A/N: Ever had one of those dreams you distinctly remember EVERY rust-picking squid-hating thing about, and you wake up with a start and just sit there thinking: ”What the…”

Welcome to my world. About two thirds of my stories begin that way.

The Staircase

Prologue

"Over my dead...my dead corpse!"

"As far as I know, dead is the only way corpses come," my grandfather replied dryly, without raising as much as an eyebrow me at. "You never know, Ty. It may be a learning experience."

"Learning experience?" I sputtered, and almost fell off the ladder I stood upon at his gross naivety. "The judge thinks I'm guilty of murder!"

He finally looked up from where he worked on fixing mom's rocking chair. "Tyler," he started sternly, "If they thought you were guilty, you'd currently be on your way to prison."

"But I didn't do it! This isn't fair!"

"It's not the end of the world," he insisted. "Try looking at it in a different light."

I slid down the ladder, signaling the end of the conversation. I stormed away from grandpa's attic-turned-workshop, right past my mother who wrung her hands in her shirt. "Tyler, dinner's ready. It's your favorite, spaghetti-"

"I'm not hungry!" I shouted, and slammed the door to my bedroom so hard I hear a few picture frames fall and the glass break. I also heard mom start crying, something that occurred with increasing frequency the last few days. I dropped onto my bed, feeling horrible with myself. I glared at the video camera that had been installed in my room, before rolling over and covering my head with a pillow. Fourteen years old, and already a convict. Worse than a convict, I reminded myself. A murderer.

I wanted to cry too.

I lifted my head to look at the clock on my desk, now empty of my computer, and carefully counted the time I had left as a free man. At ten the next morning, I would be boarding a bus bound for some god-forsaken place. The judge said it wasn't prison, but the way they described it to me, it sure sounded a lot like it crossed with a drug rehab clinic.

I got up and turned on my game console, intent on wasting away all the time remaining by finishing the game I had been working on. That would show mom and grandpa exactly how I felt about their 'support' for the stupid camp. I almost wish I had gone to prison.

A soft knock came on my door around midnight, followed by the door opening and a gentle "Ty?"

"Go. Away," I replied flatly, my eyes locked on the screen.

My mother slowly entered, and moved to sit beside me on the bed. "What's this?" she asked, inspecting the game.

"Disney and Squaresoft's love child," I retorted, still not looking at her.

"Is it fun?"

"Yeah."

An oppressive silence filled between us, the game's battle cries the only thing in the air. "Honey..." she started slowly. "I'm sorry..."

"For what?" I quipped, playing dumb.

Her arms wrapped around my shoulders and she squeezed tight, a hug I didn't return. "I know it's hard, but we'll get through it just like everything else." I almost laughed, and finally turned my eyes to her.

"You compare this with cancer and dad and Karen's deaths?" I demanded incredulously. Her eyes shut, sending two small rivers down her cheeks. I turned back to the game at the sight of them, sickened.

"Are you going to bed soon?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

"No. I'm going to finish this so I can see the ending. Don't want to wait around for three years wondering."

She loosened the band holding my hair back, and starting running her fingers through the sandy brown strands.

I quickly turned my head, pulling free of her touch. "Mom, not now," I insisted.

Her eyes went wet again as she nodded, and she stood. As she moved for the door, she paused and looked at me. "Tyler, I love you," she whispered. I pretended I didn't hear her, acting swallowed up in my game until after the door clicked shut. Then the controller fell into my lap, as I began to cry.