A/N Re-write of the original. I recommend rereading these chapters, because there is a lot of new information, and the major plot points have been changed and rearranged and, quite frankly, the writing is much better and I believe you will enjoy it more this time around. I thank anyone who takes a chance on this story, as it has been forever and a day since I've updated. But the story is now complete, and updates will be regular again. Thank you and enjoy.

TRIGGER WARNING: RATED M FOR RAPE, VIOLENCE, SWEARING, DRUG USAGE, SEXUAL CONTENT, UNDERAGED DRINKING, SMOKING, DEPRESSION, SELF HARM AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU WILL BE TRIGGERED BY THIS. I CARE ABOUT YOUR WELLBEING MORE THAN I CARE ABOUT YOU READING THIS STORY. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Chapter One

vanishing point:

the point at which something that has been growing smaller or increasingly faint disappears altogether.

I struggled to catch my breath, the heavy form on top of me pressing the air from my lungs. My head was fuzzy and thick with a gray fog, and a spot just above my left eyebrow throbbed in time with my pulse. A line of blood still trickled from it where it had been split open by an angry fist. I lifted shaking fingers to just under my nose, wincing at the sticky scarlet that coated them when I pulled away.

A sob caught in my throat as my hands fluttered over the unconscious form atop me. Thin moonlight streamed in through dusty curtains, painting his skin silver. The hardwood beneath my back pressed against my spine, sending sharp pain shooting through my body. I pressed against his bare shoulders, nausea crawling in my stomach at the feel of it. I rolled him onto his side and off me, careful not to wake him. He groaned a little and I froze, breath stuttering in my chest, fingernails pressed against his skin. Terror welled up in my throat, but I forced it back. I couldn't panic now. I wouldn't.

His breathing evened out again and I slid out from under his arm slowly, slowly, until no part of him was touching me. I pushed myself to my feet, tripping into the couch and gripping the back of it to keep myself upright. My bones ached, my skin hurt. Everything hurt. I was choking, drowning.

JJ was still sleeping, her head rolled to the side, dark hair covering her face. Was she even breathing? Surely she would have woken up if she'd heard me yelling. Overdose? Maybe. I don't even know what she took. Downers were my best guess; she was always stealing opiates from her dying grandmother.

I stumbled to the kitchen and retched into the sink, spitting and dry heaving until I was empty. I gripped the cold metal, squeezing it under my fingers to make sure it was real. To make sure I was real. I couldn't tell anymore. Everything was hazy and tinged grey, like this was a dream. I pinched the skin on my arm until a bright, angry bruise appeared. Not a dream. A nightmare, then.

I found my clothes and dressed slowly; even the feel of my cotton t-shirt against my skin made my nerve endings scream. My legs were shaking as I stepped into my pants, left foot first, then the right. He snored on the floor behind me, mouth gaping. I thought about taking a pillow from the couch and holding it over his stupid open mouth until he stopped moving. But I couldn't do that, could I? They'd find out it was me, somehow. And I couldn't handle the thought of another death being my fault.

As soon as I managed to get my trembling fingers to lace up my sneakers, I fled the house, leaving the front door squeaking on its hinges behind me.

'Shut up. Stop struggling.'

I hurried down the street, trying to put as much space between me and the house as possible. My breath puffed out thick and white in the spaces in front of my face. Someone's sprinklers turned on as I walked past, droplets painting my jeans. A dog barked in the distance. My heart turned into a black hole. I kept walking until this neighborhood turned into the next, until I could no longer recognize old, wrecked squatter's houses. Picket fences and flower gardens made my lip curl. All these people in their little plastic houses, living their little plastic lives, with their little plastic children and little plastic jobs. Fake. Boring.

(Safe.)

(You haven't been safe in years.)

(You're jealous.)

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, gripping my half-empty carton of cigarettes, and kicked my pace up into a run, then a sprint. The middle-class nightmare around me swirled and tilted, blurring into one big mess. I ran to get rid of the sick, dirty feeling under my skin. I tried to outrun the pictures building up under my eyelids, but I couldn't. They were too fast.

'You know you want it. C'mon, baby, just say so.'

His harsh words echoed in my ears. My whole body went cold, squiggly lines dancing up my spine and wrapping around and around my eyes. My stride faltered. I stumbled, falling to my knees. The sidewalk came up to meet me and my face smacked the concrete, cool from the winter air. My nails scrabbled against the grass and dirt to my left as I tried to find purchase, tried to push myself back up, but it was no use.

My legs were finished, my heart was tired. I felt empty and numb and cold. I was just done. I was ready to go to sleep and never wake up, never feel this feeling again.

