The Catastrophe of Us

6475 words.

From the balcony discussion to dancing with my face tucked into Gon's chest, I always wondered why. I wondered why I sought the idea of finding a dream career fatuous, but that's when I'd find myself in front of a metaphorical mirror, a long, piercing crack akin to a lightning strike as seen on movies, and me, disheveled hair, eyes puffy from a recent breakdown, and clothes tattered, revealing so many scars, each wielding a memory I fought so hard to forget. And how fruitless of a battle that was. In the end, you truly did turn into a broken vessel for your family.

I question when, and I will always question when. But why did I need to know when? Maybe because if I knew when it all started, only then would I know if this nightmare is finite, or if this horrific vision we call reality is inevitable, or if that even matters.

You know it's the end when you hit rock bottom, but what does it take to get there? And how many scars will it leave behind? My mentality, my goals, the things I hold dearest to me--everything changed because of oozing scars. All of the anger, guilt, and sadness that will haunt me forever.

What more can I lose?

I wouldn't find that answer until later.

Music meant everything to me before I even knew what music was.

As a baby-- a happy, innocent, chubby, blue-eyed baby--I would stare at the keyboard with keys of black and white for hours, not in fear, not in concern, but with an unfathomable curiosity like that singular object before me served as a preamble to every single occurrence in my life. Something about the pattern of sound always made sense to me. I didn't have to know the theory or the exact construction behind it because it made sense.

But everything made more sense with Gon.

Summer camp, at the break of dawn, the piano echoed a nostalgic melody. It didn't matter what I was currently doing or thinking because the moment Gon's fingers came intact with the keyboard, time itself adjourned. One night, I sat next to him on the piano bench, watching, listening. His fingers moved with ease, the glossy, black paint of the piano reflecting starlight atop amber eyes, and the melody, gods the melody: dark minors that would instantly bring you to a tragic mindset, and I couldn't help but relate it to a requiem--a requiem for himself.

His thighs every so often brushed against mine at the appliance of the sustain pedal, his breath hitched when he played a sforzando that emphasized the tonic of an Alberti bass, but the astonishing part, the one thing I couldn't begin to comprehend, and I could roll in bed all night thinking about it but would never get any closer to a breakthrough, the thing that came so naturally to Gon, and I just didn't understand how-- he always appeared happy, and even amidst a devastating requiem, he found the good, the happiness in it.

When he finished, it took me a solid minute to snap back into reality.

"So, whatcha think?"

I smiled, "It's..." --breathtaking, beautiful, keep playing for me always--but I didn't say any of that, of course. "Who wrote it?"

Gon presented a cheeky grin.

"No way."

"Mhm, I wrote it a few months back." He straddled the piano bench to face me, eyebrows suddenly knitting in all seriousness, "Did you spot anything I could fix? I'm in desperate need of some constructive feedback," he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

Overwhelmed at the shocking discovery, I sat staring at him blankly for a moment too long. "Right," I fumbled around, trying to distract myself from Gon's eyes boring into me with a dark, intense glare. I knew I was blushing because a sudden rush of scorching heat circulated in my cheeks. He wanted feedback from me, were my thoughts. "Maybe change some of the Alberti basses in the left hand. Sometimes it can get a bit repetitive, but it sounded pretty good to me--the climactic point, the progression-"

"Sing for me."

I whipped my head around, now directly facing him, "Gon, I told you yesterday. The answer is-"

"Yeah, I know the answer is no." He sighed, leaning his head back, a small smile curving the corner of his lips, but his eyes remained on me, "But I did say I'll keep asking."

I rolled my eyes, "Suit yourself."

A silence.

"Killua, what do you want to do when you're older?"

Ah, this question. This one question I've changed from 'what do I want to do' to 'what am I capable of doing', this bothersome question that separated the optimists from the pessimists, and my answer that, in some form of another, said, 'I don't know' because I don't know myself.

