Author's Notes:

This chapter will dive into some darker topics. For this reason, as of posting this chapter, this story will be given the Dark tag. You have been warned.

The hospital was a large, white building, at least twenty floors high and a cavernous basement below. Pure-white light fixtures adorned the ceiling, and they reflected glaringly off of the meticulously scrubbed floor. Most rooms were empty, so it was quiet aside from the occasional beeping of some unseen machinery.

The bench was cold, but she didn’t think it wise to complain. Daddy and Mommy were inside one of the rooms. Waiting here, she counted the dots on the floor, then on the ceiling, squinting under the harsh light. There were a lot of them, and they were blue and purple and there were even a few that looked to be either green or yellow. It was kind of exciting at first—she always did like counting things. But then boredom settled in. The bench was still cold. It had probably always been cold, ever since this morning.

This morning.

She remembered this morning. Mommy had been preparing breakfast when she started groaning. Then she said some bad words and Daddy rushed in and Mommy said that she felt her water break—which didn’t make sense because how could waters break? Wasn’t water a liquid?—and she said she had to go to the hospital and Daddy agreed. Then Daddy had told her to quickly grab a snack and her stuffed elephant and head to the garage. She did so because she was scared because Mommy was still yelling and saying bad words and it seemed like she was being mean and Daddy looked not mad, not sad, but nervous.

Daddy carried Mommy down the stairs into the garage and she followed after him. They all got into the car and drove off and it was weird because she got to sit up front while Mommy sat in the back which was where she usually sat but she guessed that today wasn’t a usual day.

By then, Mommy’s bad wording had stopped, and she was breathing heavily like she had been running around a playground. Daddy kept telling her to breathe while they sped down the highway and Mommy told him to be quiet and let her groan in peace. She asked Daddy what was going on; was Mommy going to be okay? And Daddy looked at her and gave her a small smile and said that Mommy’s baby was coming.

So that brought her here, on the cold bench, waiting for Mommy and Daddy to come out.

She didn’t mind it too much. The hospital staff were nice and all. One of them gave her a lollipop, and even though it was still morning and she wasn’t allowed to have candies until dinner, she decided that after she ate all of her raisins she’d eat that lollipop. But she was a slow eater; her raisin box was still halfway full. The lollipop was stuck in her pocket.

There wasn’t anyone else in the hall. It was kind of weird but, then again, it was early. Maybe they were all asleep? She didn’t understand that. Why would people want to sleep more than normal? Then there was less time to do things!

On the other hand, this was Manehattan, and her dad had told her that it was the city that never slept. If she concentrated, she could hear the unmistakable honking of hundreds of cars—that was a really big number!—blaring past.

All of that, though, didn’t quite outweigh her boredom. She tried counting the dots again but that was also boring and she didn’t really like that. She wondered if she could find a toy room but this was a hospital and they probably didn’t have any. That, and she didn’t want to wander too far because Mommy and Daddy were almost done and she didn’t want to miss them.

There was a sudden creaking that caught her off guard. She turned and saw that the door had opened. A tall man in a white outfit walked outside, and he was smiling kindly.

“Honey?” he called.

“My name’s not ‘Honey,’” she interrupted. “It’s Ruby. Ruby Frost! And I’m seven years old!” she added proudly.

“Oh, my mistake,” the man replied. “It’s just that your mother and father said you were the sweetest thing. And honey is pretty sweet.”

“Yep, it definitely is!”

“Well, then, Ruby, your mother and father are ready for you now. Would you like to come in?”

She hopped off of the bench and grabbed her stuffed elephant and carton of raisins. “Is everything okay?” she asked the man.

“Everything is okay,” he said.

They walked inside the room. It was bright and cold and Ruby shivered because it was cold. She wondered if she should have brought a jacket. She saw Daddy standing right by a big bed. The bed had Mommy on it, and she had what looked like a small bundle of clothes in her hands, and she was cooing ever so softly. Both Mommy and Daddy looked up when they saw she and the tall, white-outfitted man enter.

“Over there,” the man said. “There they are.”

She tentatively walked to them, gripping her elephant and raisins. “Mommy? Daddy?” she called. There was a question on her lips but she couldn’t find it in her to say it.

Daddy spoke first. “Hey, sweetie. You doing okay?”

“Uh-huh. Is Mommy okay, too?”

“Mommy is okay,” Mommy said. She sounded tired.

“Really? Because I heard screaming but the hospital staff told me it was okay and then the screaming stopped and—”

Mommy let out a laugh. “Mommy’s fine, Ruby. It was painful but it’s over.”

“Ruby,” Daddy said softly, leaning down to her, “Mommy has a new baby boy. Would you like to see him?”

Ruby’s eyes widened, and she excitedly nodded. Daddy lifted her up and plopped her on the bed. Mommy tilted the bundle so that she could see what lay inside.

It was pale and bald and its eyes were closed but it was definitely a boy—after all, it was about as ugly as one. It was breathing softly. Its nose was small and its cheeks were kind of chunky. Ruby scrunched up her face. “That’s my brother?”

The hospital staff laughed, and Daddy laughed, and so did Mommy. “Yes, Ruby,” she said, “that’s your new, baby brother.”

“He’s ugly. He looks like an egg.”

Mommy let out a gasp. “Ruby!... Although, now that you mention it… hmmm.”

Ruby tilted her head. “But, I guess he’s kinda cute. Ugly-cute. Uglute? Cugly?”

The baby opened his eyes, and Ruby gasped. They were a brilliant and bright shade of blue—later she’d hear Mommy describe them as being cerulean—and they looked at her with curiosity. “Yes,” Mommy cooed to the baby, “that’s your sister. That’s your sister, Ruby! And over there behind her is Daddy! And I’m Mommy!”

The baby babbled something incoherent. It suddenly smiled. The staff and Mommy and Daddy all collectively “aw’d.”

The tall man in the white outfit came over. “Looks like the birth was a success, Mrs. Frost.”

Mommy nodded. “Yes, that does look like it.”

“And now you’ve a darling boy to add to your family,” he said, smiling down at Ruby. “You must be excited! You’re going to be his older sister. That means you have to take care of him, too.”

She nodded fiercely. “I mean, he’s ugly, but I’ll still love him.”

The doctor nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m sure in time he’ll grow into a handsome young man. But for the moment, could you give him here, Mrs. Frost?”

A nurse came over with an ink pad. Mommy took off part of the blanket and presented the baby’s foot. The man lightly placed it in the ink. Then, another nurse came over with a piece of paper, and the man took the foot and placed it on the paper, leaving behind a small imprint.

“Now all that’s left is for you to decide his name,” he said.

Mommy and Daddy looked between each other. They smiled. “Artifex,” Daddy said. “Artifex Frost.”

The man took out a pen and wrote it down on the paper. “Quite an exotic-sounding name,” he said. “What does it mean?”