'You tell anyone, and I'll kill you. You hear me? I will.'

(That's stupid.)

(You can't kill someone who is already dead.)

Everything was dark. I wasn't sure if my eyes were open or not. My mouth tasted like dirty quarters, and the metallic scent of blood was still in my nose. I thought it might have started bleeding again. I couldn't be bothered to check. Liquid trickled down my cheeks- tears. I was crying.

'Oh, look- the superior, holier-than-thou Max. Crying? Not as strong as you want everyone to believe, are you?'

I could feel fingertips brushing over my arms, my stomach, my back. Cracked lips against my neck. Awful, cigarette-laced breath fanning over my face. My stomach lurched, but- fortunately- it was empty. I pressed my face harder into the concrete, until the stinging and burning forced the images away from my mind. I tried to lift my head, my arms, anything- but I couldn't. So I gave up, and let the darkness take me.

Dead weight over my whole body. Silver moonlight. Hardwood floor pressed against my spine. Vomit in sink, clothes on. Kill him. No, don't, they'd find out. Can't have any more blood on your hands; that would be bad. Lace your sneakers. Just get out, just leave, just go. Run. Get away.

I sat up with a gasp, heart pounding against its bone cage. My hands fisted against the soft sheet draped over me, and as I calmed down, I surveyed the room I was in. It was painted a soft pink, and there were a bunch of little girl toys in the corner. Another twin bed, identical to the one I was in, sat against the other wall across the room, made up with the same pink sheets and fluffy white comforter.

There was a boy, about my age, sitting in a chair in the corner, watching a little girl play. I recognized him from school, but I couldn't put a name to the face. They were both looking up at me, now. The little girl held a doll in each hand, but they were resting on the ground as she stared up at me with her mouth open.

"She's awake!" she whispered.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, wincing when my voice came out hoarse and weak. She regarded me with wide blue eyes and answered in a calm, high voice.

"I'm Angel. Who are you?" She blinked up at me, tilting her head to the side.

I didn't answer, instead clutching the sheets to my chest and posing another question. "Where am I?"

"Robin Street," the boy answered. "Found you in our front yard this morning." He tilted his head and studied me with eyes the color of coal.

"Why were you sleeping in the road?" the little girl asked as she got up and moved toward me. I shrunk back against the wall by the bed, setting my face into a hard mask. My eyes flickered between her and the boy, still sitting quietly in the chair.

"Because I was tired," I said. My tongue flicked out to moisten my cracked, bleeding lips. The little girl, Angel, placed her dolls down by my knee and sat on the edge of the bed. She picked up my hand and played with my fingers. I flinched and jerked away from her, eyes flying open, wide and wild.

"If you were tired, why didn't you just go home and sleep in your bed?" she inquired, oblivious to my distress. She was warm- I could feel her body heat through the covers. A shiver ran through me.

(Home is a place made up of comforts and affection.)

(You have no home.)

"I don't like my home."

"Why not?"

"I just don't," I said quietly. She just smiled at me. She was missing her two front teeth, leaving a gaping black hole in her tiny smile.

"Angel, no more questions. Off the bed," the boy said.

"No, it's fine. She can stay." I said. I didn't want to lose her body heat.

"It's actually time for lunch," he said, giving Angel a pointed look. She frowned, but hopped off the bed anyways and left the room.

"Look, don't know who you are, but you have to go before my mom realizes you're here. She'll ask questions, and I'm sure you don't want that, right?" I shook my head and he shrugged. "Thought not. You're just lucky she sleeps in on Sundays."

I avoided his gaze and tried to focus on keeping my breathing even. I was alone, with a strange boy, in a strange place. I began to shake.

"I need a ride," I said, pretending my voice wasn't trembling.

"Sure."

I climbed out of the bed, my joints protesting. I winced at the pull in my ribs, the twinge over my eyebrow. "Could I use your restroom first?"

"Guess so. Down the hall, on the left."

I followed his instructions, locking the door behind me once I was inside. I flipped on the light, eliminating the shadows swimming around me. I took a deep breath, and looked into the mirror.

I was a mess.

There was dark blood dried from my nose to my upper lip. My lower lip was split and swollen. The spot over my eyebrow had already bruised and the cut was crusty with dried blood. I had a black eye and abrasions over my left cheekbone from the sidewalk. I lifted my shirt and twisted my torso this way and that to survey the various cuts and bruises staining my skin. More of my skin was purple than skin-colored. I let the shirt drop and leaned against the countertop, letting my head fall between my shoulders.

(You deserved it.)