Teachers, friends, even strangers would then ask, 'well, what do you like doing?' and I would always wonder how that had any correlation to what I would be doing as a career because to me, it didn't. I never cared to be on top, but I knew competition existed in the world. While others worry about the disadvantages of race, sex, etc, my disadvantage was, undoubtedly, my personality.

I'll declare, 'I want to be a musician.'

'You don't have the motivation,' they'll say.

'I want to be an engineer.'

'You aren't assertive enough.'

'I'm going to be an entrepreneur.'

'Only sociable optimists succeed in that line of work.'

The obstacles were endless, and I envied those who were naive to them because they were certain of themselves, which makes them optimistic towards the future, which gives them willing dedication; which allows them to succeed.

So, what do I want to do when I'm older?

"I want to be happy."

Gon tilted his head, "but what job do you want?"

"I don't know yet."

He opened his mouth to say something when, suddenly, he paused as if he finally understood.

Another silence--the longest yet.

"I'm going to be a songwriter," declared Gon.

There was a moment where we both stared at one another in the eyes, but I knew better than to give myself away and stare at his lustrous, parted lips. No, I wouldn't stare at them no matter how tempting they may be.

"I think that's a perfect path for you," I responded, truthfully, and I wasn't just saying it to make Gon's dreams soar. His talent was evident, and the always-there smile plastering his face clearly illustrated that he truly enjoyed fabricating music. I knew I enjoyed listening to it. No doubts there.

Gon shook his head, "I want to be a songwriter with you by my side."

I nearly passed out from the sheer amount of heat rushing to my head. Right, I need to respond. Communication, yes. Yes, that.

Deep breaths.

"I'll always be here," I said.

Gon's entire face lit up. He pulled me into an embrace, and I didn't hesitate to wrap my arms securely around his frame, tucking my face into his neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent. Tears clouded my vision but never descended. I needed comfort like some pitiful puppy who betrayed their owner--the person they worshiped with every aspect of their being. I needed to hold onto Gon. Why?

Because I lied.

It was the beginning of November and with that came the first school recital. I had no confidence in my upcoming performance. I hated the piece, hated the audience, and hated these three hours of suffering, of listening to proof that I was the worst pianist. Gon had texted me for good luck. I answered with a simple thanks, but part of me wanted Gon to be here, next to me, playing with me like the old days--like our promise.

This particular recital brought fame to our school. Hundreds, thousands of people would attend whether they're family members, recruiters, or simply commonfolk. Everyone would play their hardest piece of the year, and that made sense, but it apparently didn't make enough sense to my teacher.

Just moments before the recital, I walked into the Piano Lab only to see seven students playing my piece at the same time with jeering mockery, expressions saying, 'See, it's that easy!'

'Fuck you all, dipshits,' is what I said in response, which is considered abnormal behavior on my part. I've kept my composure for years, yet that seemed to translate to others that I was either an exceedingly shy introvert, a teenager going through the 'emo phase,' or just an ass in general.

But all hatred, anger, and frustration disappeared when one student sauntered on stage, a blindingly white dress with rose-gold cherry blossoms stitched in fine thread elegantly draping off her shoulders, and flowing in a hypnotic manner behind her. Her silky black hair glistened with embedded silver jewels. I didn't remember her name, nor had I recalled seeing her before, yet there she stood, playing Chopin's First Ballade in g minor like it was all a dream, a reverie.

In the darkness of the recital hall, the carpets stained the color of scarlet blood, limelight directed on the one and only girl on stage in solitude; an audience of silence--no babies crying and no bothersome coughs, just her on stage alone with the piano. The intensity of the moment was all caused by her delicate, slender fingers. Father stood next to me, whispering, "That song is beautiful."

It was. It really really really was, but the strange part is: I couldn't begin to explain why.

Several minutes later, Ikalgo, perhaps my only friend in the school, put a hand on my shoulder, "Killua, you're crying..."