“Author,” Ruby answered, surprising him. She gave him a pointed look. “What? Mommy and Daddy already explained to me what it means.”

“You were planning.” The man nodded, then presented the paper to Mommy and Daddy. Daddy took it. “And now for the final touch,” he said. He flicked his wrist and a man came out wearing a suit. He had a camera in his hands. “Smile!”

Ruby barely had enough time to smile. The flash went off; Artifex began to cry. Mommy cooed him into silence while Daddy rubbed the back of his head.

“Oops,” the man in the suit said with a sheepish grin.

Ruby looked back at the bundle. Artifex had some tears in his eyes, but they made them twinkle and shine even more. He looked at her through the tears and seemed to calm down. Her smile widened, and she let out an excited squeal.

She was a sister now!

“Uguh.”

“No, that’s a block. Say block.”

“Bwa.”

Ruby sighed and tossed some of her red hair out of her face. “Come on, Artifex, you can do this. It’s really easy! It’s only one syllable!”

The baby stared at her with those alarmingly rich, cerulean eyes, then made the same sound again. Ruby’s mother poked her head in. There was a phone in her hand. “Ruby? Still trying to teach Artifex how to talk?”

She looked back at her mother. “Yup! But, I don’t think he gets it yet.”

“Well, you can’t force a baby to say his first word until he suddenly says it. Your first word, I believe, was no, and that was over whether or not you’d eat your green beans.”

Ruby made a face. “I’ll still say no. Beans are gross!”

Her mother laughed. “Well, wait until you’re Grandma’s age. Then you’ll think they’re pretty cool.”

She walked away. Ruby heard her dial someone—another client, presumably—and soon the kitchen was filled with the sounds of chatter.

It had been nearly nine months since Artifex had been born. They’d spent a majority of those months settling the baby into their cozy Manehattan apartment. The boxes that had once housed several baby products and toys lay in front of the door; Ruby’s father would have to put them out eventually. In those nine months, the seasons had changed thrice. In place of summer-blue-sky blankets and pillows, now, thanks to the influence of the father, the apartment had been decorated with numerous Christmas memorabilia. The sofas were red with green pillows and blankets. A large tree had been brought in, and was to be decorated tomorrow.

It was warm in the apartment. Ruby stopped paying attention to her brother and climbed one of the sofas. She looked outside. Snow covered the ground, and under the late Manehattan lights, it had a coppery-tint. She saw some people walking by, hunkered down under numerous layers. The wind was fierce and blew against the window and made a wailing noise.

“Oogh,” she groaned as she watched some snow drop off of a tree. “Mr. Foster isn’t gonna like shoveling that up.”

She jumped off of the couch and landed back in front of her brother. He had one of the wooden cubes that had come with a toy set in his hands, but when he saw her sister, he dropped it and happily clapped and giggled. She couldn’t help but smile. Artifex had stopped looking so ugly a few months ago. His smile was small and cute, and it made her heart soar.

“Who’s a cutie-tootie-pie? You are! You are!” She playfully grabbed his cheeks and tugged them. Artifex giggled and drooled. She wiped his drool onto her skirt, but she still smiled. “You are just too adorable to get mad at, Arty,” she said, and she hugged him.

The boy babbled incomprehensibly. It sounded kind of like a faucet running, which made Ruby laugh even more.

She tried to get him to talk some more, or at least to say something that resembled words, but all he did was babble and gaggle like a… well, like a baby. She sighed. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she couldn’t rush things. If Artifex was going to talk, he was going to talk, and he’d choose what that first word would be.

Grrgle.

She looked down. “Oh. Guess I’m hungry.” She looked at Artifex with her head half-tilted. “What about you, little guy? Hungry, too?”

He, instead of babbling, raised his arms and pointed them at her. “What? Do you want to be picked up?”

“R-r-r—”

“Hmm? Red? Well, yeah, that’s the color of my hair. Want to play with it?”

She leaned forward, thinking he wanted to grab a string or two. But he instead touched her face, touched her cheeks and nose. “Roobee,” he said.

She blinked. “H-huh?”

“Roobee,” he said again. “Roobee!”

“‘Roobee?’ Wait, do you mean ‘Ruby?’ As in, me?”

In answer, he smiled at her. He clapped his hands again.

Ruby began to back up. Slowly, a smile creeped across her face. “Ohmigosh, ohmigosh! Mom! Mom!”

She heard her mother suddenly drop her phone and rush into the room. “What? What is it? What happened?”

“Arty said his first word! He said my name! He said my name!”

She didn’t notice her mother regard her with a bewildered look and turn to Artifex like she expected for him to provide an explanation. He simply smiled, pointed at his sister, and said, “Roobee.”

In the cold, December night, it became considerably warmer in the apartment.

The door was covered with various drawings and signs, warning anyone who did not have explicit permission to enter. Its brown coat was contrasted by the number of yellow and red caution signs. There had been a bronze hanger that used to hang Christmas ornaments, but it had long since broken off, and while a nail would have sufficed, in her father’s words, “that would be ugly.”

Ruby stood in front of the door, arms crossed. Her lips were pressed into a tight frown. She’d come out of the shower and changed quickly when she heard the front door slam, so her hair was still relatively wet and smelled like lime. Her concern, however, was on what lay beyond the door.

Tilting her head, she listened. The sound coming from inside broke her heart. It was the sound of a young boy in pain, crying, whimpering, weeping for the unanswerable why’s of the world. It was soft, quiet. It was just like him, she realized; refined, held back even when unleashed. She had heard him cry when he was a baby, yet here he was, unwilling to let that dam explode.

She considered her options. Something told her that he did not want to talk at all. But something else told her that maybe he needed someone to talk to.

Being fourteen, she doubted she could provide anything remotely comforting. She was still contending with a bad breakup, homework, and the typical drama that came with the age, but there—right there, damn it!—behind the door was the person that needed her the most. No amount of doubt could mask that truth.

She took a deep breath, raised a hand, and knocked twice.

The crying stopped.

“Artifex?” she called. “Are you in there?”

It was an obvious question with an obvious answer, meant to slowly bring the boy out. “Y-yeah,” he said, and he said it so softly that she had to lean her head against the door.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah…”

They both knew that was a lie. Ruby sighed.

“Artifex,” she said, “what happened today?”

“N-nothing. Go away.” Please help.

“Do you really want me to go away?” I will, just let me in.

“Yes, please.” Please, I need help.

“Well, I’m not leaving anytime soon. Not until you let me in and tell me what’s wrong.” I know, I’m trying.

“Go away, Ruby,” he said. His voice was uncharacteristically hard. “I don’t want to talk to you. You wouldn’t understand.” I need someone. I need you.

“Try me.” Let me help you. I can help you.

There was silence for several moments. Ruby almost thought that Artifex had fallen asleep. Then she heard shuffling, like some cloth object was being moved.

She heard him sniff. “O-okay… you can come in.” Thank you.

She twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

A sorrowful sight greeted her.

Artifex Frost, sitting on his bed, was hunched over. His white hair was a mess; he’d probably been pulling at it. His face was strewn with tears that dripped down into his lap. His bed was a mess. While he had taken measures to at least make the pillows look fluffy, the blankets had been thrown all over, and she saw visible wet marks in the fuzzy cloth.

His backpack lay against his bed, zippers pulled open, books spilling out. It was still wet from the rain. She wondered why he hadn’t bothered bringing an umbrella. She could see what looked like pieces of paper crumpled in one of the pockets.

She grabbed the nearby tissue box and walked over, and placed the box on the bed beside the boy. He didn’t respond. She sat down next to him. She heard a large truck rumble past their apartment, and she smelled gasoline leak through the open window. She heard some pigeons flap their wings and chirp and swoop by them. Even though the clouds above masked the sun and made it dark, the city was alive and well.

She looked at Artifex. He seemed to be tilting his head away from her, like he was hiding something—no. No, that couldn’t be—

“Oh my God, Artifex, what happened?” she exclaimed, suddenly grabbing him by the shoulders. He turned to face her, and she could more clearly see the mark that speared across his thin, pale cheeks.

It was a bruise. Dark and menacing, it looked absolutely painful. An immature part of her wondered if it really did hurt and was tempted to poke it. Artifex tried to move away, but she held him in place. She examined the bruise thoroughly.

“Who did this?” she asked.

“I-it doesn’t matter—”

“Who did this?!” she shouted. She clenched her fists. “I swear, if it was that Hoity kid—”

“No, it wasn’t him!” Artifex shouted, shocking her. He suddenly appeared excited, vibrant; then, just as suddenly, he became morose and despondent. “I-I mean—nothing happened, honest.”

“Artifex. Who hit you.”

He couldn’t hide from her piercing gaze. “It… it was another kid. You wouldn’t know him…”

“What’s his name?”

Artifex told her. She nodded. “Don’t worry, Artifex. We’ll make sure that he gets his rightful punishment.”

“No!” Suddenly gripping her sleeve, he pled with her, “You can’t do that!”

“Artifex! You’ve been hit!” she replied. “We have to take action or it’ll happen again—”

“It won’t happen again,” Artifex insisted. “I-I promise, it won’t! I’ll—I’ll do better, really! It—it won’t happen again.”

“Do better? Artifex, what do you mean?”

He gulped, momentarily falling silent. “It’s true that I was hit… but…”

“But?”

“But I made sure he knew that I didn’t like that, but I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened and—”

“Artifex, slow down!” She held him by the shoulders again. “Please. Just tell me what happened.”

He did, and it came out in sobs and anguished tones. It was the story of a boy driven to tears by the mere words of his peers. It was the story of one peer taking the leap and inflicting further injury upon him. It was the story of a cornered prey, with a sudden surge of strength and anger, lashing out and catching the hunter by surprise and knocking them to the ground. It was the story of that prey subsiding into a crying child, terrified by and repentant for what he had done. It was the story of one who had been hurt, had hurt someone, and still remained in pain.

When he was done, his face was soaked with tears. Ruby’s heart fell. She reached over to the tissue box and wiped the tears away. His cries became sniffles. He leaned against her and soaked her shirt but she didn’t push him away. She held him close.

They stayed like that in silence for many minutes. There were no trucks rushing by; no gasoline wafting through the windows; no birds that chirped or flew on past their apartment. The world maintained a respectful silence for the two children who needed it the most.

Eventually, she had to ask, “Did you knock him out?”

“No… it hurt, too…”

She held his hand. It was scraped and bleeding. She covered it in another tissue. “It should. You punched with the flat of your fingers, not the knuckles. You might have broken them if you hadn’t been so lucky.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Why were they bothering you in the first place?”

In answer, he pointed to his backpack. Ruby picked it up and set in on her lap. She found some books—not textbooks—in there. They were large and thick; novels, fiction and nonfiction. She flipped through some of them. There were several bookmarks and dog ears at the corners; some parts were underlined in a dull, black pen. The pages were worn; they’d been read over and over and over again, deeply loved, deeply coveted, safely guarded.

She set the books to the side and dug into the pockets of Artifex’s backpack. She felt for the crumpled notes and took them out and unraveled them. Reading them, her eyes widened, and her hands shook. Her mouth tightened into a furious frown. There were mean words and insults and jabs and more; some had gotten notoriously creative.

She looked at Artifex. He wasn’t looking anywhere but down. Tempted to tear the papers apart, she forced herself to let out a cathartic sigh and put the papers aside. There would be no need to discuss such words. They spoke for themselves. Ruby doubted she could convince Artifex to think otherwise anyway.

“They said I’m a bookworm,” Artifex said. “That I’ll never get any friends by burying myself in some dusty, old novel. They said that I’ll never get a girlfriend. They said so many things, sis… it all hurt. It all hurt so much.”

He fell against her, his voice falling soft. “And… I wonder if they’re right?”

“Artifex!”

He went on. “I mean, I don’t have a lot of friends anyway… maybe none at all. And when I’m around people who want to talk, I get tongue-tied and I don’t have much to say… and then they look at me like I’m weird.”

He shifted around and looked at Ruby. “Ruby, am I weird?”

She considered saying “of course not,” but a part of her knew that Artifex wasn’t really asking a question so much as confirming a sneaking suspicion. She sighed and said, “Everyone’s weird in their own way, Arty. We all are.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s what I keep thinking. Doesn’t stop it from hurting.”

She didn’t say anything for a good while. Neither did he.

She ran her fingers through his hair and sighed again. “Oh, Arty… I’m so sorry you have to deal with all of that.”

He looked at her. “Ruby… what should I do? I can’t just go to school tomorrow. I’m gonna get hurt again!”

She looked at him. “Artifex,” she said, “are you sorry?”

“Yes!”

“Really sorry?”

“Really sorry.” He looked away. “I… I shouldn’t have punched him. Not even he deserves to be hurt.”

Ruby regarded her brother with surprise. He’d been verbally attacked, and physically assaulted—and still he was sorry he had thrown a punch at all. A part of her thought that the perpetrator deserved it; but another part of her saw something in Artifex, something strong, stronger than anything that would want him to hurt people back.

He was the sweetest person she had ever known—and she knew that would make him a victim for a good while. People just picked on people who cared too much. There was no easy way out of this.

But that didn’t mean it had no end.

She cupped his head in her hands. “You can do something, Artifex.”

“What’s that?”

“Move.”

“Move?”

She nodded. “You have to move, Artifex. You have to keep moving. You can’t let this get to you.”

“But, Ruby, they’ll just keep coming after me. They’ll just keep thinking I’m weird.”

“Then use that to your advantage. What do they think makes you weird?”

He thought about it. “I dunno… I guess I know a lot more than other kids my age? Some of the teachers say that I’m really smart for my age.”