My eyes flicked up and I studied my reflection, desperate panic welling up in my chest. There was no way Anne was going to be able to look past this. She would want to know what had happened. But she wouldn't believe me if I told her. Nobody would.

A knock on the door made me start, head snapping up to stare at the door's reflection in the mirror.

"Hurry up in there," said the boy. I pulled the door open to reveal him standing right behind it, his fist still raised to knock again.

"I'm ready."

School the next morning was a nightmare.

There wasn't enough make up in the world to cover my bruises. That wasn't to say I didn't try, because I definitely did. But parts of my face were just too tender to even attempt to cover, like the spot over my eyebrow. Nobody wondered after it, though. Nobody seemed to care.

I sat, barely managing to stay awake, in third period pre-cal. If I wanted to graduate, I had to pass this course. But honestly, I didn't care what happened to me anymore. I turned eighteen in a week, and then I would be kicked out of the foster system, on to the streets. And I didn't even care if I lived or died- everything had been taken away from me. Graduation wasn't really an option. Life wasn't really an option. I just didn't care.

My chest felt too tight all of a sudden. I shoved the sleeve of my hoodie up and traced the word Breathe onto the inside of my left wrist with my pen. The ink stood out, stark and black, against my pale skin and ice blue veins. I drew again, darker, pressing the tip of the pen into my skin until it hurt.

"Breathe, Max. Just breathe. Panic can't touch you if you just breathe."

I blinked, the sudden memory unwelcome, and slid my eyes sideways, to the empty desk next to me. JJ's desk. She wasn't here, and she wasn't answering her phone. I was too scared to go back to Sam's house to see if she had OD'd.

(You're a shit friend.)

(Actually, you're a shit person.)

Something hit my shoulder and bounced off, falling to the ground. I jumped, suddenly very awake, and turned around.

The boy from yesterday. He was sitting directly behind me, his head propped up on his open palm. His black hood almost covered his eyes, and he was slouched over, almost laying on his desk. The sight of him forced other memories to the surface, and I felt the blood leave my face. It was a good thing I hadn't eaten since Saturday, or else I would have puked in the middle of math class.

He gestured at the note on the ground, dark eyes impossible to read. I picked it up, every bone in my body screaming in pain at the movement. I skimmed it quickly.

you okay?

I glanced up at him before turning back around and quickly scrawling a reply.

No. Mind your own business.

I tossed it over my shoulder and put my head down on the desk. I could care less about pre-calculus. I couldn't concentrate on anything with the slimy feeling that was racing under my skin every time I breathed.

The paper plopped back down on my desk in front of my eyes and I sighed.

sorry i had to rush you out yesterday. my mom would have freaked.

I wrote a reply and handed it back.

I don't really care. But thanks anyways.

Ten seconds later, it was back.

you mean what you said? bout not liking your home?

I rolled my eyes and sent him a glare over my shoulder. He looked surprised at the eye contact.

"Yes," I hissed under my breath. "I meant what I said. My foster mom sucks, okay? Not that it's any of your business."

"Ms. Ride? Is there something you'd like to share with the class?" Mr. Rosen asked. I stared at his stupid moustache and tried not to notice the creepy way he looked at my chest and not my eyes. I scratched at my wrist under the sleeve of my hoodie, the bad feeling in my gut making my skin itch.

"Not really." I gave the guy another dirty look before turning back around in my seat, frustration and nausea rolling in my stomach.

Annoyingly enough, another thirty seconds passed and the note was back.

i'm Nicholas Fremont, by the way. call me Fang

I wrote back- I don't care.

if you need a place to stay, i'm sure my mom wouldn't mind. long as i asked first.

The bell rang, dismissing us from this forced hell. I jumped up, slung my backpack over my back, and raced towards the door. Unfortunately, the guy—Fang—followed me out.

"Seriously. Crash at my place if you need to," he said as we made our way down the crowded hall. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my hoodie and hunched my shoulders, trying to make myself as small as possible so people would stop brushing up against me. It was making me want to take a knife to my skin, so I could get the itchy, dirty feeling out from under it.

"No thanks." I wasn't that desperate- yet.

"Well, okay. Offer stands." He stopped and turned, entering a classroom, but poked his head back out. "Oh, never caught your name."

"Max," I threw over my shoulder, still walking.

A/N As you can tell by my trigger warning above and the content of this first chapter, this story is not a happy one. It was hard to write and I can imagine it will be hard to read; however, I promise you this: if you stick with me and this story, I promise you an unambiguously happy ending, no strings attached. You have to get through the angst but it will be worth it. Swears.