borrowed car with Joseph and enough gas to refill the truck and get us back home. Joseph drove the truck back, in case there were any other problems with it. He didn’t say a word to either of us. Joseph didn't even look mad about us stealing from him. Jake gave us both that disappointed look he had perfected over the years; it was enough to make you sick from guilt and utter impossible promises to be better. The only thing Jake said on the way home was, “How far did you two think you’d get without a fucking driver’s license? God, you’re only thirteen,” he had scoffed, the corners of his mouth turning down the way they did when he was trying not to cry.

The room is vast and filled with grandeur. Tall pillars of white granite with sparkling veins of crystal and gold hold the ceiling over rows of angels. The angels stand in rapt attention, clothes in robes of white and gold. In the center is a golden throne. The throne is the most beautiful part of the room. The throne is tall and wide, glistening and reflecting its surrounding like a golden mirror.

A small head with shaggy brown hair peaks some the doors at the end of the large hall. The little angel strains against the heavy weight of the seemingly else gold doors. Like the pillars, the doors' heights reach into the clouds. He stares in silent awe. The little angel has seen the throne room before, but he's never seen it like this.

No one moves. Every angel watches the world beneath. Moises has confronted the Pharaoh of Egypt for the tenth time, the final time. One by one, each angel turns toward the throne. The little angel glances at the others before looking at the golden throne's back. The man in the throne shifts and gazes at one of the many statues lining the walls. Rows of angels shift with him and stare at the statue.

The statue is a tall angel with massive wings that are bent around his back like a shield. His handsome face is down turned, partially hidden by a large hood. Stone hands are clasped in front of him. A long, sheathed sword lay belted to his left hip; it's crimson pommel stone gleams captivatingly.

The man in the throne spoke in a deep, reverberating voice filled with authority, "My servant, it is time for you to awaken."

Bright hazel eyes widen in frightened awe as the little angel watched the statue as it begins to change. White stone turns to tanned skin, onyx black hair, and flowing white robes. Color spreads to his chest and the angel sucks in a harsh breath. He doesn't move, as still as the stone he once was. The only sound is him taking deep breaths, filling his lungs with air after spending so long as a statue. The color spreads even farther. His belt turns to dark leather, his sword to bright silver. The little angel's heart pounds as the other angel moves. Colossal white and silver wings snap open violently and he draws his sword. A crimson cape sways behind him as he marches to the front of the throne.

Gracefully, the angel twists his sword, slamming the point into the ground as he kneels before the throne. His powerful wings spread out on either side of him and he rests his hands on the hilt of the sword, silent and passive. The little angel strains to see around the throne

For several moments, everyone remains frozen. No one takes their eyes off the man in the throne. A collective gasp and murmur rushes through the crowd as the angel speaks. "My king, how may I be of service to you?" His voice is quiet and raspy with disuse but it draws the little angel a step farther into the room. If any of the older angels notice him, they don't say.

"Go to Egypt. Take the life of every firstborn of those who did not spread the blood of a lamb on their door posts. Pass over those who did." For the first time, the angel raises his head. The little angel gasps and his wings wrap around his small frame. But his curiosity overrides his fear of the tall swordsman and he leans forward, eager to see the angel's face.

The angel gazes up at the man in the throne silently before he nods, "As you wish, my king". The angel rises fluidly and sheaths his sword. His powerful wings flex before curling around his body slightly. The only sound in the room is his heavy footfalls as he walks around the golden throne. The sharp eyes of the rows of angels never leave him.

The little angel watches him too. The taller angel reaches the doors that the little angel stands between. He dwarfs the little angel, standing over him solemnly. The little angel wants to move but he can't. His heart thunders in his chest and his palms grow clammy, but his tan bare feet just won't move. The other angel stares down at him with dark gray eyes. The little angel swallows nervously. He knows the swordsman could just push him aside but the taller angel does not. He simply watches and rests his hand against the massive for, moving it with ease.

" S-sorry!" The little angel stutters and turns to bolt. A low rumbling sounds comes from the other angel and he stops abruptly. "He's laughing at me!" The little angel thinks. Startled and embarrassed, he looks up. The angel's stoic expression is broken by a small smile- really just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth- and his eyes seem somehow softer.

"Return to your friends, little angel" he says, still smiling. The little angel stares at him uncomprehendingly and the angel laughs his quiet little laugh. Understanding lights up the little angel's face and he darts off down the long hall. The little angel skids to a fast stop, "Wait!" He turns to see the other angel strolling down the hall in the opposite direction, "What do I tell them?"

The angel laughs, this time a deep and booming laugh, "Tell them, the Angel of Death once again walks in the halls of the King."

