*•*•*•*
"It's like I'm drowning, while everyone else around me can breathe."
*•*•*•*

Mason

"MASON, GET THE DOOR!" my dad yells from the kitchen as the doorbell sings it's tune throughout the house.

I rush down the stairs three at a time, one hand straightening my tie, the other flattening my hair down. Nearly knocking Jared over on my way, I dive for the door handle and yank it open to greet Carrie and her family.

I stiffen, my eyes widening as I take in Carrie's appearance. She's wearing a black dress that hugs tightly to her curvy figure and rides up her thighs, her breasts spilling it over the low cut neck, her developed hips sticking out. She's curled her blonde hair and is a few inches taller from her white high-heels

"You're looking very handsome, Mr. Foster," she smirks, nodding towards my navy suit and polished black boots.

"Likewise," I say with a small smile, sidestepping to allow them all to enter. Carrie has a bemused expression on her face—I doubt she ever expected there to be a polite side of me.

I cringe as I feel my fathers hand fall onto my shoulder but quickly replace it with a warm smile.

For a good ten minutes we all stand in the foyer chatting and laughing, my dads voice filling up most of the conversation. My father has this charm about him, one that lures people into a false sense of security and makes people instantaneously believe the nice-guy demeanour. Sometimes his so convincing I feel myself doubting that his even raised his voice at me, like everything is all an illusion and his rage is just a figment of my imagination. But that charm, that good-natured smile and those kind eyes can shift into a dark mask, twisted with inhuman rage and hatred with a click of your fingers.

"Cocktails, anyone?" Ruby asks the group, motioning towards the kitchen. For once, she's not a sedated zombie with eyes as lifeless as a dead fish.

"Oh, yes please," Martha says with a chuckle. Her shoulders, tense when the family first arrived, have relaxed and I can tell she's more comfortable. My father and her should write a book about good reputations and appearances.

"You sure have deserved it," my father jokes and as I look into that face, I wonder how in Gods earth this man broke my ribs just a few days ago. I hope it's exhausting to keep up the facade. "Moving is tiring, that's for sure!"

We all head into the kitchen and I make sure to avoid Carrie, not in the mood to strike up conversation.

"Have you ever moved before?" William asks, smiling gratefully at Ruby when she hands him a cocktail.

"Sure have," my father says, taking a delicate sip of the glass. "Mase, you would've been around ten, right?"

I nod and he frowns at me, a flash of irritation darkening his blue eyes for a split-second, but it's enough to convey warning. "Uh, yeah," I get out.

Carrie is staring intensely at me, confusion and amusement masking her face. "Cat got your tongue tonight, Mase? I can nearly count on my fingers the number of words you've spoken."

My tongue rolls in my mouth, biting back a retort. I ignore her comment, feeling my shoulders slouch, my brain zoning out, escaping into universes, fantasies, alternate realities I have built and constructed inside my mind to help cope; help deal with life. Away from the eyes full of hatred and rage, disgust and bitterness. Away from the verbal barrages and violent, explosive rages. Away from the world where problems are ignored and unnecessary terrors are amplified.

The thing about people is that we see what is in front of us, not what is behind or beside us. We see the picture the media has printed in our minds. The terrorist attacks, the climate strikes, the wars ripping across poverty-stricken counties. The big things; the important things. But what about the boy who sits at the back of class with his hood pulled over his face to hide the marks his fathers knuckles left on him? What about the girl with the scars on her wrists because every day is a struggle to face her tormentors at school? What about the men and woman scarred and broken from the trauma of their childhood after being sold time and time again to an abundance of pedophiles?

Drink yourself into oblivious; get high enough you don't remember your own name; take a razor to your skin to release the emotional pressure built up inside; throw yourself into dangerous and life-threateningly situations just to feel the adrenaline, the thrill; work your arse off day and night so the thumping in your temples and the heaviness of your eyelids distracts you from the darkness that lives inside your mind. We all have our coping mechanisms. Different ways to block out the voices in our minds; the memories branded into our skulls; the demons that chase us in our nightmares, sending us into sickening panic attacks. Things that numb the pain. Let us forget for just a moment.

This is when I feel my strongest. When I'm living inside my mind with all the faceless people who are damaged like me. Where I can remind myself that others are sharing my despair, my pain, my hopelessness.

"Mason? Mason!" The sting of a slap against my cheek. The crack sounds like a gunfire resonating off metal walls.

