#i finished rereading the third book hoping the entire time it would be brought up again

[camelspit]

WHAT TATTOOS DOES SHE HAVE JESS!!!!!! WHAT ARE THEY!!!!!!!!

[funkymbtifiction]

I got John Lucovich’s book “The Instinctual Drives and the Enneagram” a few weeks ago and read it, but it was a lot of information to absorb at once, so I’m rereading it in slower chunks this time to retain more of it. First, it’s an excellent book so I recommend buying and reading it. Second, rereading his extensive explanations of each social variant had certain people popping into my head, both characters and from my life that I could see correlate with each dominant. (It surprises me, but one of my friends appears to be a so/sx. I expected sx/so.) I can also see how accurately (at least, based on what I observe of these people) his blind-spot descriptions are.

Third, I do think I’m sp/so. I have a lot of social, but my main focus appears to be on self-pres and this has caused some conflict with social dominants in the past, where they couldn’t understand my casual detachment in that area (oh well) and I thought their over-focus on appearances was a bit much. I also want to pull away from people and be autonomous, where social dominants seem to want more of a constant connection. (Them: Wouldn’t us living together be incredible? I could see you all the time! Me: *looks on them with horror*)

One thing I really liked that brought my entire approach into context was this quote from the self-preservation section in general:

“Self Preservation types have a strong capacity for working and putting effort in a focused direction. They usually don’t have ambition for status so much as a drive for material or creative accomplishment, or for a place where their energy can be channeled into something practical and meaningful. Self Preservation builds a quality of persistent, useful energy that’s useful to building toward long-term aims.”

That... explains a lot about me, and my work process. How despite being an ENFP and having an overload of my ideas, I identify and focus on doing one massive project at a time, rather than flitting my attention between them. I stay focused. Work on things until they’re done. It demands enormous amounts of mental energy that soon deplete me and cause me to withdraw, feel tired, or just want to cozy up at home. This is why I’m not social or extroverted in a traditional sense. SP-doms are aware of energy expenditure and worn out by socializing. I can also tell where having inferior Si undermines being an sp-dom to some extent. I often work myself mentally into exhaustion, as John L. would call it, “overdoing it” rather than “under-doing it.”

My happiest and most mentally well times are when I allow myself to admit I am tired and quit work for the day, even if it’s not finished yet. When I push away my need for completion (low Te) in the knowledge that my mind and body needs down time to rejuvenate, and a one or two day delay at the cost of mental exhaustion isn’t worth it. Sensors and stronger Si types seem to be better at recognizing a need for rest than me.

I’ve been pushing myself too hard recently, unfortunately... but the bonus thing is, I am almost done with book rewrites! Just two more sections to go. :)

I took some notes on the things the types focus on under stress (this really brought to mind certain characters) to show you other useful things his book provides:

Enneagram types under stress:

 Self-pres: fear of scarcity and harm

 Social: fear of being ostracized, excluded, or abandoned

 Sexual: fear of being undesirable and sexually overlooked

SP 1: reacts to hang-ups and imperfections in one’s lifestyle and environment as an affront to their idealistic sense of rightness and perfection.

SOC 1: becomes an impeccable exemplar of the values they wish their peers reflected, a “reformer” in the social realm.

SX 1: holds themselves, partners, and all relational dynamics to intense standards, to ward off sexual rejection through their own rejection of those who can’t measure up.

SP 2: projects scarcity onto others and acts as a caretaker at the neglect of themselves, running into exhaustion in hopes of reciprocation.

SOC 2: positions themselves as indispensable to loved ones by offering support, mentorship, or granting them access to important people.

SX 2: projects fears of undesirability onto others and then fills those needs to make them feel desirable or sexy. Makes themselves over to represent the “complete package” or “ideal lover.”

 SP 3: works to excess to stave off scarcity while also performing their best version of abundance and success in a chosen lifestyle.

SOC 3: competes for status and embraces the best traits of their environment to be outstanding, inspiring, and invaluable.

SX 3: competes to the be the most attention-grabbing, majestic, and fascinating sexual partner around, and embody idealized traits.

 SP 4: takes scarcity personally, as fuel for despair or something to rebel against.

SOC 4: represents their unique, edgy, mysterious side, while being aloof, keeping others desirous and fascinated y their presence.

SX 4: amplifies their intense personal “flavor,” mystique or talents to occupy a desired lover’s attention while trying to undermine any rivals.