He sat next to his niece silently, watching her thoughtfully. "You gave your sketchbook away, to that girl. You ain't even drawed in it yet."

She smiled, sipping from a steaming mug cupped in her small bare hands. Her brown eyes were unusually soft when she glanced up at him, the sunlight revealing varying shades of caramel and dark oak. "She didn't have one. I can get another some other day."

The man snorted, scratching at his unruly black beard, fingers twisting the streak of gray down the middle. Just when he thought he had the short fourteen year old figured out she threw a curveball at him. The silver-tongued smart mouth that had ridden shotgun in his truck the three hours south to the park never would have batted an eye at the little seven year old girl's distress, never would have spoken to her about the importance of creativity and art, and never would have given up the small pack of pencils and empty sketchbook that she guarded with the fierceness of a dragon guarding its hoard. No, that girl was sharp teeth and dark eyes, quick to threaten with a malicious smile, ready to put her older cousins in their place when they challenged her. He figured she was just like her mother. She hid her tired eyes from the world, disappearing into herself with a pair of headphones and a book, her bare feet resting on the dash.

"Problem?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow at him delicately, still sipping on her too hot cider. He could smell sweet caramel and cinnamon in the air as he studied her. Despite the coolness of the air, she looked comfortable in the sunlight, thin fingers playing with leaves of orange, red and yellow distractedly.

"Are you gonna drink all our cider?" he smiled at her, exaggerating the crinkles around his eyes as he nudged her with his elbow.

She laughed softly, a quiet sound easily missed if one wasn't paying attention, "Maybe. Y'all sure don't drink it fast enough."

"How many cups you have today?"

"Three in the morning and two this afternoon," she gestured to the tall mug, "this is the fifth so far."

"Y'know we only got that one keg, don't ya?" he prompted. She shrugged with a sly smile, drinking the burning cider contently. Her uncle laughed and shook his head, knowing she could easily finish off the full keg by herself if she really wanted to. "Your gonna be more cider than girl by the end of this weekend, ain't ya girlie?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "It's nice. Sweet and soothing, like a nap in the sun or a long hug from your favorite person."

"When its cold, it ain't that good," he said. She glanced up at him a frown, like she wanted to argue. "Its not bad but its not good either. A bit bitter and leaves an unfamiliar taste in your mouth. But heat it up and its nice. I still like the cider when its cold but nothing beats it warm, when you can smell the caramel and spices and everything that makes its pleasant."

The girl's eyebrows scrunched together, a pale hand reaching up to pull out the thick curls in her wild, mousy brown hair. "What are you getting at old man?" she grumbled, teeth flashing in the sunlight as she narrowed her eyes. The short girl didn't look at him, choosing to focus on a group of geese headed south for the winter, arranged in the pale blue sky as a staggering "v". It was a subconcious threat that always worked on the boys but her uncle knew she wouldn't actually do anything.

"Your heart's a bit like cider, cold and bitter, but if it gets warmed up a little it can be nice," he hummed. She snorted, rolling her eyes. He continued anyway, "You saw someone who needed comfort and I know you got a heart, even though you act like yo don't. Just need a little warmth to show that your still good, not the trouble everyone thinks you are." She closed her eyes, slowly finishing off the hot cider.

"Wake up and create a purpose for yourself. Don't ask the meaning of life, ask yourself the meaning of each given day." -Austin Carlile

"Everyone wants something real, something that was created to invoke a positive feeling."-Mikey Way

"Sometimes you gotta look yourself in the mirror and say, 'You are the prettiest princess in all the land.' I do it once a week."-Jack Barakat

"We are all shades of gray. Its been said again and again: life's a process. We are fleeting moments that come and go, and I'm grateful for my time, my aspirations, my mistakes, my flaws and my abilities, think of me what you will but before you do, don't."-Alex Gaskarth

"Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us."-Voltaire

Some of these are necessarily inspirational but they do help me get through the day.

It sits in silence, eats away at me

It feeds like a cancer

This guilt could fill a fucking sea

Pulling teeth, wolves at my door

Now falling and failing is all I know

I've got a secret

It's on the tip of my tongue, it's on the back of my lungs

And I'm gonna keep it

I know something you don't know

I may look happy, but honestly dear

The only way I'll really smile is if you cut me ear to ear

I see the vultures, they watch me bleed

They lick their lips, as all my shame spills out of me

We all carry these things inside that no one else can see

They hold us down like anchors, they drown us out at sea

I look up to the sky, there may be nothing there to see

But if I don't believe in him, why would he believe in me?

This isn't the full song, just my favorite parts.

@Young Writer