"Oh," I used my sleeve to rub my wet eyes, "I didn't notice," which was true.

The performance ended, and she received a standing ovation. The luminous spotlight dimmed, the darkness encroaching all. There was a moment of pregnant disbelief of me simply staring into the abyss. It's funny, really. In the end, that singular song morphed from a journey to self-worth, to the crumbling of a decent family, to an act of suicide, of failure, and truly hitting rock. Bottom.

~*~

It's been three months since seeing, touching, or doing anything with Gon Freecss. At least, not doing anything besides listening and being completely helpless to him crying on the phone, a razor blade to his vitals. The occurrences were endless: his friend dying in a school shooting, a newly discovered older sister that ran away when he and his twin were born, and his lack of freedom, despite being such a free-spirit by heart. He was a completely different person than the one I first met, or maybe he was the same. Maybe, this was me realizing that we never knew each other at all.

I began to dread incoming phone calls from Gon, but I always answered. There was a fifty-fifty chance of me getting the happy, positive Gon or the dark, hollow version of him.

I picked up the phone, "Gon?"

"Killuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

I instinctively threw my phone across my bedroom, ears ringing; even feeling a slight vibration throughout my body. Alluka rolled her eyes, reading in the corner of our room atop the blue bean bag, "he's loud." she grumbled, but there was a smile on her face.

Once picking up the phone again, I made sure to immediately lower the volume.

"Killua, you know, it's mean to ignore people."

I laughed, "it's mean to bust people's eardrums."

"Hmm...maybe, but I know it makes you happy."

Breath caught in my throat. I faced my back towards Alluka so she wouldn't see the pink in my cheeks, "so what happened with you today?"

"Lots of things! Well, I somehow exploded my digital piano, so that sucked, but, I found a way we might be able to see each other tomorrow."

A smile curled my lips, "whereat?"

"Dunlavy Park. Aunt Mito will be attending church at that time."

"...okay," I was reluctant with my answer, knowing my mom would be suspicious, and there was a hesitation of asking my father, but it had to be done. Gon had always been the one to organize our meetings. It was unfair to him. I felt neglectent--like I was showing him I didn't care. But in reality, I was scared. "I'll figure something out," I said.

He hummed in affirmation.

"So, how did you manage to fulminate your keyboard?"

"Oh! Wait wait wait, I need to tell this story properly." He cleared his throat, "it was a dark and stormy night..."

I laughed all former doubts away. The doubts that caused me to dangerously doubt if Gon was right for me--the doubts that made me doubt Gon.

"...and that's how the middle C caused my beautiful piano to implode."

I recoiled over, laughing. I let my back fall on the silken sheets on top of my bed as he continued rambling about his oh-so-dramatizing day.

I was dying to see Gon, to pull him into a loving embrace instead of hearing him over the phone deteriorate and me being unable to do anything, to kiss him at random moments because those are the moments that matter most, or maybe to even fall asleep in his arms as I did the night of the stargazing from the swaying tree. I wanted Gon always beside me—no doubt there.

After hanging up with Gon, I skulked the corridors, eyes darting from room to room for my father. Alluka and I were staying at Father's house for the week. At the time, Father's house meant no bedtimes and video games every second of the day, and Mother's house meant getting disciplined and taken care of. Evidently, being stupid kids at the time, we liked Father's house more.

My dad owned a Game Center when I was born. Back in the day, when kids could only play together on LAN, that was the place all students went to play video games. Consequently, that led to me being addicted to video games at the age of two.

Yes, I was kicking teenagers' ass at PvP when I was two years old.

But that's beside the point.

This led to two things. One, entitling me to be the biggest geek on the planet. Two, developing nocturnal instincts, therefore, insomnia. I'm not sure what's worse.

I cracked the Game Room's door open, "Father?"

Father had glasses on, two disassembled PC's adjacent to his crouched figure. "Ah, Killua, could you help me build this computer? We're transporting a lot of data, and I need at least four fans to keep the computer from overheating."