 SP 5: minimizes their dependence on any needs to give more energy over to concentration.

SOC 5: become “the expert,” offering their specialized understanding and insight to be an indispensable recognized expert, while trying simultaneously to distinguish and separate themselves from others.

SX 5: provides intense penetrating, captivating insight and focus, but abruptly withdraws when they feel insufficient energy to engage with a lover or that emotional demands are being placed on them.

 SP 6: invests in and worries about the things that ensure their resources, and feel conflicted about upholding their obligations to others versus self-care.

SOC 6: defend friends, relationships, and values against harmful influences, and upkeep social agreements and structures as essential.

SX 6: exaggerates sexual characteristics and tests others’ levels of attraction by acting out to prove they’re exciting and desirable.

 SP 7: launches into plans and backup plans of how to acquire a lifestyle that gives them the freedom to pursue what they like, and indulge in rewards in the meantime.

SOC 7: form many different connections, friends, and talents, to be able to contribute without giving themselves over to any one thing.

SX 7: use high energy, over the top spectacles to dazzle or entertain prospective lovers, but quickly move on if they fear rejection or boredom.

 SP 8: hardens themselves, becomes overly intense and energized about securing necessary resources for their well being, “taking what’s mine.”

SOC 8: take charge of the social realm, be the galvanizing force.

SX 8: attempt to dominate their desired lover’s attention and energy, while using provocation to be “too much to handle.”

 SP 9: uses comforts, work and exercise to “get by on little,” settling for small habits and comforts at the expense of finding and pursuing what they really want for their lives.

SOC 9: over-adapt to others in relationships and resign themselves too quickly into social roles.

SX 9: use sexuality to disassociate, hiding behind sexuality or attraction and over-adapting to their partners’ preferences.

[sml8180]

Shot at Redemption - 17

Discovery

A little over a week went by following the incident at John’s ranch. Every couple of days, Rose and John would meet up, and discuss what she would tell Whitehorse, then she would head to the jail and relay the story they came up with. The entire time, Rose hardly slept, her mind constantly occupied by the situation. She was on shaky ground, and it was only getting worse. With each day, it got harder for her to keep up appearances for the Resistance, even if she wasn’t in Fall’s End. The Sheriff had stopped by on a couple of occasions, as had Nick, both ensuring that she hadn’t run off. The closest call had been when the pilot had stopped by one night, and Joseph had been speaking with Rose inside the cabin. Luckily, the Father had walked, and so there was no Project truck outside, and he was able to slip out the back while Rose answered the door. It had been a lucky break, but luck, like most things, only lasts for so long.

Rose had been at the cabin, simply relaxing as she began to reread Joseph’s book. She had finished it a couple of weeks prior, but felt that she needed to go through it again. As she was reading, there was a knock at the door; a knock that clearly wasn’t John, and sounded heavy handed, desperate, and if Rose wasn’t mistaken, angry. Quickly stashing away the book in her backpack, the female took a breath, swallowing nervously as she answered the door. On the other side, she found Sheriff Whitehorse, along with the female Deputy who had been in the office when she gave him and Nick the first fake lead.

“You’re going to have to come with us, Rose,” Whitehorse announced, his tone as serious as it could be. “You can either come quietly, or we can cuff you.”

“What?” Rose questioned, backing away from the doorway.

“You’re under arrest for obstructing the Resistance movement and providing false information which lead to the deaths of several of our people, including the Deputy,” the Sheriff told her. Rose backed away further, and the female Deputy stepped forward, reaching for a set of handcuffs on her belt. When she attempted to turn and make a run for the back door, the two rushed forward, grabbing the smaller woman and cuffing her hands behind her back. They lead her out to the car they had driven in, seating her in the back and buckling her in, before getting into the vehicle, themselves.

Rose was silent the entire way to the jail, and even until they got her into a holding cell that still had the door on it. The room had no window to the outside, and had a small window that looked into the jail, itself. The female slumped against the wall, sliding her back down it until she was sitting on the floor. There was no way that she’d be able to get herself out of this, at least from what she could see. Her best bet would be to make a break for it as soon as the door was cracked open, but even that would be a long shot with all the people they had passed by on the way in. For now, she could only hope for the best.

She had no idea how much time went by before door to the cell opened again. Sheriff Whitehorse entered the small cell, keeping himself between Rose and the door. He looked down at her, and in return, she glared up at him.

“How long?” He questioned, not bothering with any sort of formalities.

