Dear FanFiction readers,

Hello. Here is another idea. I don't know if it will happen or not.

I've been wanting to get into writing again, but after ShadowDiving, I've been having lots of problems finding a plotline that would be as interesting to create as my first story.

So, delays. Plus, my school year was just terrible.

However, I have left the realm of high school and I've embarked on a college journey. My time may be limited, but I know it cannot be so terrible (knock on wood).

Some of you may think this story is similar to ShadowDiving, but I'm hoping to stay away from powers and creepy science labs in this one and just focus on the characters and their personalities.

Without further delay, I present to you Beneath It All.

Disclaimer: JP owns all things Maximum Ride. Unfortunately. I do, however, own a nice bag of animal crackers, and they are delicious.

Fang's POV

"Hey, Danny, can you go to the basement and grab me another can of French onions? I'm almost out, and I'm going to make green bean casserole tonight."

"Yes, Mom," I reply, abandoning the task of stirring biscuit batter. I set down the spoon in the bowl, quickly wipe my hands on my jeans, and head down the hall.

Opening the basement door at the end of the hall, I turn on the lights and head down the dark grey stairs, shutting the door behind me to keep the cool air contained. The temperature tangibly lowers ten degrees as I descend to the cement downstairs.

Once down the steps, I head toward the rear of the room, where my family keeps our spare, industrial-sized supplies that my mother buys with her Costco coupons. It's a chore to sift through all the various toilet paper rolls, giant bags of cereal, large jars of Nutella, and garbage-bag-sized sack of raisins, but eventually I locate the lonely container of French onions beneath some bottles of ketchup. Cradling the large, round jar under my left arm, I try to rearrange the assortment of Costco grabs before turning around.

As I rotate, my hip runs in a bag of cereal, causing it to fall a foot to the cement floor with a surprisingly loud bang.

Sigh. This is why I never will win "most coordinated gangly teenager in America."

I set down the French onions, reset the cereal bag, and once again grab the onions to head upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, I turn off the lights. I stand for a moment, feeling my senses elevate as my eyesight is compromised. I can hear my breathing, steady and even, and the sound of the heater running outside the basement door. The cement smells rather dry and musty. My calloused fingers twitch on the cool metal doorknob, itching to turn it and escape the dark room.

Just as I am about to comply with my fingers, I hear another crash.

I turn on the lights again and go down a few steps, examining the Costco mountain for fallen packages.

Curiously enough, nothing has fallen over. Hm.

Slightly wary, I climb up the steps and turn off the lights. Goosebumps linger on my arm, but for some reason I don't think it's from the cold.

I turn the doorknob, opening the door and welcoming the sudden light and warmth.

Once I've closed the door behind me, I feel a little better. Taking a deep breath to settle my slight paranoia, I stride towards the kitchen.

"Did someone order an industrial container of French onions….?"

I trail off.

My mom is staring down at me, eyes solemn, fingers shaking, from on top of the high cabinets.

With a rope around her neck, tethered to the ceiling.

"I'm so sorry, Danny," she cries, tears in her eyes, "I love you so much."

"MOM!" I scream, lunging towards her.

I drop the French onion can as she leaps off the cabinets.

The plastic thunk of the onions hitting the floor cannot cover the sharp crack that fills the air at the same time.

No.

No, no, no.

"Mom!" I scream hoarsely, my hands shaking, my mind spinning. "Mom, no!"

My mother's empty eyes stare back at me, water dripping from her cheeks as her last tears fall down.

I pull out my pocketknife and cut the rope around her neck off. My mom's body falls downward with no resistance, and I barely manage to catch her before her head hits the linoleum floor.

I sink to the floor, cradling my mom's still-warm body in my arm, shaking and silent. No tears run down my face, and all I can think is desperate thoughts of how she can't be dead.

Trembling hands place themselves on my mom's neck, trying to find a pulse. My hands.

There is no feeling under my fingers. No air being breathed, no blood being pumped.

My mom's head hangs at a strange angle, her neck snapped. Her eyes stare at nothing but seem to still stare at me, blame me, haunt me.

"Mom…," I whisper, my emotions so elevated and pulsing that I can't actually feel anything but emptiness.

I shut my mom's eyes somberly, hating the feeling of the thin skin giving way under my cold fingers. Hating all of this.

I don't even have the energy to grab the phone and call 911 like I need to.

Instead, I sit there, Mom lying lifeless in my arms. I lean over, cradling her weighted head to my chest, and close my eyes, trying to remember to breathe.

The first tears roll down my face as I hear the front door open and my dad announce, "I'm home!"

6 months later

I don't know if I really exist anymore.

A thin, shaded seventeen-year-old stares back at me in the mirror. His short but shaggy dark brown hair is unkempt, and his dark brown eyes are empty and hollow of emotion. His jaw is sharp; his cheekbones cast shadows that make his face seem hollow. Dark circles pronounce themselves like battle scars, attesting to countless nights of staring at the ceiling because sleep evaded him. He appeared battle-worn and wiser than his age, with that silent torment that PTSD creates in war veterans. His clothes hang on his lanky but lithe form that is one part smooth muscle and one part bone.

That boy is who stared at me.

That boy is supposed to be me.

That boy cannot be me, but he is.