I sighed, sitting next to him, grabbing a Phillips screwdriver, and getting to work.

I.T., typically a man's job. For that reason, I always felt guilty—guilty because Alluka was left out, but thankfully, she hasn't thought enough about it to feel abandoned. I continued to tinker with the neon fans, finally placing them in the correct order to enable proper airflow.

Father looked up, placing his big hands on my head, and patted me. When I was younger, I did everything as told to receive those simple, yet oh-so-wonderful pats on the head. I would do anything to make him proud of me. It meant everything.

"You always know what's right." He said.

I tilted my head, "you're the one that taught me-"

"No, not just electronics. A small smile curved his lips, "I mean that you always know what's right in general. It's your morality that you always listen to even when you doubt everything else about yourself. That's why I'm proud to work beside you in the family business."

My eyes widened. At the time, it was everything I ever wanted. I didn't say anything in response. I just smiled and plugged in the computer, LEDs flickering on, decorating the insides of the computer. Maybe there were some flaws about my father, but at the time, that's all it was: minor flaws.

After a few minutes of silence, I opened my mouth to ask my question. "Dad?" A small silence, "can I go to the park to meet with a friend?"

"Of course you can--as long as they're good friends." He sighed, "I fear Alluka doesn't choose the right people sometimes."

I frowned. He was right, and for that reason, Alluka felt insecure and always stuck around me like a superglue. Selfishly, I was okay with that, but I didn't think of the negative consequences for my sister. She seemed happy now, right?

I sauntered back to the bedroom I shared with Alluka, opening the door timidly. My gaze met her sleeping figure, her black hair disheveled, and body sprawled on every available space of bedding. Carefully tucking her in, I remembered one night, a night I cursed myself for overlooking because she suppresses her honest emotions more than everyone in the family. Maybe she wasn't happy, perhaps she's suffering and none of us know; what if it's my fault?

"Killua?" she had asked. That night was masked as any other night. We were both in bed, my back facing hers, "hmm?' I responded groggily.

"What am I doing wrong?"

I turned over, bewildered, "You aren't doing anything-"

"No, I must be," her voice cracked, "I try and abide by every rule, always doing as told, yet..." She began crying, and me being startled, did nothing, but she continued, "yet everyone likes you more. My friends, my teachers, even the family. I always thought it was because you were talented. I mean, you were one in five people to get accepted into the piano department, you won various art awards, you were captain of the track team, you got all A's, heck, you're even better at video games."

"It's because I'm older, Allu-"

"That's bullshit!"

I winced.

After a wordless time, sniffles echoing off the tall ceilings, Alluka continued, "The family tells me I'm not committed enough, but I try to be. I try to like music, I try to like sports, I try, but I can't help but give up."

I'm the same, I wanted to say. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her, maybe then she'd feel less alone. Perhaps she could still go to sleep happy like she so often is...or, so it seemed. I didn't realize then, but perhaps it wasn't too late.

Bringing myself back from memory lane, I plopped by the plain, white desk in front of the only window present in the basic bedroom. Grabbing a blank piece of paper and a few pencils, I began my craft.

'Killua, what do you want to do when you're older?' I remembered Gon asking.

"I want to be happy," I whispered to myself. Turning around, I watched Alluka snuffle with a plushie held close to her chest, "and I want you to be happy, too."

~*~

Dunlavy park was beautiful. It reminded me of an oasis amidst a dry, lifeless desert because even amongst Houston City, the city often categorized as having an awful climate and an unbearable amount of people, a city that no one lives in unless they have to, but even Houston had an oasis, a haven. It was spacious, rolling hills blurring in the distance, overgrowth neighboring towering oak trees, appearing almost purposeful, and the peace and quiet--the peace and quiet meant everything. Father had dropped me off, so for the first time since camp, Gon and I could be alone.