“How long, what?” Rose responded. She knew what he was asking about in the back of her mind, but she didn’t want to believe it.

“How long have you known that Jacob was expecting the Deputy?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You had to have known,” the Sheriff insisted.

“I swear to God, Sheriff, I didn’t fucking know!” Rose snapped. In truth, she’d only half known. She had known that Jacob would be expecting the Deputy, but she had no idea that he would kill them. She didn’t even think John knew that his brother had planned to go that far.

“I would mind my tone if I were you,” Whitehorse threatened. “Some of those on the other side of this door want you dead.”

“And what do you want?”

“To make a trade.”

Rose’s eyes widened at the man’s words. “What?!”

“A trade. In a sense, at least,” the Sheriff told her. “Everything you know about the Seed brothers, and full dedication to the Resistance, in return, I won’t put in word that you’re here.”

“Put in word to who? For what? You have no reason to report me to higher authorities.” Rose acted as if she didn’t know what the man was talking about.

“I know who you are, girl. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Who am I, then?”

“Rose Anne Carter,” the name met Rose’s ears and the Sheriff’s tone chilled her to the bone. “Three prior arrests, wanted in five states. I’ve known for weeks.”

Rose couldn’t think of something to say. She just stared up at Whitehorse, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as she tried to find something, anything to say. The Sheriff approached her, kneeling down to her level, looking her in the eye. “All you have to do is work with us, and I’ll look the other way. And if you don’t, well, I can’t make any promises concerning what’ll happen,” he told her, after several moments without a response.

“Sheriff.”

“Hm?”

“Do me a favor and go fuck yourself on a pinecone.”

The Sheriff glared at the woman and stood up, shaking his head. He backed away from her, leaving the cell and locking the door once again, leaving the female alone. Rose sighed, closing her eyes, trying to ignore the dread building up inside her. Once again, the female had no idea how much time was going by. There was no clock in the cell, nor in view of the window. The silence was oppressive, and only helped to fuel Rose’s dread. After an amount of time that Rose couldn’t discern, the cell door opened again, and Jerome stepped into the small room, shutting the metal door behind him.

“Rose,” Jerome addressed her, his voice holding a disappointed tone.

“Jerome,” Rose responded, looking up at the Pastor.

The man approached Rose, sitting on the bench that was in the cell. “Sadly, I can’t say I’m surprised by this. I’m upset with this, but more than that, I’m disappointed.”

“Just like everybody else in my life. Congrats, you’re in the majority.” Rose’s tone was a bit bitter, though it didn’t seem to faze Jerome.

“We both know you’re only defensive like this to try to protect yourself.” Jerome responded, sounding as calm as ever. “You don’t want others to get to you, so you don’t let them in, and scare them off, instead.”

“So? Most hardly want me around, anyways.”

“Except for the Seed’s.”

Rose didn’t respond to this. She simply went silent, directing her gaze away from Jerome. The female knew he was right, but couldn’t face that truth, herself. The pair sat in silence for a time, as Jerome waited for Rose to respond to him. When she didn’t say anything, he sighed softly.

“You’re deep in it, Rose. The Sheriff said that you didn’t exactly agree to what he offered. That was the best he could do, you know. You know what could happen, now, don’t you?” Jerome questioned.

“Yeah. At the first chance, I’m gonna be put into full custody, all that crap,” Rose mumbled. “Not like I haven’t been locked up, before.”

“He told me what you’re wanted for. With the evidence they have, you’re destined for life, at least.”

“And at most, they’ll take it. I know,” Rose sighed, shutting her eyes. This wasn’t how she’d wanted to go out. She always thought she’d go out with a bang, but now, she was gonna end up tied down, falling into darkness.

“Rose, you could agree, he’ll let you off, cover your tracks. I don’t agree with it, but that’s what he’s got planned. But you have to agree.”

“Screw him. You won’t talk me out of it, Jerome. I won’t agree to anything that Sheriff offers.”

With a sigh, Jerome got up. “May the Lord have mercy on you, Rose,” he said to her, before leaving the cell.

Rose sighed, sitting where she was for a time before finally moving from where she was. She simply stood and stretched, turning when the door opened for a third time, revealing a clearly pissed off Nick Rye. The man slammed the door behind him, though Rose didn’t jump. She’d been around enough gunfire to not be shaken by a door slamming, even if it was because of a man who clearly wanted to rip her head off.