I feel myself being wrenched from my fantasies and reality rams into me like a ton of bricks, knocking all the air from my lungs. I blink and slowly the room slides into focus. Faces expand, filling my vision. Wide eyes. Raised eyebrows. Open mouths. Their expressions are almost comical.

The palm of my fathers hand looks slightly redder then it did a moment ago; he must have slapped me. I hardly feel it, the sting barley lingering. His blows normally are intent of hurting me, making me feel the pain, but this one was just to drag me back into the present.

"Yes, sir?" My voice sounds scratchy and hoarse as I try to catch my breath.

My fathers eyes flash dangerously, his nostrils flared. "Mrs. McDermott was asking you a question."

"Sorry for my rudeness, ma'am," I apologise instantly, wishing I could escape all the stares being directed right at me. "I didn't mean to ignore you. I just...spaced out."

"That's quite alright, young man," Martha chuckles, her confusion and concern melting into amusement. "I don't blame you. This chatter must bore your seventeen-year-old brain terribly."

"Sixteen, ma'am," I correct her with a small smile. "I turn seventeen next month."

"You do look older than your age," she compliments me, her eyes raking my body. I nearly burst out laughing from the look on Williams face.

"You stick with your age bracket, kid," he warns me, protectiveness flaring behind his pupils.

"Definitely, sir," I say.

"Sorry to interrupt, but where is bathroom?" Carrie says. "Can you please show me, Mase?"

"Sure."

My heart is knocking in my chest as I lead her upstairs, across the landing and towards the end of the corridor where the bathroom, just waiting for the inevitable question to be thrown at me.

Carrie turns to me, her eyes narrowed, her hands on her hips. Somehow, she looks even more attractive pissed off. "What the hell just happened? It was like you froze or shut down or, like, your eyes weren't really there."

I shrug, leaning causally against the wall, chewing the inside of my cheek. "What can I say? The conversation was boring as fuck."

She rolls her eyes, flourishing her hands in the air. "So now his back?"

Dread sinks a stone into my stomach but I decide to play the confused act. After all, I've been perfecting this mask since I first began to walk. "Huh?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Foster," she hisses, getting into my face. My eye can't help but wander down to her breasts. "You go from cocky bad boy who doesn't take shit from anyone to a polite, civilized young man with nothing but manners in his mouth."

"My father likes a good reputation," I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

"Something happened," she says, excitement creeping into her tone like we're in a horror movie hinting I'm being possessed by a monster. "It was really weird. Like you couldn't see or hear us."

I just stare at her, unblinking, my eyes boring into her striking ones. She breaks her gaze first and lowers it down to my boots.

"Fine." She scuffs her shoe against the hardwood, her bottom lip sticking out like a child whose been refused a treat. "I get it. Don't trust me."

"I don't even know you!" I blurt out furiously, unable to keep my anger at bay. "You're just my next door neighbour. That's it! So stop it with all this trust bullshit like we're buddies or something. Dressing up like a slut isn't going to magically make us friends , okay?" I gesture to her outfit.

Carrie spins on her heel and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her but she's not quick enough. I see the unmistakable glisten of tears in her eyes. I hurt her but Carrie McDermott is currently not on my main list of worries right now.

I drag my fingers through my hair and close my eyes. I fucked up. I fucked up bad. I've never sunk in so deep. Never taken my mind so far away from my body. Shit, it doesn't make any fucking sense—it wasn't like my dad had hit me or anything. I was standing in a kitchen with people, for Christ's sake! I remind myself to breathe; it's what my mother taught me when I had nightmares about monsters in my closet.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

- - - -

My back aches; I've been sitting up straight for too long. I don't dare slouch my shoulders or hunch my back over my dinner plate with my father sitting right beside me. He hates bad posture, says that you're weak without it.

"You're an amazing cook, Ruby," Martha says, swallowing a piece of steak. "You ought to teach me your secrets one day."

Steak, sausages, chicken, lamb fillets and more exotic varieties of meat are stacked up into pyramids on Ruby's finest china plates. Bowls of salads circle them, the colour contrasting well with the white, lace tablecloth.

I feel the toe of a boot nudge my leg. "Hold your cutlery properly, for Gods sake," my dad scolds me out of the corner on his mouth.

My eyes drift upwards, settling on Carrie. She's chewing absentmindedly on a piece of gristle, her eyes lost in a sea of thought. Her eyes are red and puffy, her mascara smeared—it's clear she's been crying. And from her cold, indifferent approach to me since the bathroom incident, it's apparent that I caused those tears.