“Then there you go. You can use that.”

“How?”

“You said that you never had anything interesting to say? Maybe you can pull something smart out of that big brain of yours and say it in an interesting manner.”

“But, Ruby, I can’t just say facts—”

“Then don’t say facts. Say it—say it like it’s a story that you want to tell.” She offered a smile. “I mean, that’s what you like to do, right? Tell stories?”

“Maybe.” He sounded still unsure. “I mean, I know my name means ‘author,’ but that doesn’t mean I can tell a story.”

“Could you try? For me?”

He considered it. “… Okay,” he said in a quiet voice.

“There’ll be times that it’ll look bleak,” she continued. “You’ll look outside and it’ll look dark. You won’t see any light. You might even think you’re alone, that you’re on your own. But trust me when I say this, Arty: the light is never so far away. You just have to keep moving, keep traveling, keep pushing on, and you’ll find it.”

“Are you sure, Ruby? It’s… it’s still scary to me to go back there, to school. What if the other kids don’t like me still?”

“You can’t make everyone like you,” Ruby admitted. “But that shouldn’t stop you from trying to make friends.”

“Ruby—”

“Please listen, Artifex. Okay? A lot of people may seem mean, but not all people are. Some watch because they don’t know what to do. They only see one side of you and they don’t see or know of the other. Maybe some might want to really be your friend; maybe they just need to see who you really are.”

Artifex looked confused; he didn’t quite understand. Ruby tried again. “Picture it like a book, right? You read a book from usually one character’s point of view. You don’t deviate from that view. But throughout the book, the main character sees and meets other characters along the way. If the character tries hard enough, those characters will love them for being them, and they will become friends.”

“That seems highly selective.”

Ruby let out a little chuckle. “Always so perceptive and disbelieving. Have a little faith, won’t you?”

She sighed—that was becoming a bad habit. “Artifex. If you put your best self out there, people will respond positively. Trust me; I know from experience. Maybe some people will say some bad words, but more likely, people will say nice things, kind things. Be yourself and be confident in yourself.”

He was silent for a moment, before asking, “So… you’re saying I have to believe in who I am in order for people to like me?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“But… what if they don’t?”

She looked at him and saw that he looked completely empty, and her heart fell further into her stomach. He needed something to bring him back from the brink.

“People,” she said, “are inherently good, Artifex. Their desire to do good is stronger than their desire to do bad. When it counts, they’ll side with you, because they’ll see that you’re a good person to love and admire.”

“Maybe…”

“Friendship is a funny thing, Artifex. You can’t predict where it’ll show up.”

He was silent at that. Ruby combed her fingers through his hair. She listened for the city and heard nothing but a peaceful street.

“Ruby?” he asked.

“Yeah, Arty?”

“How do you know any of that?”

She smiled down at him. The answer was obvious. “Because you’re my brother, and I know that you’re a good person who’s going to do good things with his life. I love you very much, Artifex. And I know you’ve the strength to shine through this dark day.”

Words failed him. He wrapped his arms around his older sister and hugged her, and she held him back and said nothing.

They stayed like that for a good while.

“Ruby?”

“Mmhmm?”

“… I’m gonna try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

The city then suddenly became alive again.

Artifex Frost closed the front door shut, but he did so quickly. He pushed past the boxes that littered the entrance and walked over to the closet. He took off his jacket and hung it on one of the hangers.

His parents weren’t home. That was a normal occurrence here. But that was okay. Someone else was home; the most important “someone.”

He heard Ruby walk in from the dining room. He turned to face her. She was frowning. “Artifex?” she asked. “Everything okay?”

He smiled brightly, knowing his answer would surprise her. “Even better!”

And so he explained.

The puncher had been repentant, much to his surprise. Somehow, getting knocked around by the victim was enough to jar his senses. The puncher’s group was also repentant, though they had to get a stern lecture from the teacher and serve detention. Artifex had been a little upset at that, but there was one girl who had convinced him that it was okay. It had been strange; neither had spoken to each other, but the girl spoke as if she knew exactly how he felt.

“Who was this girl?” Ruby interrupted.

“Something Sparkle, I think? We didn’t talk long.”

He’d made a few friends, too. Someone had seen him carrying one of his books and asked him what it was about. They’d mutually bonded over a suddenly revealed love of literature. Another person had said that they felt bad for not helping Artifex when they should have. He had told them it was okay. They talked and agreed to sit with each other during lunch. Artifex told Ruby his name. She smiled and nodded, saying that Mom and Dad knew the family, and that they’re kid was a nice one.

Some people still had jeered at him, and he could see Ruby’s frown already develop before he had finished. He was quick to tell her that he tried his best to ignore them. It helped that he had some friends to back him up. Friendship was an amazing thing, he had realized; its strength should not be underestimated. So the jeers came and went; and they didn’t hurt as much as they used to. He hadn’t gotten any crumpled papers in his backpack, either. For that, he was grateful.

It had rained again. One of his new friends had offered to hold an umbrella for the two of them, and he had smiled and said “Sure!” They walked home together.

“Who was that?” Ruby asked.

“Moondancer,” he replied. “The one with the glasses and sweater.”

“Oh, yes, her. She’s a quiet one. And a cute one, too.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, Artifex.” Ruby smiled. “Well, it seems like today went well, then.”

“You said it.”

“I’m glad, Arty, I’m glad.”

She came over and knelt down, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But if there are any future problems, you can tell me anytime, okay?”

He smiled back and hugged her tightly. “As long as you never leave me alone.”

“Oh, Artifex. I would never leave you alone. I love you too much.”

“I know, sis. And I love you, too. Thanks for helping me.”

“I’ll always be here. I promise.”

“Arty, could you put your plate away?”

Artifex made a face, but did so anyway. He came back shortly after. “Come on, Mom. Can’t you call me something different? That name is so childish.”

“Maybe so, but you’re still my child. I can call you whatever you want.”

“Bar, of course, insults and the like.”

His mother offered him an even glare, before breaking out into smiles. “Ah, there you go again with that sharp wit. At least you inherited that from me.”

Artifex rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Sitting around their dining room table, they’d had a nice, filling breakfast only minutes before. The plates had been plucked clean; little more than scraps remained. Ruby had made pancakes while their mother had made waffles and bacon. Artifex felt full.

“Enjoyed it, I guess?” his father asked with a knowing smile. Artifex nodded, and his father chuckled. “I don’t think any of us could ever say no to either of your cooking, dears.”

Ruby giggled. “Aw, Dad, you’re just saying that.”

“I’m serious! Have you considered being a cook?”

“A little bit. But I want to pursue this botany major.”

“Hey, why not pursue both? You could grow your own food and then cook it!”

“Maybe it’ll be a minor degree, Dad.”

“Well, never mind that,” said Artifex’s mother. “We’ve something special to celebrate, don’t we?”