“How could you?” Nick questioned. “After everything we’ve done for ya, after what you’ve done for us, after seeing what those bastards do?! How could you turn out to be a fucking Peggie?!” His voice rose as he spoke, sounding angry and hurt.

“Nick… I had no choice…” Rose finally responded, finding it difficult to hold her resolve.

“No, you did have a choice. You had a fucking choice, and you chose to play us!” The man stepped forward, jabbing a finger in Rose’s direction. “You played us, you got the Deputy killed, what else are you looking to ruin around here?!” Nick stepped even closer to Rose, and she stepped back, now fully cornered in the small space. “Next time I see you, you’re gonna have a target on your back.” The man shoved Rose back into the corner, before leaving without another word. Rose sunk down to the floor, sighing, unsure of just what would be done about her, now.

A few days went by, and Rose was still in her cell at the jail. She hadn’t been spoken to since the day she was brought in, and the silence was driving her crazy. The situation reminded her far too much of her time with Jacob. Those in the jail spared her little attention, though ensured she had just enough water to keep her alive, so long as she portioned it out carefully, herself. Five days passed, and still nothing happened. She was still simply in the cell, alone, in complete silence. Outside the window of the cell, Rose could see people come and go, none of them sparing her even a glance. As another night began to fall, something finally happened.

Just after dark, or, what was likely after dark, considering the number of people who had passed by the window of the cell, there was a commotion. Several loud explosions could be heard, even through the thick walls of the jail cell. Rose had no idea what was going on, all she could tell was that something was happening outside, as she heard yells outside the cell and saw a number of people run by. Several more explosions sounded off, and Rose could have sworn she’d heard a car crash, as well. Outside the window of the cell door, she could see people running by, before a couple stopped in front of the door. A number of bangs sounded off against the door, as if those on the other side were striking at the handle, trying to break the lock that held Rose inside the cell. When those brought no result, the two figures outside the door took off. Moments later, the two returned, with a third figure in tow. One she recognized right away.

“Jacob?!” Rose called out, rushing to the door. She couldn’t mistake that bright red hair for belonging to anybody else. The man motioned for her to back away from the door, and put his hands over his ears. Rose did as she assumed he meant, getting as far from the door as she could in the small space, and covering her ears. There was a detonation on the other side of the door a moment later, filling the room with smoke and noise, and causing bricks around the doorframe to shatter, sending pieces of them towards Rose, resulting in cuts to her arms. Rose could hardly hear over the ringing in her ears resulting from the blast.

Several strikes to the door followed, and though it started to budge, it would be impossible to open by hand. A few moments later, another blast, and more pieces of brick cutting into Rose’s arms. This time, the brute force of Jacob kicking at the handle level on the door forced it open. Rose’s ears were still ringing loudly, and she could barely hear what the man was saying to her. She struggled a bit when Jacob grabbed her arm and pulled her up to her feet, before placing a spare handgun he had into her hand.

“We’re getting you out of here, pup,” Jacob was saying, when Rose could finally hear him again. “John said you were in the service, let’s see what you remember.”

Rose gave a nod, following Jacob out of the cell, and further on, out of the jail. The pair had to stop multiple times, ducking for cover as Resistance members fired at them. They made their way through, and were nearly in the clear when one of the Resistance members hit their mark, landing a shot to Rose’s leg, bringing her down. The female pulled herself behind cover, firing off a few rounds towards the Resistance members behind her. With her right arm braced outside the cover she was behind to fire, her hand came down, as she was about to duck down again, before she felt a burning pain in her arm and cursed, letting herself drop down a bit.

“Fucking hell… Fantastic,” she muttered to herself. She looked up as Jacob hurried over to her, and after he took a few shots at the Resistance, he hefted Rose up, and took off with a number of other Project faithful. Jacob put Rose into the back of a nearby pickup, where a pair of Project followers were already in the cab. With them both in the bed of the truck, they made their way back to Joseph’s compound. Between her hunger from nearly a week without food, the pain of the wounds in her arm and leg, and the lack of sleep she’d been getting, Rose simply let her eyes shut, the exhaustion taking over.

When Rose woke up, she found herself in Joseph’s bedroom, with John pacing by the bedside. Her upper right arm ached, as did her left leg. She groaned a little bit, pushing herself to sit up with her good arm, and it drew John’s attention. He stopped pacing and hurried to Rose’s side, taking hold of her hand.