"So what caused you two to move?" my father asks, settling his knife and fork down on his plate, his fingers interlocked, elbows up on the table. I remember when he slapped me across the face when I did that. I almost want to reprimand him for it.

"Promoted," William says. "We're both lawyers. We met in college and after entering a competition where we both drew first-place, we became arch rivals. We were always arguing, always fighting. And then...then she kissed me and life developed from there."

"Tragic love story," Jared chuckles, making everyone laugh.

"I can imagine your arguments are more facts than swear words and nonsense," Ruby says with a tinkering laugh. Fake. Plastic.

"I swear they nearly shake the whole house with all the screaming," Carries little sister, Alina says, grinning cheekily at her parents.

"So," Martha says. "What about your story? How did you two meet?"

Ruby and my father exchange amused glances. "Well it wasn't a Cinderella story but he is my Prince Charming," Ruby says, the corniest line ever to be spoken on this earth. Problem was that was how she was introduced to me; the first words she'd ever spoken to me.

"Aw, that's really cute," Alina coos, making me want to gag.

"So, Mason," William says slowly, cutting his sausage up into pieces on his plate. "Ruby is your stepmother, correct?"

"Yes, sir." I don't feel like elaborating. The fewer the words the fewer chances I have to screw up.

"If you don't mind me asking, what happened to your biological mother?" he asks, oblivious to the impact his words make.

I feel my chest constrict, memories bashing through my skull, forcing themselves into the centre of my mind. I feel her hands holding mine as she sings me to sleep. I see her blonde hair blowing in the gentle breeze as she rocked backwards and forth on the rusty swing set we collected on the verge side. And then I see her head careering into the side of the wall for not having his dinner on the table at the right time. I see her grey eyes, clouded with tears, holding mine as she tells me she loves me, that she's leaving...leaving me.

My fathers whole body goes taut, like an elastic band being pulled to its absolute limit. The warmth in his eyes are swallowed by his dilating pupils and his jaw hardens. "My wife," he begins, voice as cold as a stone slab.

"My mother had cancer," I cut across him, keeping my eyes fixed on my dinner plate, making sure for them to hear my voice shaking with emotion. "She fought to the very end but it won the battle. We miss her terribly. It hurts to even think about it...her face, her eyes, the way she always took us to the same diner every week. That's why we moved; she passed when I was around ten. That house was filled with too many memories." I've lowered my voice, buried my face into my hands, pretending to get choked up. This way, I know nobody will push the matter, either feeling too guilty or sorry.

I feel my fathers hand squeeze my arm gently and can't help but recognise it as approval. I played my act well. I feel slightly pleased with myself.

That is, until Carrie—eyebrows pinched, eyes puffy—says, "Why are you lying?"

I shoot her a look through the gaps of my fingers. "Lying?"

"Piper and Lucas told me that one night you got super drunk," she says, a sneer curling up the corner of her lip, her eyes hard, cold and unforgiving. "Apparently you broke down and started crying about how your mother abandoned you when you were eight."

Dread fills up the pit of my stomach; I feel like I've been doused in icy water. I can feel the tension radiating off my father, feel the fury rising up inside him.

I narrow my eyes, astounded that my friends would tell a complete stranger about something I can't even remember doing. "What the fuck were you doing talking about me with my friends, huh?"

"They're my friends now!" she says angrily, her voice rising along with the heat into her cheeks. "Why are you lying, Foster? Reliving the memories of when mummy abandoned you too heart wrenching?"

"You—!" I begin but then my father joins in on the argument.

"You told your friends about your mother?!" he exclaims, hands curling into fists on the dinning table.

"I didn't do it intentionally!" I try to defend myself, fear clenching the muscles of my stomach. "I was drunk!"

"You're underage!" he yells, throwing his hands up in the air. "You shouldn't be drinking!"

Having completely lost my mind I snap back, "You shouldn't be slashing your sons tyres!"

"What can you say about being morally correct?" Carrie lurches to her feet, knocking her chair onto the hardwood floor. "I watched you hit your stepbrother for no reason! You called me a slut but hell from what I've heard you're the biggest player in this whole country!"

"You hit Jared?" Ruby shrieks.

"You said he fell off his skateboard!" my dad roars, wrenching me to my feet, his hand nearly jerking my arm out from it's socket.

"You're the most immature jerk I know!" Carrie grabs her coat that she's thrown over the back of the chair, her eyes shining with unleashed tears. "I think I might leave now," she chokes out and before anyone can protest she hurries out, the front door slamming behind her.

I'm frozen to the spot, my heart feeling like a jackhammer tearing through my ribcage.