I ambled up a small hill, looking at the clear, blue sky as puffy clouds accompanied the light breeze of winter, my clothing crinkling as well. Here I could close my eyes and feel safe, here is where everything felt right.

"Killua!"

I spun around to see Gon running towards me from a distance, and I wondered if I ever smiled so big in my life.

Before I could catch a breath, Gon crushed me in an embrace. He hummed, "I missed you so much."

I shivered at his breath fanning my exposed neck, thanking whatever deity that Gon is here with me in his arms. Wet droplets fell on my shoulder, "Gon?" I squeezed his shoulders, laughing a little, "Are you crying?"

He laughed, his face still tucked into my neck and my face still resting on his shoulders, "I guess I am." He pulled away, and even though I knew it couldn't last forever, I found it hard to push down my disappointment.

"This place is beautiful," I said-- just to make conversation.

Gon began walking ahead, gesturing for me to follow, "Isn't it? I come here all the time. It's the only place my aunt lets me go to be by myself."

I trailed closely behind him, watching as his tank top revealed his bulging shoulder blades. Then my eyes traveled to his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, every part of him so firm--I knew from experience. Just observing him had me swallow hard. I didn't think it was even possible for Gon to get more and more attractive each time I saw him. 'Guess he proved me wrong.

Gon had a whole picnic set upon a nice, quilted blanket. He flopped down, eyeing me with a suggestive smile, "you like?"

I rolled my eyes, "yes, Gon, you're amazing."

I perked up when seeing a snickers bar invade my vision. Snatching it, I instantly tore it open and began nibbling on it.

He laughed, "That statement is only sarcastic until I feed you."

"Yeah, yeah," I said dismissively, munching between syllables. "So," munch munch, "what's the plan?"

"I'd rather show you."

"Hmm, okay."

After finishing my chocolate bar, quite satisfied, I might add, he grabbed my hand, pulling me towards a humongous oak tree, probably the biggest one I've ever seen. "Yeah, I'm not climbing that." I deadpanned.

"Aw, but the view is great from up there. I could always pick you up again," Gon added with a smirk.

"Pfft, you think because you're taller and got all bulked up, I'd trust you with picking me up?" I suspiciously eyed him, "how do I know you won't drop me?"

He took a step closer, too close. Damn it, Gon!

"Because I'm taller and bulked up." His palm swiped across my shoulder, and I remained still as a statue when circled behind me. Suddenly, I'm feeling his breath caress my ear, "you said it, not me."

I tried so desperately to suppress a shiver, not wanting to give him any semblance of victory. Alas, that failed. "Idiot," but the insult lacked bite.

Gon's fingers feathered under the hem of my shirt. Red coated my cheeks, "Gon-"

"I'm going to lift you on the count of three."

Just like the old days, but this time, I didn't protest. His solid, calloused palms pressed my sides as he gently lifted me. My arms came intact with the rough bark of the tree, limbs entwining around the branch. With fluency, I pulled my body up. Gon followed close behind. Finally reaching the top with little assistance, I flopped down on the top branch, panting.

"The Killua Zoldyck getting out of shape?"

"Shut up, moron. It's not like a performing arts school has athletics."

"There's the dance department." He replied pointedly.

"Like hell I could get into that."

Gon chuckled, "while I do like muscles, I'd rather not be topped."

"Of course you'd think of that, pervert," I raised my eyebrows, bemused, "keep talking like that and you aren't getting anything."

Gon moaned in distress, "I'm going to die a virgin."

We laughed.

A moment later, Gon began climbing down, "I think it'll be more comfortable to cloud gaze from below. After all, it took a lot of effort to sneak the quilt out of the house," he grimaced.

I nodded.

Upon reaching the ground, Gon grabbed the blanket, and I followed him up the grassy hill. He gingerly flattened it out, laying down with a thud, then signaled me to lay with him after I caught myself staring. I awkwardly let my back rest against the softest blanket I have ever encountered. I sighed in content. Everything felt perfect.

Gon pointed at a cloud above, "that one looks like a constipated dog."