“Thank God…” he mumbled. “I went to the cabin to meet up with you, but you weren’t there, the door was open, I had no idea where you were. I was listening in on the jail’s station and heard that they had you there.” John was starting to ramble, now, and Rose squeezed his hand.

“Blue, calm down a little. I’m okay,” she reassured him. “And I made my choice.”

“And?”

Rose smiled a bit, tugging John down a bit by the front of his shirt, before whispering into his ear. “Yes,” she whispered, before pulling the man into a kiss. The pair held the kiss for what felt like ages, but it still didn’t feel long enough when they parted, both with a gentle smile. John pulled the woman close to his chest, hugging her close. Relaxing in John’s arms, Rose smiled a small bit, letting herself simply close her eyes, savoring the first bit of certainty she’d known in ages.

Taglist: @deputyoneill @thot4stacipratt @deputyshitlordsantana @jacobsmusicbox @farcrying5 @johnseedsplane @rookieseed @ignoranttruly @cerulean-aries

[strikhetonia]

Dyslexia

Everything had changed since the Blakes had moved in next door, and John Murphy couldn’t help but blame them for the fact that things had gotten this out of control. He had been fine before they had shown up, before that girl - Olivia or Octavia or whatever - had come to his school, before her stupid brother had knocked on the door to Murphy’s apartment two weeks ago asking to borrow a candle or a flashlight when the building’s power had gone out, before Murphy had to turn him down because all he had was a lighter and his mother was screaming obscenities at him from inside the house and Olivia or Octavia or whatever’s brother could hear her and there was a little crease between his eyebrows that Murphy just couldn’t ignore until he slammed the door right in his face.

If they had never moved here, maybe Murphy wouldn’t have ended up in detention with Olivia or Octavia or whatever, and maybe Mr. Kane wouldn’t have suggested that they do their time outside of the classroom. Murphy hoped they could get away with a little community service or something (anything to get out of the house for a few extra hours), but what Mr. Kane meant was that Murphy was flunking English (even though he worked twice as hard as the other kids to keep up) and he needed a tutor, which, of course, was Olivia or Octavia or whatever, who looked like she would have rather spent her time with anyone else, even that Jasper kid who smoked pot in the school parking lot everyday. They had two weeks to get John’s act together or else they’d be scraping graffiti off of the bathroom walls for the next three.

Murphy would have rather scraped the graffiti.

The first time they met for tutoring, they met in the library after school and it was a total waste of time. Octavia or Olivia or whatever was civil to him, but she wasn’t patient or good at explaining things. Needless to say, it had ended in a screaming match, and both of them had been kicked out of the library.

The second time they met, they met at her house, which was both a little bit better and a little bit worse, because they wouldn’t get kicked out, but after her brother got home from work, Murphy would feel a pair of familiar dark eyes drift to his still form every now and then and he couldn’t concentrate. Nothing was accomplished that day.

The third time they met, Olivia or Octavia or whatever made even less sense than before, and when Murphy brought her lack of teaching skills to her attention, she stormed to her room and slammed the door shut. He was shoving his notebook into his backpack when her brother took a seat at the table, extending a hand to him. “Let’s see it.”

Murphy paused, half bent over toward his backpack as he stared at the other boy, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Excuse me?”

The man wasn’t fazed at all by the icy glare fixated on him. “Whatever you were just working on. Let’s see it.”

Murphy rolled his eyes - he even muttered under his breath to get the point across - before he dropped the notebook back onto the table with a slap. “Why do you even care?”

“Relax.” His voice was deep, gruff. “This isn’t about you. It’s about my sister. Now are you just going to sit there or are we gonna get this done?”

It turned out that this guy - Bellamy, he later found out - wasn’t as good at English as his sister - Octavia - but he was a heck of a lot more patient and willing to help Murphy understand the material.

Octavia had come out of her room half an hour after she had stormed inside, and she looked surprised to find her brother helping Murphy. Bellamy didn’t seem to notice her - he was too busy trying to explain conjunctions - but Murphy shot her a look. She didn’t go back to her room, but she did sit on the couch in the next room, texting someone and periodically glancing up at Murphy and Bellamy. Murphy wasn’t sure what she was waiting for - it wasn’t as if there would be some sort of life-altering breakthrough. In fact, the only breakthrough he was having now was the fact that although English was starting to make a little more sense, it was still pointless.