Ruby clapped her hands. “Oh! Of course! Here, let’s clear the table first.”

While she and their parents put the plates away, Artifex remained at the table. They weren’t being particularly subtle. Ruby was too excited, and he’d already seen his parents’ gift boxes. He knew they knew he knew. Still, when Ruby smiled so brightly that the new dining room ceiling light looked dull and faded, he couldn’t help but have one of his own. Even if he already knew, he could still be excited for it.

The table was cleared. His parents came back and put their gifts onto the table. There were two, medium-sized. They were wrapped in red paper—his favorite color—and were tied up by a yellow ribbon. There were cards attached to the boxes.

Artifex’s mother winked. “I see you’ve already figured out what today is.”

“Mom, I’ve a calendar. And we’ve celebrated this nine times, six of which I remember clearly.”

“That’s our Artifex,” Ruby said, putting her own gift—a small box, also wrapped in red paper and tied up with a golden ribbon—on the table. “We can’t keep any secrets from him.”

They sat back down. Ruby gestured to all of the boxes. “So? Open them up, bro!”

He picked his father’s first. He took the card off and read it and thanked his dad. He shook it; from the inside of the box came a metal ting. He tore the papers off, revealing a simple, brown box. He tore that open, too, albeit gingerly and only one side, and dumped the object into his hand.

It was a metal bird; a pin, actually, that could be reconfigured and readjusted to the owner’s wants and needs. He grinned and stuck it to his chest. He thanked his dad again.

Next up was his mother. Her box, the same size, did not let out a metal ting when he lightly shook it. Whatever was inside sounded thick and sturdy. His mind wandered; he pictured a block of wood. It certainly was in line with his mother’s sense of humor. He read the card and frowned; his mother had made a corny joke, and while she and Ruby laughed, he heaved a sigh. He ripped the paper off and found another cardboard box before him. He took the tape off of one end and shook the box. Something about an inch or so thick dropped out through the opening.

Holding it up before him, he saw that it was a book. It was a paperback, with the sides laced in green, depicting a bronze-skinned woman swinging on a vine across an infinitely black and deep pit of snakes and crocodiles. “Daring Do and the Temple of Terracosta,” he read aloud.

He looked at his mother. “This is A. K. Yearling’s newest book?”

His mother nodded. “Yep. Hot off the presses. Do you like it?”

He smiled. “Of course! It’s better than that Sherlock Hooves stuff my teacher recommended.”

He set the book down, though not before flipping to the front cover and reading the short synopsis. His mother took a quick picture.

“Okay, mine next!” Ruby exclaimed. She suddenly pulled something from her lap and pushed it towards Artifex.

It was also a medium-sized box, but the paper was simple and yellow. There was no ribbon attaching a card to it, and in cursive handwriting the name “Artifex” was written. He supposed this was fitting; Ruby was a simple gift-giver.

It was a bit difficult to get the package open, but once he had done so, he found a white flip box taped shut. He pulled off the tape and opened the smaller box. Placed on top of white wrapping paper was a notebook. It was golden, like the kind of gold he’d read about in fairy tales and stories of myth and magic, and its pages were brand new, and there was neither a shred of dust nor dirt nor wear nor tear.

He ran his fingers across its cover. It was smooth and clean and he could feel its crisp newness.

“Open it,” Ruby said.

He flipped open the front cover. He saw Ruby’s handwriting on the first page, neat and curly, written in a blue pen.

“To Artifex Frost, brother mine,

“This is for you. It may seem like a simple notebook, but think of it as a tool for you to fully embrace your creative spirit. Within these blank pages, you will find the opportunity to completely express who you are.

“I’d like for you to write about your life in here. I’d like for you to write about your day, about whatever happens. I’d like you to write about both the good and bad. Words are powerful, Artifex, and if used correctly, they can be the musical instruments to heal the very soul!

“Remember, dear brother, that life isn’t just something you live; it’s a story for you to chronicle. And that no matter how long or short it is, it’s a story that you have to tell.

“Love always, sister yours,

“Ruby Frost”

There was something else in the box. He shifted around some of the wrapping paper. There, just as pristine as the notebook, lay a blue ink pen. The cap was untouched; he experimentally took it off and touched a finger to the tip, and found that the ink was still fresh and strong.

He looked up and smiled at his older sister. “Thank you so much, Ruby.”

She got out of her seat, walked over to him, and hugged him. He hugged her back. Their parents awed and cooed. It was a good morning.

When Artifex went to bed that night, he could not fall asleep immediately. His eyes danced across the ceiling and he imagined sheep jumping over his head; he could not count them all.

Everyone else was asleep, but he still felt awake and excited. He reached over and turned on his bed lamp, and the room lit up in its coppery glow. He stared up at the ceiling still. He tried to breathe slowly, to seduce sleep and fall into his dreams, but he could not. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the days’ events before him. They were bright and colorful and filled with love.

His fingers itched, and he remembered Ruby’s words.

He rolled out of bed and walked over to his desk, where the notebook lay. He sat down with a groan. He picked up the pen and turned to the first unwritten page. The blankness was intimidating and invigorating. He wondered what to write first.

Taking the pen to the paper, he scribbled out, “Dear Journal.”

The ink came out strong and would remain so no matter what happened.

In Manehattan, sirens weren’t uncommon. As large and tightly packed as it was, crashes were frequent, especially given the number of drivers that could be on the road at any given time. Compared to the honks from cars, the blares from trucks, and the whistles from the trolleys that crossed on rails laden between streets, sirens were just as much a part of the make-up of the city just as much as any of the former sounds were, or indeed as any person who lived there.

They were hardly welcome.

Though sirens most often meant that help was on the way—and in many a lucky case, the help was already present—they were the harbingers of doom, the messengers of the damned. Apartments were the primary victims. Neighbors who lived there for years were awfully close; when one was met with a knock at the door and two people in blue uniforms, the whole floor would feel their pain.

The sirens were manipulative of many a citizens’ emotions. When they were heard, the usual order and tidiness fell away, replaced with anxiety and worry. If the sirens personally came to someone to deliver bad news, those emotions were replaced more often than not with anger. There were many instances where, when confronted by officers, the victims’ closest would lash out and attack. Assaults were common. Jail cells, reserved the day before for one, could double overnight.

Little could be done to help any of those involved. Officers’ bruises healed but their hearts tore continually. Rooms emptied as people either were thrown in jail or fled of their own accord. Bit by bit, an apartment complex lost members. Some floors, if they were struck with a particular brand of bad luck, became empty playgrounds of broken memories.

Some tried to hold on to them nonetheless. Rooms were scarcely left with any sign of the previous owners. Memories were tied to belongings and thus taken with them during these exoduses. Rooms were made bare; they were clean slates, upon which new memories could be made, and new lives could be born.

Just the same, they were places where sirens brought life and ended life. No one liked the sirens. No one. But that did not mean that no one could forgive them for what they wrought.