I choked. Fucking...Gon.

Laughing a bit, he continued, "but as lovely as naming the shapes of clouds is, I'd much rather look at you."

And just as quickly as Gon got me to laugh, I grew flustered. I couldn't fathom how he could say such things with indifference, and I only grew redder when Gon leaned above me. His amber eyes glistened, his hair too tempting to sink my fingers into; his flawless smile accentuated everything in the right places.

"Killua, can I kiss you?"

I made a quiet noise.

His face inched closer by the second, my incredulous expression faded by the moment, and I finally gave in when our shared breath lingered. The fresh mint with something else present in his scent had all nerves spike, arousal twisting in my gut. Instinctively, my eyes fluttered shut.

The first touch was swift and experimental. It came as fast as it went, but kissing the boy I was enamored with meant everything. "Haven't done that in a while," whispered Gon. His chapped lips brushed against mine as he spoke.

I smiled, "too long."

Our lips meant once again, gaining more momentum and confidence with each breath and prudent touch. His thumb swiped against my reddening cheek, and my fingers crawled upwards to gently tug on a handful of thick, black locks. Even though I relished every moment, the selfish desire in me wanted more. I yearned for him to lose himself in me, to break the ice-thin feeling of insecurity and uncertainty with much more confided ones, but for now, this would do. We had all the time we needed. Why rush it?

My heart thumped rapidly, and a smile stuck to my face as Gon feathered kisses along my cheeks, the bridge of my nose, my eyelids, and back to my lips with a peck before letting go and sitting up to fidget with something.

"What are you doing?" I asked, feeling a bit whiney from the loss of warmth.

Gon pressed his palm on my chest to prevent me from sitting up, "it's a surprise."

After apparently finding what he needed, he tucked his face in my neck, flopping all his weight on me. He hummed, "I love you."

I hummed back a quiet response. He could say it a million times, and I don't think I'd ever get used to it. I wouldn't ever want to get used to it because I didn't want anything to change from where it stood at that moment.

He pulled out a ring. I jolted up, "Gon, what are you doing-"

Gon rested his head on my stomach like a small child, "it's for you," he mumbled, a grin tugging his right lip. He grabbed my hand, thick finger's prying it open and dropping the ring inside. Slowly, he molded by hand into a fist, squeezing it with care, "Maybe, it can be another item you'll have to remind yourself of me."

I opened my hand, and on my palm was a shimmering silver ring with crushed opal lining the middle. Colors gleamed like splashed watercolor, like Gon. I bit my lip to prevent it from trembling and gently closed my palm once more. "Thank you, Gon."

~*~

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay. (Robert Frost)

I read this poem from The Outsiders, the only book that didn't feel mandatory to read in seventh grade English. It was a story about kids, and that's all they were--merely children adapting to the unraveling injustices of society. Funny enough, it's the kids that handled troublesome situations more like adults. Maybe we're all children, maybe that's the plague in our society: the utter selfishness of children, or perhaps it's the light--the shining brightness of naivety, of innocence, yet even that can be destructive.

For me, maturity came with the abandonment of others. It came with the harsh realization of the genuinely selfish nature of humanity and how we are all taught to avoid any risky situation to avoid danger as often as possible. All the social experiments conducted: kids starving on the streets, the kid getting beat up in the hallway, and all of us with our phones out recording--it's all the same. But, did you ever think about the victim? If you're honest with yourself, then probably not. We never think about the victim until we become one.

A famous quote in The Outsiders is to "stay gold," meaning, stay unblemished; stay uncorrupted by the corrupters of society. I couldn't help but relate it to the fact that optimism relies on hope, and hope can be associated with innocence, and only children have that. Perhaps we're all pessimists, and the optimists are liars, and maybe, lying to yourself is good. Hell, I wish I was better at it.

Regardless, nothing gold can stay.