Octavia’s brother didn’t stop talking until John’s stomach growled - obnoxiously, at that - and the older man glanced at the clock to find that it was past 8:00pm. He straightened and stretched and Murphy pretended his eyes weren’t drawn to Bellamy’s defined biceps. “It’s getting late.” He stood and Murphy avoided his gaze. “Good work. We’ll finish this later.”

Murphy could only nod as he raked the books and pencils into his backpack. He wasn’t eager to go home - there wasn’t much to eat, and it was almost always freezing inside - but something about the thought of coming back to the Blakes’ apartment lifted his spirits, if even just a little. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice soft.

“Don’t mention it.” And then Bellamy’s hand was around his and the shake was firm, but Murphy could feel the heat creeping up his neck. He had to get out of there.

That night, he stayed up half the night reading and rereading the last few pages of S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders to himself. He read it in a whisper, careful not to wake his mother, who was snoring in the next room, where she slept under the influence of one too many bottles of vodka. The Outsiders had been required reading for almost two weeks now, and he knew there was a paper about how it could relate to his generation due for it next week, but he’d barely had time to sleep, much less read, with his mother’s constant drinking and mood swings and shouting.

He knew either Bellamy or Octavia would bring the paper up the next day after school, but he didn’t want to look like a complete idiot, especially not in front of Bellamy. Not that he cared or anything. Because he didn’t. It was just that he didn’t really feel like scrubbing graffiti off of the bathroom walls anymore.

“You spelled ‘die’ wrong,” Octavia pointed out when the three of them were sitting around the table after school the next day. Murphy could care less what Octavia thought of his paper - he was pretty sure he had spelled “die” correctly, anyway, so the joke was on her. It was Bellamy he had hoped to impress. Not that he was even sure why. Not that it mattered what the older man thought of him. Not that he cared by any stretch of the imagination.

Bellamy had agreed to help with the tutoring - mostly to buffer any arguments that were sure to come up - as long as it was Octavia helping with most of the work. The Blakes were crowded around the first draft of Murphy’s paper (which was really just a page of short paragraphs scrawled out in illegible handwriting), their eyebrows furrowed as they struggled to make sense of each sentence.

But he had worked hard on the paper - he’d spent the entire lunch period and part of U.S. History working on it, and he’d thought he’d done a pretty good job, especially since he’d only read the end of the book, but apparently Octavia thought otherwise.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said when she was finished reading, and Murphy rolled his eyes. “The Outsiders was a tragic and heroic story. There was nothing hysterical about it.”

“Well, if you had been paying attention, oh wise one,” Murphy began, yanking the paper out of Bellamy’s hands to show her, “then you would’ve known that I said it was historical, not hysterical.”

Octavia frowned and leaned forward, her long hair brushing against the paper when she did. “Murphy, that says 'hysterical.’ ”

“I think I would know what I wrote.”

Octavia sighed, and he knew her patience was running thin already. Good. Maybe she would let Bellamy take it from here. “Even if you did write 'historical,’ there is nothing historical about this book.”

God, this girl was so naive. “It was written in the '60s.”

“So? There’s nothing historical about that.”

“Well, since you’re so freakin’ smart, why don’t you write the paper?”

“All right.” It was Bellamy, and Murphy was glad, because Octavia had already opened her mouth to argue back and he was sick of being made fun of. “O, you’re not helping. Take a break.” He watched her leave the room with a huff before his dark eyes fell on Murphy’s paper again, and suddenly the latter felt nervous. “You didn’t read the book, did you?”

The look in his eyes told Murphy that lying would be pointless, so the younger boy sighed, eyebrows furrowed as he fiddled with the pencil between his fingers. “Fine. I only read the ending, okay? But what do they expect? This book is crap. Everyone dies in the end, anyway.”

“And that’s how you think it can relate to your generation?” Bellamy asked, not judging, just asking. “Kids deal with a lot of death?”

Murphy despised the way that word - kids - rolled off of Bellamy’s tongue, and Murphy had to stop himself from pondering too much over why Bellamy saw him as a kid. “Those of us who aren’t privileged do.”

Bellamy grinned then, his smile brighter and more sincere that anything Murphy had ever laid eyes on. Murphy averted his gaze, trying to ignore the urge to get a second glance. “Now, see? That’s exactly the kind of paper you should write.”

If this made Murphy feel any better (it did), then he didn’t show it. Instead, he moved his gaze to the paper resting on the table’s surface. “Too bad I suck at writing.”