When they heard the door being knocked, the Frost parents got out of their seats. Their hands shook and were unsteady. Sweat dropped from the father’s forehead, while the mother gripped her hair with frightening strength. Their faces were pale. Their worry was visible in their creased brows and tight frowns.

The father was the first to open the door. He saw the two officers, one a big, burly man with a heavy mustache, the other being younger, blonde, clean-shaven. They bore identical expressions, filled entirely by wary frowns. Their badges glinted in the hall’s light.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frost?” the big, burly officer asked.

“Yes, that’s us,” the father said.

The two officers exchanged glances. “You are the parents of Ruby and Artifex Frost?” the man asked.

“Yes, that is correct,” the mother replied, her hands coming down and clasping together, almost as if in prayer. She looked like she wanted to say more, to ask more, but she could not speak. Her eyes, as they darted from one officer to the other, did all the talking.

The younger officer took off his hat and placed it across his chest. “May we come in?”

They needn’t permission. The father dully let them in while the mother remained still. They took a seat on one of the sofas while the parents sat opposite of them. There was a tense moment of silence.

The younger officer placed his hat on his lap and sighed. The other man had not lost his frown.

They heard sirens race past the apartment, down the street, to the hospital. They heard the clamors of people gathered outside. The mother and father felt their hearts crack.

The officer who had spoken last leaned forward and took a deep breath. “Mr. and Mrs. Frost. There’s no easy way to say this. I’m sorry, but…”

With his next few words, their world died.

The seat of the ambulance was cold. He could feel the cold steel through his torn pants. It helped to block the pain.

He heard the sirens but could not figure out why they were here. He saw more ambulances and more police cars emerge from around the corner but he did not know what they hoped to do. A crowd of officers and EMTs blocked some of his view of the crosswalk, but if he raised his head, he could still see her arm lying across the way, pale and limp and gone.

Someone spoke to him. The pain medication made it hard to hear, or to find the will to listen. He slowly turned his head and blinked. The person was garbed in a blue jumpsuit, and she had her hands set around his left leg. He couldn’t feel her hands, though; this pain medication was great. She asked again, and he shook his head, showing he couldn’t understand what she was saying.

There was ringing in his ears. He stared at the ground even as the worker tried asking again. The ringing became the sound of crashing cymbals. Then it erupted into a roar that blocked everything out, and all he could see was her, and all he could hear was the roar, and all he could smell was the burning gasoline, and all he could taste was the memory of a mousse cake eaten months prior, and all he could feel—all he could feel—

The worker asked again, and this time he heard her: “Where does it hurt?”

That was the funny thing. It wasn’t that funny but he couldn’t think of a better statement. He didn’t hurt. His leg didn’t hurt, his arm didn’t hurt, his head didn’t hurt. That wasn’t to say he felt good, because he didn’t think he felt that, and it was just weird to feel that he wasn’t in pain even though he knew he should have and—

The worker didn’t ask again. She took something white out of her bag and applied it to his leg. Still he felt no pain. A part of him told him he should have at least winced. Perhaps he should have screamed. But still, no pain.

The worker finished wrapping the white thing around his leg. She looked over to the side, at the crowd of officers and EMTs. Suddenly her lip quivered. She shook her head, rose up, and hugged him. He somehow knew she whispered “I’m so sorry” in his ear.

But he didn’t understand. What was there to understand? He didn’t want this stranger touching him, trying to comfort him, apologizing for something that she hadn’t done.

Where was his sister? She would take him away from this stranger, away from this cold ambulance, away from whoever lay on the ground in the middle of the street in a pool of their own blood. She’d take him away and comfort him and tell him that the day was still good and that it wasn’t lost. She’d tell him this and he’d believe her and they’d go on and live their lives like nothing had happened.

Where was she? Couldn’t she see that he needed her? Couldn’t she tell that he was scared? Couldn’t she tell that he didn’t know what to do? Why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she next to him and hugging him? Didn’t she say she’d always be there for him? Didn’t she say that she’d always love and care for him no matter what? Why now did she turn her back on him? Why now did she decide to leave him alone?

The roaring suddenly ceased. He heard a car pull up; it was another police car. Out stepped a mother and a father. They didn’t make it three steps before both collapsed to the ground. The wail that the mother let out was deafening, and it quickly took over the previous roaring in his mind. He clutched his head and tried to block it out. Then the pain hit and he felt his leg explode and his heart give out and all of a sudden he was screaming and crying and his face felt wet and the worker was over him, trying to keep him calm, but he couldn’t stay calm and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt and why won’t it stop please Ruby please help me I don’t want to hurt anymore you said I wouldn’t have to be hurt anymore if I tried so why am I hurting Ruby please tell me please help me please—

The wail became another siren. It echoed throughout the entire city and everything was silent under it. But just under that siren, under that noise, there was the sound of a child left abandoned, screaming into the ensuing abyss, hoping in vain that it was all a dream, that when he opened his eyes he’d be in the arms of the one who loved him the most and whom he loved the most. But this was no dream.

This was his nightmare.

Dark clouds gathered. They formed into a massive swirl, resembling an eye. Other clouds, lower and lighter, formed beneath it, into a large trail that dripped down and down below the horizon. The sun tried in vain to shine from behind those dark clouds, but all it did was light up the center.

The weatherman had said there would be rain. So far, that seemed likely. Those who had gathered for this day had brought umbrellas and raincoats, and these were also dark, matching perfectly the sky above.

Artifex was dressed in a dark tuxedo, much like the other men. He hated it. His hands became angry and frustrated fists in his trouser pockets. He had already threatened to tear the damn thing off and run, but it was only by his mother’s strong and sad hand did he stay.

He stood at the side with his parents as the processions filtered out. Six volunteers carried a wooden tomb above their shoulders. Their faces were hidden beneath hats and veils. Their hands were dutifully covered in gloves, like they couldn’t bear to touch the wood lest they be contaminated. One of them, a woman whom Artifex did not recognize, even had the gall to appear tearful. He knew she wasn’t really sad; she was just putting on an act. They all were.

The carriers brought the coffin before a giant maw that lay in the ground. From it, Artifex could hear the voices of the deceased calling out for her. Tendrils that only he could see eked out from the depths and beckoned with their long, ghastly fingers. He wanted to break free of his mother’s hold on his shoulder. He wanted to climb the backs of the volunteers and guard her tomb. He wanted to raise his fists against those tendrils, knock them away, tell them no, no, now wasn’t her time, they weren’t welcome here, she wasn’t gone, she wasn’t, she couldn’t be—

But his parents stayed his hand. He could only watch as, like sloths, the people lowered the tomb down into the earth.

He recalled something he’d learned in school. According to some cultures, humans had come from the earth, and that when a human left the land of the living, they’d return to the earth. Hence why there were burials. But the earth was dirty and yucky. She wouldn’t like that. But then again, did anyone? Being buried in the dark confines of what amounted to an elongated crate whilst also being buried in the mud and soil where worms pooped and the dead crawled; who could like that?