This is why I hate mirrors – they remind you just how much you've changed, how much your life has changed. They are constant reflections of how the past has shaped you and clung to you with its greedy claws.

The fluorescent light of my overhanging lamp pale my olive tone slightly, making me seem paler than I usually am. My mother's Greek heritage hangs in the tone that coats my body, a heritage I don't want to remember because it always brings back the wrong memories, the bad memories.

The snap that filled the air.

I feel pressure behind my eyes, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes to repress the emotion.

"Stop it, Fang," I scold myself internally. "You can't let people know that you are too weak to move on in life."

Sighing, I drop my hands and turn away from the mirror.

I pick up my black backpack off my empty bed. It is the only possession left here, and I sling it on my back with a heave.

Inside the bag are my few articles of clothing – some black T-shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, and a sweatshirt from my local high school, showing off the mascot – a hawk. Stuffed in the pockets of the bag is cash obtained from my summer job at a lawn company, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and my mother's old golden cross necklace.

I stared around the empty room, remembering when it was filled with music, posters, books, and relaxation.

Before that day.

Before I lost myself.

I can't draw up the memories well, and it frustrates me.

Angry, I march out of the room, hastily turn off the lights, and slam the door shut, closing off the room and the past.

Out in the yellow-walled living room, my aunt and uncle stand, holding hands and trying to look happy.

But I can see the worry in their eyes, the fear – of me.

My dad sits in the singular lounge chair in the room, staring at a TV that isn't on. His hair, once a lovely autumn brown, is grey. His face is heavy with stress, and wrinkles adorn his eyes, forehead, and mouth.

He can hear me, but he won't look at me. He hasn't acknowledged me fully since Mom died.

My father can't grasp the concept of Mom's death (neither can I, for the matter). But instead of withdrawing into himself like me, he's chosen to believe I don't exist. I don't know if he blames me for her death or if my appearance is too much of a reminder, but he hasn't talked to me beyond asking me to "pass the salt" at meals.

In front of him is an empty bowl, cereal crumbs lingering on the sides. My father and I haven't cooked or eaten in the kitchen for six months.

It's too much of a reminder.

So, we've made a small stack of snacks, cereals, dried fruit – anything you can eat out of a bowl or a can without cooking it. Sometimes we'll order in. Or rather, I will, since my dad could care less what I want to eat.

"Hey, Danny," my aunt says softly, shaking me out of my thoughts. "Are you ready to go?"

I look back at my father. He doesn't acknowledge my presence.

"Sure," I mutter, feeling annoyance.

He can't even look at me to say goodbye as he kicks me out of the house.

That's why I'm leaving, after all. I've got no future here – or so my father tells my aunt and uncle.

"Jim," my uncle, who is my dad's brother, speaks. "We're leaving now. With Danny."

"You and Paula have fun," he says, leaving me out as I expected him to.

My aunt is about to speak, but I push past her and barge through the front door, sending the memo that I just want to leave – and leave now.

My uncle, aunt and I clamber into the small silver Honda Accord. My few belongings, like my bedspread, lie in two boxes in the trunk.

Uncle Jim shuts the car down and fastens his seatbelt. As he sticks the keys in the ignition, he turns around to look at me. "Ya ready to leave, Danny?"

"Don't call me Danny," I say, looking out the window.

My uncle sighs and turns on the car.

My aunt asks the obvious question.

"What do you want to be called, then?"

I finger the jagged rock hanging around my neck, a gift from my mother back in fifth grade. It has small symbols of a different language inscribed on it, and my mother told me it was supposed to symbolize bravery and courage.

I feel neither anymore.

I think of all the names I could have, and I wander into some ridiculous ideas. Glancing at my uncle and aunt out of the corner of my eye, I ponder how crazy a name I can spit out to them.

"Fang," I answer seriously, chuckling on the inside, and I figure that the name will be rejected like a lactose intolerant person rejects milk.

There is only silence for a moment, but then Uncle Jim replies, "Okay. Fang it is."

I'm slightly startled, but I don't let on to my true emotions. Instead, I focus on keeping my face blank as I stare out the window.

Uncle Jim hits the gas, and the car moves forward. The landscape slips away as the distant gains between my house and me.

The sky surrounding us is grey. I can't help but wonder if my life will remain this shade of grey. Leaving the house won't solve any of my problems. Therapy hasn't done squat. I refuse to take anti-depressant drugs – I don't want to lose this emotion, this regret and lament.

It's all I have left of her.

I'm a lost boy. People don't want to deal with lost boys; people can't deal with lost boys.

You know why?

Because the only way to not be lost is for us to find our own way back to ourselves.

The problem is, I don't know where the old me is.

So, this new high school, this new town, this new home, this new family – it means nothing. The chance for new friends – it means nothing. A fresh start means nothing.

Because I'm still in that kitchen, seeing my mother fall, hearing her bones separate, watching the last tears leave her eyes.

Saying "I love you so much.'

And nothing can ever erase that.

This chapter is dedicated to "Freshman" by Jay Brannan.

This is really somber. I apologize for my mind, but this is necessary for the story.

If you think I should continue this, tell me. And I may not end up doing it, because sometimes I just can't think of how to finish/continue a story. But I don't know; I'll read what you guys think.