“We’ll work on that.” Bellamy sounded like he had enough confidence for both of them, and Murphy was thinking about how lucky Octavia was, to be near him all of the time, to be accepted, encouraged. “The 'historical’ thing-”

“It’s dyslexia,” Murphy cut in. “Teacher told my mom; she said she would work with me at home, that never happened.” He swallowed, the pencil slipping through his fingers to clatter against the table’s surface. “But it’s whatever, right? She never gave a crap about me to begin with.”

Maybe Bellamy didn’t know what to say (that wasn’t likely, because he didn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest), but if he did know how to respond to Murphy’s last sentence, he never said anything. “Dyslexia,” he repeated, and there was something about the way it sounded on his lips that made Murphy think maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to have. “Not bad.”

The next few days were both eventful and excruciating. Murphy was over at the Blakes’ apartment everyday except Sunday, when they all decided they had earned a break. Octavia and Bellamy took turns listening to him read various excerpts of The Outsiders, helping him with certain words or sentences whenever necessary. Neither of them were as patient as he’d hoped they’d be, but they refused to give up, and they even helped him with his paper.

He’d decided that they weren’t quite friends - still just neighbors - but he was finding it a little easier to tolerate them these days. They had less than a week before tutoring was over, and Murphy had to hand in a copy of his final paper to Mr. Kane when everything finally came crashing down, and Murphy wished he had never met Bellamy Blake.

Murphy’s mother was angry that night - okay, she was angry every night, but this one was different, and Murphy knew why. He had tried not to think about it at school. Even after school, he had done everything from wandering aimlessly around the neighborhood to smoking cigarettes with Mbege to keep his mind off of things. But it was no use; nothing could stop the memories that flooded into his mind, memories of him, his father, happiness, when things were different.

He and his mother had never done anything special on the anniversary of his father’s death. His mother spent most of the day locked inside the house, drinking even more than usual, and Murphy spent more of the day out of the house. This year was no different, but of course it became much worse.

He’d skipped out on tutoring with the Blakes, but they could probably hear his mother’s screaming through the walls that night, so it wasn’t likely they’d want him around, anyway. He’d ignored the calls he received from Mbege on his old flip phone, and he’d locked himself in his room, the lights off so that maybe his mother would think he wasn’t home when she finally came stumbling in after her nightly trip to the liquor store.

But it was no use. It was false hope. It always was.

The smack against his face stung, almost as much as the glass from the bottle that shattered against the wall next to him, digging into the flesh of his arm, but neither of those things cut quite as deep as the words that sliced through his heart, cold and unforgiving.

He’d always known that his mother had blamed him for his father’s death - after all, it was Murphy who had called him, frantic about something at school, just before the accident happened. His dad had been worried, and he promised he would make it to the school as fast as he could. He was going to hang up, but Murphy was the one who had insisted he stay on the phone until he got there. He had been too focused on Murphy’s panic to notice the car pulling out in front of him up ahead, and he had died that day in the accident.

Murphy knew it was his fault. His mother didn’t have to remind him.

There was something about hearing her say it, though, something about the way her desperation crept through her fury and stabbed at his heart. She had loved his father, more than anyone or anything. It was no secret that his death had destroyed her, too, and instead of losing one parent, Murphy had lost two.

There were many days when he wondered why he put up with his mother’s crap, why he endured and stayed in this crappy apartment after all she had put him through, but today wasn’t one of those days. On this day, every year, he remembered why he put up with it, why he took a few extra hits. It wasn’t because he wanted it. It was because he deserved it. He had killed his father.

By the time he finally fled the apartment, his mother was screaming at him, tears falling down her cheeks, her words slurred, and there was blood trailing from his temple from the book she had thrown at him. He didn’t cry - Murphy knew better than to do that anymore - but that didn’t mean her words hadn’t cut deep.

Outside the apartment, he kicked the wall across the hall, cursing under his breath. It was late, well into the early hours of the morning, and if anyone heard his mother’s screams or his kick against the wall outside, no one stirred.

He slammed a fist against the side of the wall, cursing under his breath as he lowered himself to the ground. Inside his apartment, his mother’s screams had dissolved into tears, and her heartbreak was evident. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

He didn’t know how long he sat there in the cold, with nothing but a T-shirt to keep him warm. It might have have been minutes or hours, but it felt like days. He knew he could go to Mbege’s house instead of just sitting outside his apartment, but he didn’t want anyone else to see him like this (though Mbege had many times before). This day was just horrible, and he wanted it to be over.