It took longer than it reasonably should have to place the whole coffin down into the maw. But they didn’t bother burying it or even throwing a speck of dirt onto it. A man came out, dressed in a long, dark robe. In his hand was a small, thick book. His features were sharp and refined and without true sympathy, and he looked down at the pages of the book through narrow spectacles and raised eyebrows.

Artifex already didn’t like him.

The man said some things. Artifex tuned him out. They were unimportant and he’d heard most of those things already from others. A lot of the people who had gathered here replied when prompted, including his parents, but Artifex remained quiet. The man raised an arm, said a few more words, brought his arm down, said something along the lines of “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and beckoned for another, younger man to come forth with some water.

The robed figure took the water and splashed the crowd with it. Artifex felt his face drip with an excess amount. He felt dirty and the water, though cold, burned his skin. The robed man turned and splashed the water on the coffin. This Artifex found dumb. It wasn’t a plant. It didn’t need to be watered. How dare this man treat her like she was less than a human?

He looked up and saw his father covering his face and shaking, and he saw his mother wiping her face with a light piece of cloth. He looked back at the coffin. His eyes traced over the edges, across the wreath that hung on the end, and the white lettering inscribed on the top. He knew he should be crying, but no tears came; the only water present was the burning water that dripped down onto the ground.

Now did they begin to cover the coffin. Pile after pile of dirt was shoveled on, clunking hard against the top of the coffin. The wreath vanished beneath a storm of mud. Then so did the lettering. Minutes passed. The clouds refused to part. The maw began to grow full and it let out a near-satisfied gurgle.

Soon, far too soon, the coffin lay beneath a pile of brown. The carriers stepped away, heads bowed, hands clasped behind their back, like they were unworthy of even looking at it. It was such a plain pile. It was ugly and sad. No queen should be buried so simply.

There was a sudden clap of thunder: loud, booming, monstrous. Then there was another. Then another. Then there was silence. The sky opened up and the rain began to fall.

Umbrellas opened. They pulled their hoods up. The rain was cold and it brought an even colder wind. Beneath his mother’s open umbrella, Artifex shivered.

Some more words were said by more people, none of whom Artifex really recognized. He crossed his arms in an attempt to generate warmth. But this coldness came not from the wind around him, but from the wind that howled inside of him. He shivered and shook. The coldness inside swelled.

A few people—relatives, presumably—came up and expressed their condolences. None felt earnest enough; none felt real enough. Artifex ignored them all. They noticed this and sadly shook their heads, before all walking away, leaving he and his parents behind.

The robed man was the last to go. He placed a hand on Artifex’s father’s shoulder and said something. Artifex’s father nodded, and the robed man went away.

They stared at the mound of earth in dead silence. His parents squeezed his shoulders. The rain grew heavy. The sky grew darker. In the distance, Artifex heard sirens. He clenched his jaw. There had been too many sirens. Too many.

He tried to think of something positive. In the end, she had chosen her final resting place. Having expressed a desire to go to the schools in this city and take their botany classes, it had been decided that here would be where she lay. At the very least, she was closer to her dreams here. Manehattan was too painful of a memory; it would do no one any good to send her off there.

That was the only positive. Artifex raised his head. He looked at the stone that lay across the mound. It was fresh, and so was what was written on it. His fists clenched even tighter.

Suddenly, he spun around and ran. He ignored the calls of his parents. He ignored the rain and the mud that splashed around him and soaked his pants and dripped icily down his shirt and back. He ignored the humongous pain in his shattered left leg. He slipped on the cobblestone, got up, and kept running, leaving his cane behind. There was water on his face, but this time it felt warm. He ran—ran past the other graves, the other people, past the sign that read “Canterlot Cemetery.” He ran all the way to the car. He fell upon it.

It was then that he finally, finally cried.

Steel was his friend.

It was the one thing that reminded him of what it was like to be alive.

In the dimness of the bathroom, it whispered soft and comforting things into his ear. It sang and danced and even kissed him lightly. He let it touch him and caress him gently as one would caress their lover. It had a nice touch, a calm touch.

He let it touch him again, and he hissed and bit his lip. He felt his lip crack and he tasted metal. There was some pain. But Steel lightly kissed him again and again and again, and soon the pain melted away.

Again.

He tried to remember how many times he’d let Steel do this. Or maybe it was Steel who let him do this. He couldn’t really tell. They had such a nice relationship. Steel gave him all the control he needed, and in return, he fed Steel. It really was nice, really. He couldn’t ask for a better friend, for a better lover.

Steel whispered again. It told him things about his sister and about himself and about his family. It told him of the life outside, of the life inside. He nodded at its words and let it run along his fingers, lightly biting the knuckles, grazing the bone and the flesh and giving little nips here and there—nothing too damaging.

The dimness of the bathroom began to recede with each aching touch that Steel brought. He could see the four, tiled walls. He could see the tub that he sat in, and the water that touched his naked body. Steel touched him and he felt electricity shoot through his body and up to his head. He saw a burst of light; he gasped. Steel kissed him.

He asked Steel how long they’d been here. “I don’t know,” Steel replied. “Not that it matters. We’re together. That’s all that matters.” He agreed.

Steel stopped for a moment, allowing Artifex to breathe. The water looked a little darker, but he couldn’t quite make out the color; his vision was a bit fuzzy. That was okay, he thought. Just another reminder that he was imperfect, that he was human, that he made mistakes. That was okay. It had to be okay. Why else would it have happened? Yes, that was right; that was okay.

He nodded and leaned his head back against the wall, breathing slowly. He creaked open one eye. The shower curtain was still at the side, bunched together. If anyone came in, they’d see him and Steel in a compromising situation. But it was as Steel said; that didn’t matter.

Steel brought another kiss to his body, and he hissed as it touched a nerve. Oh, God, that was amazing. He could feel all of his tendons bend and snap, all of his muscles burn. He could feel Steel inside of him, deep and cold, contrasting the warmness of the water. His vision swam. Steel’s voice sounded distant and faint. His touches became less frequent and less intense. He begged for more. He needed more. He needed more reminders, more evidence.

His body lurched. He remembered the massive truck as it barreled down the street. He felt Steel dig deeper, trying to stave off the memory, but he still saw it coming towards him. He still saw himself not knowing how to react. He saw himself get pushed aside, saved, one leg irrevocably damaged beyond complete repair. Steel whispered in his hear, telling him things he already knew. There was a coldness in his stomach and it grew with each word.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he smiled anyway. Steel was here. He wasn’t alone. He didn’t have to be alone. He wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

He was drowning in this ecstasy. Steel was everywhere, and he could feel everything and nothing. The bathroom became darker and darker until he could no longer see the tar gathered between the tiles. His head fell back. Steel leaned away and looked down at him, satisfied that his work was done. The water felt a little warmer.

