A wail tore out of him, as he buried his face in her lap. The emptiness returned to drive away all but the sorrow. Kayden wept. His chest heaved, body shook. All his plans, all his work, were done. No thought, no path came to give him purpose; if not purpose, then a reason to move.

After no more tears would come, he sat back. Light glinted from her finger, and Kayden shook his head. On Jillian's finger was his mother's wedding ring. Thought of his car, house, and safe came, but he shook his head. "I should have hidden it better," he confessed, stepped back. Gray crept back into his vision, and he leaned against the wall.

Through the numbness, part of him told him to call the police. With the storm, it took longer to get through. The absence of thought had cut him adrift in the chaos of emotion. Sweat broke out as he talked, and he forgot words soon as they were spoken. The dispatcher asked question, and often had to repeat them. The phone went dead at the other end. Kayden stared at it.

Kayden looked at Jillian, eyes open to slits. The room's heater blew, sweat gathered at the small of his back. He pulled the collar of his hoodie. Back to her gaze he peeked. "No," he muttered, and retreated to the porch.

The half rotted wood creaked underfoot. He walked, fell back onto the stairs. All through Kayden's life, until today, a constant stream of thought occupied his days, often dreams too. This silence of the mind comforted yet frightened. No path forward came.

Cold crept into his hands, and Kayden thrust them into his jacket pockets. Icy winds or any cold weather turned his joints to molten lead. Cool glass touched his knuckles, and he turned his head, brow furrowed. He withdrew the bottle, shook it. Mind pulled towards Jillian, but he focused on the label. Like some cheap, gas station candy, it had a wrapper with reflective foil on the inside. Eldritch blue caught the light, which was unpleasant. Like something from a magazine, he recalled x-ray glasses that would allow one to see through things. It promised a boost in brain power, awareness. If he was smarter, knew more, maybe this could all be avoided. Perhaps, there was a way out at some point.

"Watermelon," he muttered, "just a piece of candy." He placed it on the tongue. Sweet, it was flavorful, though the shell broke to reveal a whipped cream with a jelly at the center. Although Figment was delicious, the image of biting into a snail in its shell ruined it. He shrugged, "Good candy."

He sat, focused on his body, but other than a slight sugar rush, Figment was just another tasty treat. Kayden felt his mind wonder back to the contents of the trailer behind him. He looked at the antique bottle, brow furrowed. Beech wood-brown eyes roamed over the deepening snow. Laughter bled over the torn, tattered trailer park, which was hidden under a blanket of white. He forced back thoughts of Jillian, before it could enslave the heart.

Just past the perimeter fence, where it had been patched badly, a small group had congregated. They gathered around a trash barrel, which had been filled with debris and wood. Warmth of the flames drove away the cold. Kayden stood to see them, looked down, but something pulled at the back of the mind. Something about their face, a voice whispered inside.

The four stood around the flames. One was a youth, poor yet vibrant, smiled at the others. He held hands up to drive off the cold. Away Kayden's gaze was ripped to the young man's friends. They were dimmer in aspect, though stood within the fire's glow. Features of their faces were muted; somehow painted on, though the artist was masterful, it fell short of real. Emotions rolled over them; yet, they were an act, an accurate mimicry, but still insincere. Arcs of shadow passed between them, each connected, but they never touched the ordinary young man. Reactions too held a facsimile; bodies fell almost into a prescripted response but with a tiny jerk.

"Like," he muttered, but a flood came to drown the chaotic emptiness. They're like characters in a story; he thought but shook his hand. No, they're like those things, a voice inside blubbered. Kayden stared, until a flake of snow landed in an eye. He blinked, wiped at his eye, but they remained a falsehood in reality. With a shake of the head, they remained. "They're like those things in games," he blabbered, blinked rapidly.

He held up the bottle of Figment. Like a friend who is unerring in the perception of your faults, the hand held it up for him to see. "Oh, my GOD," eyes widened, "is this a hallucinogen!' The group looked at him, and Kayden stuffed it back into a pocket.

Again, he listened to his body, but all that waited was old aches. I don't feel high, part of him pleaded. Is this being high? Why would anyone want to feel like this?

Back to the young men, he looked. They spoke but left together after a few minutes. Unreality of three of them remained, despite Kayden's denial. He stepped off the porch, drawn by their strangeness. Thought of Jillian stabbed at him, heart felt split, but the only plan was to wait for the police. Not true yet, he promised, but refused to look back at the trailer.

Far as the edge of the trailer court he ventured. Snow fell so hard, it cut down visibility. The mountain was gone. All that remained was the cloister of homes, all beyond veiled in white. Kayden brushed snow off his shoulders, cold boots forgotten and old pain now distant. Each step kicked little clots of white.

Chatter, cacophony of thoughts, began to slow. The constant talk, which he was accustomed, plowed through the chaos. Most had placid fake faces that moved by absent string, though some were ordinary. He watched them pass, back and forth. They moved over the street. Some looked at him, but he managed a smile and waved. He shook and wiped sweat away.