At some point in the middle of his misery, a door came open and out of the apartment across from him stepped Bellamy Blake. The sun wasn’t even up yet, but Bellamy was dressed for work, the keys to his truck dangling from his fingers as he locked the apartment behind him and turned. He stopped short when he spotted Murphy, blood trailing from his temple, arm bleeding. Those familiar, brown eyes filled with concern and Murphy could feel the panic rising in his chest when Bellamy said his name, walking toward him immediately.

Murphy wanted to back up - in fact, he almost tried before he realized there was a wall behind him and there was nowhere else for him to go - but it was no use, and Bellamy crouched down in front of him, a defined crease between his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Nothin’,” Murphy replied, but it sounded pathetic, even to him, and the look Bellamy shot him only affirmed his suspicions. He met the older man’s eyes, this time with more strength and assurance. “None of your business, Blake.”

His change in tone seemed to surprise Bellamy, even tick him off a little. “You made it my business when you sat outside of my apartment at 4am.”

“My apartment is next to yours, genius,” Murphy spat.

Bellamy shot him a look, one he couldn’t ignore. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Fine.” He stood, and Murphy refused to look at him. “I’m gonna go to work, and I expect you to be gone when I get back.” He turned without a second glance at the beaten teen before him, and he had almost made it to the parking lot when he stopped walking, turning back around to start toward Murphy. “You know what? I’m fed up with your ungrateful attitude. All we’ve done since we met you is help you, and this is the thanks we get?”

Murphy refused to look up at him, refused to acknowledge that Bellamy was right - they had helped him time and time again, and yet Murphy was still pushing him away. But who could blame him? Things like this - things like kindness and Bellamy and arguments at 4am - would only lead to heartbreak and disappointment in the end. Murphy, for one, had had enough of that to last a lifetime; he didn’t need anymore, especially not from Bellamy Blake.

Bellamy sighed, and Murphy knew he was too nice for his own good. Perhaps that was Bellamy’s greatest flaw: he cared too much. Sure, he had a short temper and he could be impatient and stubborn, but he had a heart. Murphy was glad he hadn’t been cursed with such a trait.

The dark haired man took a seat next to him on the ground, leaning back against the apartment behind them. “All right, kid.” Murphy still hated that word. “Who did this to you?”

Murphy looked at everything except Bellamy - the wooden stairs leading up to the second floor were especially interesting - but his silence did nothing to make Bellamy leave, and whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he couldn’t tell.

“It was your mother.” It wasn’t a question, and Murphy’s head swung around until he was staring at Bellamy, eyes wide. “We could hear her screaming through the walls.”

Murphy chuckled bitterly. “Hard to miss,” he muttered under his breath. “Like I said, she never gave a shit about me.” He said it, but he knew that wasn’t true. Before his father had died, his mother had loved him more than anyone, other than his father. She had been patient back then, one of the kindest people he knew. It wasn’t her fault that he had a bad habit of wrecking good things, messing things up. He couldn’t blame her when he was the one who had changed her, turned her into this stranger. “But who can blame her, right? She never thought she’d have a loser for a son.”

His voice was strong, and his eyes were void of tears when Bellamy glanced back at him. If Bellamy was expecting some sort of sappy explanation, he certainly wasn’t getting one, not from John Murphy. They were neighbors - they had met because of Octavia. There was no reason for the two of them to be talking right now, there was no reason for Bellamy to care. Murphy wished he’d just go away.

“Come on.” Bellamy’s tone of voice said he had made a decision without informing Murphy of it first, and the younger boy watched as he got to his feet. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“I don’t need your help,” Murphy snapped, and Bellamy rolled his eyes. It was good, Murphy thought. Bellamy was going to get tired of him, annoyed with him, just like everyone else, and he would go away. Murphy didn’t need him, and he’d known it was only a matter of time before Bellamy realized he was wasting his time.

“I don’t care,” Bellamy shot back. “Either you get up, or you sit out here alone.”

In the end, Murphy had gone inside. He’d protested - a lot - and Bellamy was just about fed up with him, but it was as if there was a silent agreement that neither one of them were going to push it too far because of everything that had just happened. Murphy had nowhere else to go right now, and he’d risk one of their neighbors finding him with blood trailing down his face if he stayed outside. So, in the end, he decided to let Bellamy lead him inside the apartment to piece together the shards of his shitty life.