Annually, our family goes on a winter vacation to Keystone, Colorado--since Houston never snows. It was one vacation that we all gotta do what we wanted without it conflicting. Alluka loved skiing, and I promised to try snowboarding out with my dad as a teacher. The plane ride was strenuous, babies crying, nearly losing our luggage, and a hazardous snowstorm, yet here we were, hopping out of the rented vehicle at the base of the mountain. Alluka went straight for a pile of snow, shaping a snowball with her knitted gloves and throwing it directly at my ass.

Remorsefully, I did not dodge in time.

"Alluka, that was an unfair shot!"

She snickered, "since when were you one to play fair?"

Touche.

I grabbed four snowballs and began chasing her.

After a vicious snowball fight that resulted in snow compiled in rather unfortunate places, Dad gave us our gear and helped us on the gondola. Mom stayed behind to get some grocery shopping done.

"Ready to go down the mountain?" Dad asked.

Alluka responded with an enthusiastic cheer.

Once reaching the peak, we started on level Green, which is the easiest path. What they left out is it was the easiest path for skiers and not snowboarders. While Alluka figured out how to ski, I was stuck walking down the mountain. Since snowboarders don't have poles to get them through flat spots, we have to gain enough momentum to stay moving through those areas, but that meant going astray from the rest of the family.

And since I'm already complaining about the injustices snowboarders frequently face, it's only appropriate to mention: Ski Lifts. Now, I don't know which motherfucker invented these, but it definitely didn't aid my cause. I had always been considered indecisive, and sadly, not having a dominant foot or hand didn't contradict that. While that did have its advantages in piano, it didn't with snowboarding. On the first ski lift, Father told me I should never completely unhook my foot from the board. Though I was reluctant, I complied.

The first step off the chair lift, snowboard slipped, and I flew down the mountain.

I'm sure those pictures of me tumbling down the mountain and looking like a snowman will come back to haunt me.

Snow is unforgiving.

Anyway, the day came to a close. We made our way back to the base of the mountain, Alluka had the duty of not leaving out any detail of my adventure to Mom, and we packed up everything in the trunk. Father left to get something at a store temporarily and stayed gone for half an hour, but we didn't care. Everything was perfect. Alluka and I had a constant smile on our faces.

At least, until he came back with a bottle of hard liquor in his hands.

When he opened the car door, Mother and I went completely silent. As forceful as a blizzard, the stench of alcohol flooded the closed space, and my blood ran cold.

Father scavenged for his phone, "Any help, or are you that useless?" he whispered to my mother, but only her and I heard.

Mom hesitantly handed him his phone.

"I heard from a buddy that they allow night skiing now. Alluka, how about you come with me?"

My heart plummeted. She would be completely helpless alone with him drunk.

Mother interjected, "Alluka isn't going night skiing. She's only ten."

An Alcoholic--an abusive one. He abuses the substance and others around him. The moment I saw the bottle of clear liquid in his hands, I knew everything we had was ruined. He would scream at mom, interrogate me, and leave Alluka alone like she never existed. When he's told no, that's when the danger gets severe.

Father's face turned red from anger, he began to show his gritted teeth.

"I'll go!" I said suddenly.

Mom looked at me in horror.

I continued, stumbling a bit on my words, "I didn't get to snowboard much today, and I never snowboarded at night before." I needed to save the family from him.

Dad responded with a toothy grin, "great, I'll get the gear from the trunk."

When he closed the door, all that was left was silence and dread.

I jumped out of the car, and Mom rolled the window down, our gaze never meeting, "this is the stupidest decision you've ever made."

Before I could reply, she drove away.

The sun began setting, my clothing dampened from snowflake after snowflake landing on the fabric. I was sore, too sore, but I had to distract him.

"Killua, *hic* look at those snowboarders," he pointed at a couple passing by.

I sweatdropped, "yes, let's get on the gondola before it's too late."

Dad was unresponsive.

"Let's get on the gondola before it's too late," I repeated.

