It's the summer of his sixteenth birthday when it happens.

The day starts out like any other day, except some how he ends up at Josh's house. Sucking dick obviously pays off because Sam has an all-access pass to the Robinson residence these days. It's been nothing but pool parties and smoke-outs all summer and he's fuckin' loving it.

By 1am he's crashed out in the pool house. He's lost count of how many pills he's popped, how many joints he's smoked. There's one still burning away in the ashtray by the guest bed but he has neither the energy nor the will to finish it.

He doesn't know what time it is when the playboy comes crashing through the door, laughing. They're taking Alyssa home and Josh wants him along for the ride. It's obvious he has something planned.

Sam drags himself off the sofa. He plucks the burnt-out joint from the ashtray, sparks it up and smiles knowingly at Josh.

"Let's go, man."

---

His mom wouldn't let him go to Tahoe and now he's sucking dick for money. Or the other way around. Whatever. He doesn't like to think about it too much. That's what the weed is for, and the pills.

It's his mom's fault really. If she hadn't said no, if she hadn't cut him off, he wouldn't be here right now.

But he is here, speeding through town in Josh's hot red Porsche, high as a kite. The top is down and he sinks down into the back seat, closing his eyes to the breeze and secretly wishing that he was at home, in his own bed. He's been wishing that a lot lately.

It seems to take forever to get to Alyssa's house. The car slows and pulls into the drive, and it's not until he opens his eyes and turns his head that he notices the red-and-blue flashing lights of an ambulance parked across the way. Colour seems to rotate and splash against the rotting wood of a shack he recognises all too well.

"Sam." Alyssa's voice. He turns to see her stepping out of the car. "I think that's your dad," she says, and he nods absently in agreement. She jogs around the car and disappears into the crowd that is slowly beginning to engulf the sidewalk. He doesn't seem to have the energy to follow.

He watches the scene through hazy eyes, head lolling against the back of his seat. He feels strangely disconnected, as if the man they are lifting into the ambulance is not his father, but another man he doesn't know, someone he cares nothing about.

The part of him that still continues to give a shit, no matter the times he tries to silence it, starts to stir. A sharp streak of irrational panic hits him before he has time to squash it and he bolts up-right in his seat. His head spins.

He swings the car door open and staggers out. The ground seems to rush up to meet him and the wind whistles in his ears, but it's only an illusion. He blinks rapidly to find that he's still standing on two unsteady feet.

The darkness pulses around him as he makes his way towards the house. He pushes his way through the crowd, ignoring the whispered murmurs of the neighbours and the painful glare of the flashing lights, and peers into the back of the ambulance.

A paramedic glances up at him.

"Hey kid, you shouldn't--"

"That's my dad," Sam murmurs, not to the paramedic but to himself. His eyes suddenly glaze over with stinging tears and he wonders distantly why he even cares. He shouldn't care. He hardly knows the man laying unconscious on the stretcher. He's not sure he even loves him.

He turns away, ignoring the paramedic's pointless reassurances that his dad will be fine. He isn't listening. He fights his way back through the crowd and keeps on walking until a hand tugs on his arm, pulling him to a halt. He turns to see Alyssa watching him with solemn eyes.

"Your dad's gonna be okay," she says, squeezing his hand. He grits his teeth at her empty platitudes and carries on down the road.

"Sam!" she calls after him and he spins to face her again.

"What?" he snaps, moving backwards, hands shoved into his pockets. He's feeling angry now. Not upset or worried or any of those things. Just angry.

"Why don't you come back to my house?" Alyssa shouts across the distance. "You can take a shower and get some sleep--"

"I don't need your help!" he yells and hears the whine in his voice that he loathes more than anything. There are times when he feels far too old for his skin and then there are times like this when he becomes nothing more than a spoilt child with the temperament to match. He knows he's being pointlessly defensive, but as ever, he can't stop himself. Old habits die hard.

He carries on through the neighbourhood, circling back on himself over and over. Alyssa tries to follow in the beginning but he shouts at her to leave him alone and she disappears after that.

Dawn finds him on the cliff top close to his dad's house, curled into a ball with his eyes wide open, unseeing. The sun creeps over the horizon, turning the ocean a sparkling burnt orange, and it impresses him not even a little. He doesn't care about anything these days. Nothing.

Not even his dad.

---

He's half-dazed and disoriented with fatigue when Alyssa crouches down beside him. It's early morning and his body has long since given up its demands for food and sleep, which in childish defiance he refused until the ache in his gut and behind his eyes became a distant thrumming.

His body feels heavy and slow. He's coming down from one of the biggest highs of the year and even now he's fighting the overwhelming urge to climb back up again, to reach the ultimate peak until there's no chance of him ever falling down. The only thing stopping him is the fact that he can't seem to move.

Alyssa offers her help. "Come on," she says, as she struggles to pull him to his feet. He's in no state to protest. Some part of him reasons that being able to stand on his own two feet is his first step to finding something strong enough to knock them from under him again.