He closed his eyes.

The darkness loomed. He felt it gather around him and scoop him up. Oh, yes, he wasn’t alone. He had Steel, and this darkness—it seemed friendly enough. He wanted to hug it and let it take him away, to someplace different, someplace where he wouldn’t have to remember those things, someplace where he’d see her again. Yes, Darkness, yes, take me away, yes, please—

Something opened the door a crack. A hesitant voice, female, called his name. He did not answer. The door was thrust open, and the brightness from the apartment banished the darkness away. He tried to hold up an arm, to beg it to come back, but it would not return, and his arm would not rise. Steel slinked away, and fell into the water with a brief splash.

Someone screamed, and it was probably loud, but it couldn’t pierce this smoky veil inside his head. His eyes were still closed, even as he felt another pair of hands rush over and run over his arms and his wrists. He heard the person scream again. He heard her—she sounded awfully familiar—cry out to whatever deity was listening, cry out for another person. He became dimly aware of another person entering the bathroom. There was beeping. Frantic voices. Whisperings, not from Steel, but from the first person, the female.

He couldn’t open his eyes. He wouldn’t. He wanted to be left alone, in this tub, with Steel, with Darkness. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to see her again. He was lonely, so lonely, so terribly lonely…

“It’s okay,” he heard Steel whisper in his mind. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Artifex?”

Artifex didn’t look up from where he sat. His arms remained crossed, tucked away in a long-sleeve jacket.

“Look at me, Artifex. Please.”

He gave her a smoldering glare. It would have rendered any other person silent under its intensity, but this lady didn’t care for it. She merely sighed.

“I understand that the memory still hurts. But… talking about it will help the pain go away.”

He maintained his gaze and said nothing. She sighed again.

“You’ve seen some terrible things, Artifex. Things someone your age should never see. And you’ve tried some things, too. Things that nobody should ever do.”

If she was trying to guilt-trip him, she wasn’t needed. The cold pit in his heart and the bandages that still were wrapped round his wrist were all the reminders he needed.

“Your parents are scared for you, Artifex.”

Of course they were. But they were too busy working all the time to show it. He supposed that made sense. They had to at least work to keep one of their children live and well.

“They’re worried that you’ll try again, and that you’ll succeed. Your mother had told me that she’s caught you eyeing the knives. Your father won’t let you shave without supervision.”

His gaze faltered. He looked away. Suddenly that fake plant in that ugly, porcelain vase looked very interesting.

The woman leaned forward. “Artifex… do you still blame yourself for what happened two years ago?”

No answer was given; no vocalization was needed.

“Does it make you feel… satisfied, knowing that the man who did this is behind bars?”

Again, no answer was given; and no vocalization of any was needed.

“Artifex, please, talk to me.”

She wanted him to talk?

He whipped his head around and glared icy daggers. “I want to go,” was all he said.

She stared at him for a moment, before shaking her head. “Very well. You may go.”

He got up off of the couch and walked to the door. He pulled it open.

“Talking will help,” the woman implored before he stepped out. “It’s what she’d want.”

She was met with the sound of the door slamming shut. She shook her head again. “We will continue this conversation next week,” she muttered.

The door opened again, but Artifex didn’t enter. Two weary folks did; his parents. “Not well, I take it?” the father asked.

The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Frost. Artifex still refuses to open up about anything.” Seeing their despondent looks, she said, “It’s to be expected. After seeing something like that, and being indirectly the reason for his sister’s death… well, I can only imagine what he’s been going through for all these years.”

She shifted through the papers on her clipboard. There were a lot of them. Several were hospital reports, some were newspaper clippings, and the rest were little notes she had made throughout the interviews.

“Has this helped him?” his mother spoke in a quiet and subdued voice.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She heard the mother bite back a whimper. “Artifex is hurting. I’ve worked with him for years, now, but even I don’t know how he’ll be able to move on from this.”

“So you’re saying he’ll never get better?”

She looked out the window. She’d planted a garden recently, hoping that would elicit his interest, though it presented nothing more than a passing glance. But there was at least one flower blooming in that garden.

It was a snowdrop flower; a galanthus, as Artifex had called it. She had a faint feeling of where he’d heard of it.

“I’m saying it’ll take time,” she said, looking back at the parents. “Maybe a while. People work through their pain through many different ways. Sometimes all you can do is be there for them while they sort things out in their own way.”

“But how can we be sure he will sort things out?”

“Have faith, Mrs. Frost. Have faith. That is all you can give right now. And right now, that might be what he needs.”

Mr. Frost waited a moment, before asking, “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“How old is he?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen, right.” She exhaled through her nose. “Perhaps what you all need is a change in scenery.”

“A change? What do you mean?” the mother asked.

“Artifex needs to complete his final junior high school years, doesn’t he? Have him do that. Then he can…” She trailed off, searching for the words. “… try out a few years at the actual high school. But I doubt he’ll stay for more than two years.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Manehattan used to be a bright place for him, Mrs. Frost. But now? Now, it’s just a place of bad memories. For all of us.”

She put her clipboard down. “I might have some idea of where you should go. There are some schools down south that have a particularly sunny atmosphere. It might be good for him.”

“We’ll consider it,” said Mr. Frost. “In the meantime… can we keep these appointments going?”

“Already have him booked for next week.”

“Thank you for everything, Miss Velvet.”

She removed her glasses and looked them both in the eye. “Don’t worry; we’ll figure something out.”

Outside, on that garden sill, the snowdrop flower raised its petals to the sky and smiled.

That, journal, has been my recounting of my first day here. I have to say: it was the most surprising and enlightening day I’ve had in a long time. It’s taken a long time for me to write all this. According to my clock, it’s nearing 12 at night; I’ve been writing since 8.

I intend to transfer all of this to my laptop as soon as it is done charging. I haven’t used it much, especially since this journal means a lot to me, considering Ruby gave to me. But I have a feeling, as I said before, that mine is a story that needs to be shared. Once I’m done writing, I’ll type it on the laptop, maybe post it to one of those writing forums online. I wonder if any of my friends will read it? For now, I suppose, it’ll remain here. Once I am truly ready, I will tell the others. But now is not that time for that; plus, well, my friends are sleeping, and I wouldn’t want to wake them.

Friends. Hmm. How strange a word that is, now that I think about it. Growing up, I didn’t have that many friends, did I? I had Ruby, and that was enough. But with her gone, my connection to others had grown dim. Here, though, as a student of Canterlot High, I’ve been graced with the chance to make new friends, new memories.

It’s a chance I won’t waste. This I promise you, Ruby.

Anyway, I think it’s time I turn in for the night. I’ve got to get some sleep for tomorrow. Principal Celestia has requested that my parents sign all the papers I need to officially enroll in the school. I… I think I’m ready to start anew

Oop, scratch that. There’s just one more thing I need to do. I’ll tell you all about it later, journal.

Goodnight.