Finally, he looked up, eyes unfocused, "Gondola...gondola," he laughed, "Oh, we have to get on the gondola!"

It was sickening, his disgusting breath, the smell of sweat, and I knew I had to be as obedient as possible. I was scared, terrified even, but I'm protecting Mom and Alluka, I told myself.

'This is the stupidest decision you've ever made,'

If it meant saving them, I'd do it again, and again, and again.

I threw my board down, coughing. Blood splattered on my frozen, and completely dysfunctional hand. It had to be past midnight, "Dad," I called out over and over again, "Silva Zoldyck!" No answer. I lost him on the way down the mountain. He could be miles away, and I would never know. The wind was brutal, the feeling of needles pressed on my face. My voice weakened, and my throat grew hoarse as I called out my father's name amongst the gushing wind.

My blood spotted the unblemished snow. "Silva...Zoldyck," I chocked out.

Giving up, I flopped down on the snow, "it's all unfair," I mumbled out, water freely streaming down my face. "It's all so unfair." I watched unfazed as the blood dispersed on the snow's surface, I watched as the scarlet color clawed its way and eradicated all purity in the process; I watched, helpless, weak.

Suddenly, the ring Gon gave me glistened reflected starlight. What am I doing? I have to find Dad. We have to both get home safe.

As I buckled myself back in, I stood up with a wobble. Gon was right, I was getting out of shape. I sped down the mountain, lifting the board and jumping over small hills, and smiling as the icy wind blowing my white bangs out of my face. Everything can still go well tonight. All I have to do is get us back safely, and Dad could've exercised off the alcohol, and Mom can sleep happily!

Around two hours later, I finally reached the base of the mountain, and my face lit up when finding Father made it down the same path, and only a few minutes later.

But I made a horrible miscalculation.

His water bottle wasn't holding water. It was holding alcohol. My blood ran cold, my heart dropping to my stomach. He wasn't exercising off the alcohol. Instead, he was more intoxicated than ever.

I scrambled to grab my phone. I needed to call Mom or somebody immediately.

It froze.

In denial, I kept pressing the buttons, "come on, come on, come on-"

Out of nowhere, a swift punch to the jaw had me slam to the ground. Coughing and spitting, I shakily reached forward to pull myself up.

"You didn't think to wait for me?!" yelled an all-too-familiar voice.

Another blow to the stomach. Blood splattered, dripped, and puddled. I waited for it to stop because that's all I could do: wait.

And then it stopped, I glanced up to see Father passed out on the bench. It was my chance to shuffle through his bag. My fingers latched onto the water bottle. I threw it as far as I could and continued scavenging until I finally found his phone.

I didn't know the password.

No, no, no!

He woke up again; I flinched. "Give me my phone!" he demanded.

I complied.

"You didn't even call that woman? How could I raise such stupid kids..."

I didn't dare cry, but the words stung.

That's when I was saved by a miracle--three men walked towards the bus stop. I never ask for help, but this time, I needed it. I scurried over to them, "I'm sorry to bother you, but can I please borrow your phone?"

They paused, eyeing me suspiciously.

Desperate, I began to ramble, "My father is drunk, I don't know the name of the hotel I'm staying at, and I need to call my mother. Please...please let me use your phone. It'll be quick, I promise!"

They stared at me as if they were mocking my vulnerability. And then, to my utter dismay, they walked away.

Tears began gushing down--not because Father beat me up, not because of those hurtful words that played over and over again like a broken record inside my head, but because three men didn't bother to show a single act of humanity for something as simple as lending a phone call; I was crying because they didn't want to get involved with something so bothersome. It was then I realized the truth.

As my tears ran dry, I glanced back to find my father passed out again. Clothing wet, nose bleeding, blood stained on my jacket, my right hand frozen, and with a dead phone, I began walking. I didn't know where I was going--it didn't matter.

Maybe I'd find my way back, maybe not, but I knew one thing for sure: nothing gold can stay.