Alyssa half-drags, half-carries him to her house. It's neat and tidy and silent ("mom's at work") and Sam thinks, not for the first time, how it wouldn't mind living here. He likes Alyssa's mom. She doesn't criticise his hair or his piercings and she has a thing about knocking on doors before she enters a room that he likes. Big on privacy is Colleen Becker.

Alyssa isn't so much. She marches him upstairs and without hesitation begins to strip him of his clothes. He's too out of it to complain. He lets her do what she wishes with him, lets her drag him to her bathroom and into the shower. She tells him to get cleaned up while she makes him something to eat, and then disappears.

Sam leans heavily against the wall of the shower and sighs. His head is throbbing painfully and his vision is spinning in wild circles. There's an ache in his gut telling him that something is wrong, something he's forgotten. He remembers almost nothing about last night. It was a life time ago.

He vaguely recalls that he's supposed to be worried about something or someone and then suddenly it all clicks into place and makes a sickening kind of sense.

His dad. Something is wrong with his dad.

He knows no more than that, except that it's bad. The lights of the ambulance were flashing and he heard their wail last night while he was walking, fleeing. That meant things were not okay.

I don't care, he tells himself angrily.

"I don't care."

It's a lie and he knows it. He wants it to be true, though. He hates that a man he loathes more than anything has this kind of power over him.

He doesn't, he seethes. He doesn't have that power over me because I don't care. He can die for all I give a damn.

The careless remark rings like a death toll in his head and he screams, smashing his fist into the tiled walls. The tiles and his hand break simultaneously.

You can't die. You can't. I'll hate you forever if you do.

He cradles his hand against his chest and rests his head against the shower wall. His eyes slip closed.

He doesn't know if it was the sound of tiles smashing or the sound of him screaming that brought Alyssa running but he hears her enter the the bathroom and he turns to see her slipping into the shower, stripping down to her underwear as she goes. She slides behind and grasps his arm, turning him slowly to face her and taking his battered hand in hers. He watches in morbid fascination as rivulets of blood trickle between his knuckles, turning a pale pink as it hits the water. She prods at it tentatively and he winces. More tears flood his eyes and they spill out to burn a trail down his cheeks.

Alyssa looks up at him, dark eyes imploring. She wraps her arms around him so innocently that he succumbs without protest. He buries his head in her neck and clings to her, crying into her damp skin while she strokes his hair and murmurs that things will be okay, that his dad will be okay.

You don't understand, he wants to say. I don't care if he dies but if he does I'll hate him for it. That's how heartless I am.

But he doesn't say any of those things. He's afraid of what she'll think, afraid that she will look at him like he's a monster.

I am, he thinks. I am a monster.

He cries harder, lets the tears fall as if to convince himself that he's human. A monster can't feel so heartbreakingly hollow, can it? Or is that what makes a monster? The dark hole inside that grows and grows each day until nothing or no one can fill it and you just stop caring. Maybe that's him. Maybe he really doesn't care what happens to his dad and he's only crying for what he's lost -- the capability to feel and to love and to care about anyone but himself.

No!

The silent, fierce protest echoes in his head.

No, no, no! I feel. I do.

And to prove it to himself he lifts Alyssa's face with two fingers beneath her chin and kisses her soft, wet lips with a confidence he's never had before. She's hesitant at first, as he is inexperienced, and their mouths tremble against each other. But he grows more bold with determination and kisses her hard, slips the tip of his tongue between her lips and pulls her closer to him. Something in him ignites and he welcomes it.

A gasp of alarm escapes Alyssa. She draws back and stares up at him in bewilderment.

"Sam, you can't do that," she says matter-of-factly.

"Why not?"

She's silent for a long second and then she says, "Because we're friends," like it's the most obvious explanation in the world. She looks up at him as if expecting him to argue, but he doesn't.

He kisses her again instead.

She jerks away for the second time and glares angrily at him. "Sam!" she snaps in exasperation. "You--"

"Please," he whispers hoarsely and she falls silent. He stares back at her with dark, pleading eyes.

I don't feel anything anymore, he adds silently, and it scares me. Let me have this.

Something changes in her gaze. Her faces softens suddenly and there is no anger there anymore, just a vague understanding and a sweet look of compassion in her eyes. Reluctantly, slowly, she nods.

Without a second's hesitation he grasps her forearms and pulls her tight against him, claiming her lips with his own in a bruising kiss. Alyssa lets out a short gasp of shock and then she curls her arms around his neck and kisses him back just as desperately.

The water pounds down on them as they slide against each other. The wet material of her bra rubs against his chest, reminding him that there are barriers still separating him from what he most wants. But then, as if sensing his thoughts, she snakes her arms behind her back and unhooks the clasp, slides the garment off and tosses it aside, never once breaking the contact between them.

It's not enough. He needs her closer, needs to know that this is real, that she isn't going to disappear on him like his dad.

He turns her sharply, pushing her up against the shower wall. She breaks away in surprise and stares up at him with a mixture of intrigue and uncertainty.

And then she smiles, a mischievous smile that still manages to make her look soft and coy, and he finds himself smiling back. Their eyes remain locked as he leans in, resting one hand against the wall, and trails the other hand slowly down her side until it's resting on her hip. She shivers at the brush of his fingers against her skin but never breaks eye contact even when he begins to slide her panties down.

He kneels down to remove them, smoothing his hands up her legs as he stands back up again. He loves the feel of her wet skin beneath his hands, the feel of her body pressed against his, and now there's nothing separating them.

His earlier urgency to be as close to her as possible returns with a vengeance and he presses himself against her, moaning deep in his throat at the feel of her small breasts pressing against his chest. He kisses her hard and fierce, white-hot kisses that grow wild and chaotic until they're both breathless and dizzy. He feels drunk and stoned all at the same time and the effect is intoxicating.

There's a moment of clarity before the inevitable happens. He knows with a strange certainty that this isn't going to end here. He sees it in her eyes as they stand gazing at each other, panting. Her cheeks are flushed with want and her dark hair is clinging to the soft, pale skin of her neck. She's never looked more beautiful to him.

He doesn't know who makes the first move; they seem to flow towards each other. Her arms curl around his neck and her small hands bury in his hair, pulling him down to press small, teasing kisses across his jawline and down his throat. He's hitching her leg up and around his waist when she sucks harshly at his pulse point and he bucks sharply against her, moaning at the touch of her wet heat.

"Fuck," he hisses and pushes against her shoulders with his hands until she's pressed against the wall again. He thrusts against her, testing her reaction, and grins into the soft skin of her neck at the whimper that escapes her.

He breathes deeply, inhaling her scent, and pushes forward tentatively. He hears her breath hitch as he sinks in and he, too, loses his ability to breathe. He stands completely still, face still buried against the curve of her neck, and savours the feel of her. This is acceptance and it's all he's ever wanted.

A crazy euphoria takes over and he pushes the rest of the way forward with a sharp thrust of his hips. They gasp in unison and she digs her nails into his back, clawing angry, red marks that drive him on until he's sliding in and out of her with practiced easy.

And then he remembers how he came to be here and a flicker of something stirs in his gut; a gnawing ache that tells him something isn't right. He fails to recognise it for what it is -- anxiety, fear -- and instead clicks straight into defensive mood, staving off the painful pangs in his chest with good, old-fashioned anger.

It pours out of him, tenses his muscles. He drives into her with short, intense strokes and fights his way to sweet oblivion. It washes over him in sweeping waves, obliterating every thought until nothing exists but the shards of light shattering behind his closed lids. He feels nothing and everything and he struggles to find steady ground amidst the maelstrom. His need for control is a habit that will not die easily.

When it's over and he finally remembers to breathe and open his eyes, reality smashes its way through the haze and steals away those precious few moments of comfort. Despair creeps up and enfolds him, sending him to his knees. He moves to rest his back against the shower wall, pulls his knees to his chest and presses the heel of his hands against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears threatening to spill over.

An agonising sob escapes him, and another. Alyssa sits down next to his trembling form and rests against his side, head settling against his shoulder. She curls an arm around his waist and sinks into him and he welcomes the comfort she offers without hesitation.

---

His dad dies the same night.

Alyssa is there by his side when he hears the news and he collapses into her, angry and empty and full of bitter resentment because he wasn't ready.

The funeral is a small and quiet affair and it's only at the last minute that he decides to go. It's the first suit he's worn since he was a kid and it aggravates him, makes it irritable and snappy. He lost the make-up over the summer -- too much hassle -- but he keeps the piercings, the stud beneath his lip, as a final fuck you to his dad.

Things have changed too fast for Sam to keep up and he finds himself short of breath these days. He fumbles along in a daze and it's only with the help of two, small, white pills that he manages to pull himself together for the funeral.

His mom glares at him when he turns up with the Becker's. The charcoal smudge of his eyes and the slow, sluggishness of his steps give him away.

The world around him is smeared and blurry but the ache in him is sharp. It hurts to feel these days but he welcomes it. It's what he wanted, after all. Sometimes it twists into white-hot anger and the rage is so palpable he can do nothing but scream and fight against it. And then it drains away and there's nothing left but a deep regret and a sorrow that can't be controlled. It never leaves him and he can't escape it. He's starting to learn that he can't pick-and-choose what he feels.

When it's his turn to step up and say his goodbyes, he grabs a handful of soil, curling his fingers tightly around it. He kneels down, ignores the gathering behind him, and throws the soil down.

"Fuck you," he whispers quietly. A tear slides free and he swallows heavily past the lump in his throat. God, he hurts, but it's better than feeling nothing at all.

He tries to remember why he came here in the first place, why he even bothered, and three words settle on the tip of his tongue.

"I love you," doesn't even come into it. It's a pointless, empty platitude that fails to take into account that he hates his dad, too. He's not here to state facts. He's not here to apologise. He's not even here to make himself feel better. He's here to prove that something has changed in him, that he's different now, and he wants his dad to know.

So he says it. He says what he came here to say.

"Thank you, dad."

And he walks away.